A Although their number has sadly diminished of late years, London still has a few spaces remaining which may be classed as gardens. Often they are merely green patches of a formal type, which are better suited to the present climate than attempts at flowers; but a few regular gardens still exist, bringing dreams of a former period. In St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, the oldest of all such institutions, the square, with a handsome fountain in the centre, is more what one expects to find in Italy than in Smithfield. It is this sort of surprise that makes the charm of London, and renders a wander through its mazes so attractive. What a contrast the walk of a few minutes can bring in the heart of London! but of all these changes none is more impressive than the hush of the Charterhouse after the rush of Aldermanbury or the noise of Clerkenwell. There is still lingering there the touch of the old monastery; a breath of a bygone age seems to pervade the courtyards and gateways, and something in the silence speaks of another world. The first indication of its hidden green courts are the mulberry leaves peeping over the worn stone wall, near the gateway which leads to the weathered archway, the entrance of the old Carthusian monastery. This is the very spot where, with the brutal severity of Tudor times, the arm of the last Prior was exposed after his cruel execution at Tyburn. The monastery, founded in 1371, was dissolved with unusual barbarity, and passed into secular hands. The possession of it by the Duke of Norfolk has left its mark in many of the existing buildings, as he converted it from a cloister to a palace, but its palatial days did not last long. It was bought by the benevolent Thomas Sutton, a portion of whose large fortune, amassed from profitably working coal mines, was bestowed in founding “a hospital for poor brethren and scholars.” The scholars have been taken away from the historical associations, to the purer air of Godalming, and the parts of the buildings devoted to their accommodation were in 1872 bought by the Merchants Taylors’ Company for their school. The playing field of the boys is the ample space which was enclosed by the cloister of the monastery. Part of the land to the north has been built over, and a tall warehouse overlooks the burying-ground of the monks, which is still a large green sward of hallowed ground, with a row of mulberries. This lies so far below the level of Clerkenwell Road that a flight of steps leads to the postern gate in the high wall, overhung with climbing plants. This “God’s acre” is covered with smooth turf, and some day the two walnut trees planted by the master in 1901 may afford grateful shade. It is in keeping with the spirit of the place to plant trees of such slow and stately growth. The Preachers’ Court and the smaller Pensioners’ Court are like college quadrangles, with that perfect turf that England alone produces. The smooth surface is broken only by the regular intersecting gravel paths, and one row of mulberry trees some seventy years old. The red-brick buildings have a venerable appearance, although they do not carry the weight of centuries with dignity, like the “Wash-house Court,” the hall, the library, or the brick cloister, and the delightful old walls with their deliciously-scented fig-trees. The whole place has a mediæval look and feeling, and teems with ghosts and recollections of the monks of the early peaceful days, and their courageous successors at the Dissolution. The pious founder, as the chorus of the old Carthusian melody says, must not be forgotten:—

Of the shades which surround these peaceful green courts none appear more real than that of Colonel Newcome. The guardian will point out the room in which he died, or his pew in the chapel, as if he belonged to history as much as Wray, who bequeathed the old books in the “Officers’ Library,” or any of the well-known pensioners. With such true and pathetic touches has Thackeray drawn the character of Colonel Newcome that fiction has here become entwined round the walls almost as closely as fact.

Further eastward is an open piece of ground, which is hardly a garden; but as it is green, and took the place of what was known as the Artillery Garden, it may claim a moment’s consideration. Push open a door in the modern-looking castellated building in the City Road near Bunhill Fields, and a large, quiet, open space is discovered. Old guns look inoffensively down on a wide square of green turf. This is the home of the Honourable Artillery Company, the descendants of the “Trained Bands” of citizens, first enrolled in 1585 in the fear of a Spanish invasion. They have been here since 1622, when they moved from near Bishopsgate Without. “Artillery Garden,” or Teazel Close or Garden, was the name of the older place, from the teazel grown there for the cloth workers.

says an old poem. The existing Artillery Ground was a great place for cricket matches, where county met county in the eighteenth century. It was here that a vast crowd witnessed the first balloon ever launched into the air in England, sent up by Count Zambeccari in 1783. The next year, from the same place, Lunardi was more ambitious, and actually went up in his balloon. It proved too small for the friend who was ready to risk his life in his company, so he took a dog, a cat, and a pigeon with him instead.

Passing on into the City, the remains of the once extensive Drapers’ Garden is met with.10 Only a small piece, seen from the street through iron railings, and approached through the hall, has been retained; a few trees and bright flowers survive of what was once a fashionable and much sought after resort.

Most of the other patches of green in the City are disused burial-grounds, and are considered in a chapter by themselves. Beyond the City, on the east, in the Mile End Road, is the quiet old Trinity Hospital. It stands on the north of that wide road, which might be made one of the most beautiful entrances to the City. The simple good taste of these delightful old almshouses is a great contrast to some of the surroundings. They were probably designed by John Evelyn, with the assistance of Wren. His father-in-law, Sir Richard Browne, founded and built very similar almshouses at Deptford, long since swept away. Of these Evelyn writes, “It was a good and charitable work and gift, but would have been better bestowed on the poor of that parish than on seamen’s widows, the Trinity Company being very rich, and the rest of the poor of the parish exceedingly indigent.” In spite of these sentiments, he is believed to have had a hand in the Mile End Almshouses, which were founded by Captain Henry Mudd of Ratcliffe, Captain Sandes or Sanders, and Captain Maples. The two last are remembered by statues still standing in the little formal gardens. Maples, who appears in the dress of a naval officer of the period, left a fortune for the use of the guild in diamonds, collected in India, where he was an early pioneer, and where he died in 1680. A similar endowment in Hull is described in a poem in 1662:—

Certainly Trinity Hospital, Mile End, is comely and well ordered. The pensioners take a pride in keeping every nook and corner scrupulously clean. Everything is, in fact, in “ship-shape” order. The grass is neatly mown, the trees on either side well trimmed and clipped. Outside each little house a few plants are carefully tended, the pots arranged with precision, and every flower looked after with pride. It is indeed a peaceful place for these old people to pass their declining years in, and the sight makes the regret for St. Katharine’s and the other vanished charitable buildings all the more keen.

The site of another benevolent institution near is fulfilling a useful and delightful task, although the old houses attached to it have disappeared. It was a row of almshouses founded by a member of the Brewers’ Company, named Baker, about 150 years ago, for widows. The garden was much too large for these decrepid old women to cultivate, so the place was taken in hand some twenty-five years ago by the Rev. Sidney Vatcher, who built the beautiful church of St. Philip, Stepney, hard by, and he became the tenant of the Brewers’ Company. This charming garden was at first more or less opened by him to the parish, but lately it has been put to the most suitable use of giving a quiet place for rest and recreation to the nurses of the London Hospital. The almshouses were pulled down about four years ago, to make way for the laundries of the Hospital. Here, indeed, is one of those sudden and surprising contrasts to be found in London. A high brick wall encloses this oasis, and the nurses and some privileged people have keys to the door, which opens, from a side street close to the noise of the Mile End Road, suddenly into a peaceful, picturesque garden. The idea in the formation was a willow-pattern plate, and the little bridge over a miniature stream is reproduced. Plane trees in a formal array are kept trimmed to give a dense shade, and the hammocks hung from them in summer provide the most ideal resting-places for the worn-out nurses. At one time animals were kept here in cages, as a kind of small “Zoo” for Whitechapel; but since the last alterations the animals have been relinquished, and the bear-pit makes a delightful rock garden, and the various other cages form summer-houses. One thoughtful addition of the vicar was placing a small stove in one of these shelters, with an array of kettles, teapots, cups and saucers, so that any of the nurses resting can have their al fresco cup of tea—and what could be more grateful and comforting? A French writer who recently gave her impressions of L’Ile Inconnue was charmed with the peace and repose of this little East End Paradise. After seeing the Hospital and all its wonderful appliances, “You will now see our Eden,” said the guide. “Ici! l’Eden! m’écriai-je, après le péché alors!” Then, when she had for a moment looked within those mysterious high walls, “N’avais-je pas raison d’appeler ce jardin l’Eden?” said the friend. “Oui, repondis-je, c’est l’Eden après la Rédemption.” Certainly any one who sees this little garden, and realises the devoted lives of those who made it and those who enjoy it, must agree with this writer.

It is not often that, when the old almshouses vanish, the neighbourhood benefits to such an extent. What will be the fate of the Ironmongers’ Almshouses in Kingsland Road, between Shoreditch and Dalston? A large board in the garden that fronts the street announces the site is for sale!

The Foundling Hospital has large green courts, on which the merry but sombrely-clad little children are seen running about, through the fine iron gates which face Guildford Street. This was founded in 1739 by Captain Thomas Coram, who gave so much of his wealth to objects of charity and philanthropy that a subscription had to be raised to support him in his old age. Theodore Jacobson (died 1772) was the architect of the building. A colonnade runs round the whole length of the forecourt up to the gates, part of which is used as laundries, or other things necessary to the institution. A writer in 1773 describes the “large area between the gates and the hospital” as “adorned with grass plats, gravel walks, and lamps erected upon handsome posts: beside which there are two convenient gardens,” and exactly the same description holds good to-day. Brunswick Square lies to the west, and Mecklenburgh Square to the east, so the Hospital grounds are still airy. There is a small garden at the back of the building in front of the Infirmary; on the east is the Treasurer’s Garden, a fair-sized enclosure, and on the other side, with the poplars growing in Brunswick Square overhanging it, lies the other and larger of the two “convenient gardens.” There is nothing old-fashioned or attractive in these gardens left; merely a green lawn, a weeping ash, and a few commonplace “bedding-out” plants; not altogether in keeping with the age or dignity of the building and spacious forecourt.

Less well known is the delightful Garden of the Grey-coat School in Westminster. Most of the old foundations in Westminster have vanished, such as Emanuel Hospital and the “Blue-coat School,” which disappeared a few years ago, but so far this charming old house has been respected. Quaint figures of the children in the dress of the time—it was founded by the citizens of Westminster in 1698—stand on either side of the entrance. The children from the parishes of St. Margaret and St. John the Evangelist, who have attended the elementary schools for three years, are eligible for admission, up to the age of ten. The school was reconstituted as a day school for 300 girls in 1873, and, in spite of all educational vicissitudes, has been allowed to survive, and the sweet and wholesome influence of those old-fashioned surroundings would be a great loss, should it ever be swept away. The Garden is delightful. It is practical as well as ornamental, as it furnishes the staff of teachers with a good supply of vegetables. They have each a small flower-bed too, tended with great care, and the children are allowed a place of their own, where they work, dig, and plant. Down the centre runs a wide gravel walk, with a deep herbaceous border along either side, sweet-scented pinks and low-growing plants near the front, then a long row of spiderwort, and behind that a regiment of magnificent hollyhocks. The spiderwort or Tradescantia is a flower eminently suited to London gardens, not only because it seems to withstand any amount of smoke and bad air, but because of its association with the famous garden in Lambeth, where it was first grown. Parkinson, in 1629, gives the history of his friend’s introduction of the plant. “The Spiderwort,” he writes, “is of late knowledge, and for it the Christian World is indebted unto that painfull industrious searcher, and lover of all nature’s varieties, John Tradescant (sometimes belonging to the Right Honourable Lord Robert Earle of Salisbury, Lord Treasurer of England in his time, and unto the Right Honourable the Lord Wotton at Canterbury in Kent, and lastly unto the late Duke of Buckingham), who first received it of a friend, that brought it out of Virginia, thinking it to bee the Silke Grasse that groweth there, and hath imparted hereof, as of many other things, both to me and others.” “Unto this plant I confess I first imposed the name ... which untill some can finde a more proper, I desire may still continue ... John Tradescant’s Spider Wort of Virginia.” Courageous as herbalists generally were in tasting plants, Parkinson confesses there had “not beene any tryall made of the properties” or “vertues.” Luckily no one has disputed Parkinson’s choice of a name, and his friend’s memory is still preserved. The plant is not confined to Virginia, but grows much further into the Wild West, and is common in Kansas, Nebraska, and distant States. Yet it will still adapt itself to the grimy limits of a London garden, and flower year after year. The Grey-coat School Garden is quite refreshing; the plants look so healthy and prosperous that it is really encouraging. The interior of the house, with oak beams and panels, is all in keeping, and the long class-room, with windows looking out on the bright Garden, is most ideal. As, at the close of their afternoon studies, the girls, singing sweetly in parts, join in some familiar hymn, and the melodious sounds are wafted across the sunlit Garden, it is hard to believe in the existence of the crowded, unsavoury slums of Westminster, only a stone’s throw from this “haunt of ancient peace.”

Among its many charms and associations Westminster Abbey can lay claim to possessing one of the oldest gardens in England. The ground still occupied by the space known as the “College Garden” was part of the infirmary garden of the ancient monastery. It cannot trace back its history with the Abbey to the Saxon Sebert, but when Edward the Confessor’s pile began to rise, and all the usual adjuncts of a monastery gathered round it, the infirmary with the necessary herb-garden of simples for treating the sick monks would be one of the first buildings to be completed. One of the most peaceful and retired spots within the Abbey precincts is the Little Cloister, which was the infirmary in early days. When the Great Cloister was finished in 1365, the Little Cloister was taken in hand. Payments for work on “the New Cloister of the Infirmary” appear in the accounts from 1377, and it was completed in 1390, and that year the centre was laid down in turf. The garden belonging to the infirmary covered all the space now occupied by the “College Garden,” and joined the “Grete Garden,” which lay to the west. It was probably, like all the gardens of that date, laid out in long, narrow, straight beds, in which were grown all the healing herbs used for the sick of the monastery. Probably there were fruit-trees, too, as in 1362 John de Mordon, the infirmarer, got 9s. for his apples, and the following year 10s. for pears and apples. No doubt the favourite Wardon pear was among them, as in another record, between 1380–90, it is specially mentioned. The chapel of St. Katharine, which stood on the north side of the Garden, was destroyed in Elizabeth’s reign. This, the infirmary chapel of Norman building, was as replete with history as every other nook and corner of the Abbey buildings. Here St. Hugh of Lincoln and most of the early bishops were consecrated, and here took place the unseemly dispute for precedence, between the Primates of Canterbury and York in 1186, which led to the settling of their respective ranks by the Pope. While so many changes have swept over the Abbey, and whole buildings have vanished, the herb-garden of early days has kept its place, and is still a garden, though bereft of its neat little beds.

The Little Cloister has been greatly altered since then, having been refashioned in the early part of the eighteenth century under the influence of Wren. Although so changed since the time when strange decoctions of medicinal herbs were administered within its walls, it has retained much of its fascination, and the approach to it by the dim vaulted entrance, dating from the Confessor’s time, out of the narrow passage known as the “Dark Entry,” adds to its charm. The sun streams down on this small court, with its tree and ferns and old moss-grown fountain, lighting it with a kind of “dusky splendour.” Any one standing in this suggestive spot will feel with Washington Irving, that “The Cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion of former days. The gray walls are discoloured by damps, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monuments, and obscured the death’s heads, and other mural emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the roses which adorned the keystones have lost their leafy beauty; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in its very decay.”

These lines refer to the Great Cloister, but the quiet and repose are still more noticeable in the Little Cloister, which rarely echoes to the sound of hurrying feet. The noise and laughter of Westminster scholars is only dimly heard in this secluded corner. The boys are not as boisterous as when Horace Walpole feared to face them alone, even to visit his mother’s tomb. “I literally had not courage to venture alone among the Westminster boys; they are as formidable to me as the ship carpenters at Portsmouth,” he wrote in 1754. Even in those days the list of eminent scholars was already a long one—Hakluyt, Ben Jonson, George Herbert, Dryden, Wren, being on the roll of those who had passed away, besides others then living, such as Gibbon and Warren Hastings, who carried on the tradition of this classic ground.

In monastic times there were many gardens within the precincts of the Abbey, besides the infirmary garden; but it is difficult to locate all of them with certainty, although the sites of some are known. The abbot’s garden lay in the north-west angle of the wall, and must have covered part of the present Broad Sanctuary, including the spot where the Crimean monument now stands. Beyond the abbot’s house, just west of the cloister, was the abbot’s little garden. The northern part of Dean’s Yard was from very early times known as “The Elms,” from the grove of fine trees, some of which remain. It is said that when Elizabeth ascended the throne and summoned Abbot Feckenham, who had been reinstated by Mary, he was planting some, perhaps these identical, elm trees. Among them formerly stood a huge oak, which was blown down in 1791. The horse pool was on the west of the Elms, and beyond both to the south lay the numerous adjuncts of the monastery, the brewhouse, bakehouse, and granaries. Skirting this enclosure was the “Long Ditch,” which flowed by the line of the present Delahay Street and Prince’s Streets, and passed along outside of the wall of the Infirmary Garden, in what is now Great College Street, and fell into the Thames. This stream turned the mill from which “Millbank” took its name. In it, to the south of the granary, was a small island osier bed. The sale of the osiers on it used to bring in 10s. annually in the fourteenth century. Beyond the stream were more gardens. The “Hostry Garden” was a large one on the site of the church of St. John, and next to it the “Bowling Alley,” where Bowling Street ran in later times, and to the west of that was a kitchen-garden. Somewhere also on the west of the “Long Ditch,” before it turned towards the Thames near the osier island, must have been the “Precentor’s Mede,” or, as it was sometimes called, the “Chaunter’s-hull,” and also the “Almoner’s Mede” or “Almery Garden.” On the other side of the “Hostry Garden,” southwards on the site of “Vine Street” and “Market Street,” was situated the vineyard, without which no thirteenth-century monastery was complete, and “Market Mede.” Even this does not exhaust the list of separate gardens, but the others probably lay further away. The cellarer had charge of a large garden, which may have been the “Convent Garden,” which is so familiar as “Covent Garden” that the connection between the site of the market and the Abbey has been lost sight of. One of the large gardens which was generally let was “Maudit’s Garden.” In the records it is spoken of as “Maudit’s” or “Caleys.” The name Maudit was given to it because Thomas Maudit, Earl of Warwick, in the thirteenth century effected an exchange of lands with the Abbey, of which the garden formed a part. The other name, “Caleys,” was “Calais,” named from the wool staplers who came from that town and resided near there, just as “Petty France” (where Milton lived) was called so from the French merchants. An Act of interchange of land between Henry VIII. and the Abbey, in the twenty-third year of his reign, mentions “a certain great messuage or tenement commonly called Pety Caleys, and all messuages, houses, barns, stables, dove-houses, orchards, gardens, pools, fisheries, waters, ditches, lands, meadows, and pastures.” Part of this was “Maudit’s” garden, which was sometimes in the hands of the convent, but more frequently let out. Among the muniments in 1350, “a toft called Maudit’s garden, and a croft called Maudit’s croft,” are referred to. There seems to have been an enclosure within this “toft” which was let out separately, and in the twentieth year of Edward IV., Matilda, the widow of Richard Willy, who had held it, gave up this enclosure or “conyn garth.” This was probably a “coney garth” or rabbit enclosure, like the one at Lincoln’s Inn, which was kept up for a long time. Such rabbit gardens were by no means uncommon. All gardening operations must at times have been rendered difficult by reason of the wet soil and frequent flooding of the river, but with the patient persistence characteristic of gardeners in those days, the gardens in monastic times were probably well kept, and yielded profitable crops. It is delightful to know that, in spite of all the changes, one portion of the old gardens actually remains to this day.

Lambeth, on the opposite bank, fared no better than Westminster for high tides, and wet seasons did occasional damage there. In Archbishop Laud’s Diary, he notes the inroad of a high tide, which certainly would be destructive:—“November 15, 1635, Sunday. At afternoon the greatest tide that hath been seen. It came within my gates, walks, cloysters, and stables at Lambeth.” Nothing of great antiquity now remains in these Lambeth Gardens, although they are indeed historic ground. The long terrace and wide herbaceous border, with a profusion of madonna lilies, backed by a wooden paling, and fruit-trees peeping over, is now a charming walk. The trees on the right of the illustration are planes, ailanthus, and catalpas, all smoke-resisting and suitable, but not such as would have ornamented the Garden in older days, when Archbishop Cranmer adorned his garden with “a summer-house of exquisite workmanship.” It was designed by his chaplain, Dr. John Ponet or Poynet, who is said to have had “great skill and taste in works of that kind.” The summer-house was repaired by Archbishop Parker, but afterwards fell into decay and was removed, and in 1828 not even a tradition of where it had stood remained. The site of “Clarendon’s Walk,” another historical corner of the Lambeth Garden, is also uncertain. It appears to have received the name from a conversation which took place in the Garden between Laud and Hyde, in which the latter seems to have told the Archbishop pretty plainly that “people were universally discontented ... and many people spoke extreme ill of his grace,” on account of his discourteous manners, which culminated on one occasion by his telling a guest “he had no time for compliments,” which greatly incensed him. The only survivals of former years are the delightfully fragrant fig-trees, which flourish between the buttresses on the sunny side of the library—the great hall rebuilt by Archbishop Juxon after the destruction in Cromwell’s time. These figs are now fair-sized trees, but they are only cuttings of the older ones destroyed in 1829, when Archbishop Howley commenced his rebuilding. The two parent trees, in 1792, measured 28 inches and 21 inches in circumference, and were 50 feet high and 40 feet in breadth, and, according to contemporary evidence, bore delicious fruit of the white Marseilles variety. Tradition ascribed their planting to Cardinal Pole during his brief sojourn as Archbishop.

Latimer seems much to have appreciated the Lambeth Garden, when business called him to the Palace. Sir Thomas More describes, in 1534, how he watched him walking in the Garden from the windows. Latimer himself, in writing to Edward VI., says, “I trouble my Lord of Canterbury, and being at his house now and then, I walk in the Garden looking at my book, as I can do but little good at it. But something I must needs do to satisfy the place. I am no sooner in the Garden and have read awhile, but by-and-by cometh there some one or other knocking at the gate. Anon cometh my man and saith, ‘Sir, there is one at the gate would speak with you.’” How many of us that have been called in from a pleasant garden to perform some unpleasant task will sympathise with the Bishop!

One famous inhabitant of the Garden lived through many and great changes. This was a tortoise, which is said to have been put into the Garden by Archbishop Laud, and lived until 1757, when he perished by the negligence of a gardener. This legend is apparently quite true, so it had been there for over 110 years.

A short account of the principal gardens near London, written by Gibson in 1691, describes that of Lambeth Palace. It “has,” he says, “little in it but walks, the late Archbishop [Sancroft] not delighting in” gardens, “but they are now making them better; and they have already made a green-house, one of the finest and costliest about the town. It is of three rooms, the middle having a stove under it; ... but it is placed so near Lambeth Church, that the sun shines most on it in winter after eleven o’clock, a fault owned by the gardener, but not thought of by the contrivers. Most of the greens are oranges and lemons, which have very large ripe fruit on them.” The Archbishop who thus took the garden in hand was Tillotson, and it is not surprising to find him adopting that keenness for gardening and the cultivation of “greens” brought into fashion by William III.

Nearly ten acres of the extensive grounds of Lambeth Palace have now been put under the management of the London County Council, and made open to the public as “Archbishop’s Park.” For many years this Park had been used for cricket and so on, but the transference entailed some alterations, and extended its use to a wider circle.

The Garden of Fulham, the other ecclesiastical palace of London, is even more interesting than Lambeth, on account of the fine trees still remaining of which the history is known. Among the Bishops of London several have shown great interest in the gardens, and two especially, Grindal and Compton, were eminent gardeners. The tamarisk was introduced by Bishop Grindal, and in the golden age of gardening he was in the foremost rank of the patrons of the art, with Bacon and Burghley. He used to send Queen Elizabeth presents of choice fruits from his garden, and on one occasion got into trouble by sending fruit, when one of his servants was supposed, unjustly, to have the plague. He wrote (5th August 1566) to Burghley, to say he was sorry he had “no fruit to offer him but some grapes.” These grapes were of course produced out of doors, as growing vines in green-houses was a fashion unknown until some 150 years later. Even before the additions of Grindal, the gardens were extensive, and Bonner is said to have been much in his garden, not from the love of its repose, but, according to contemporary but prejudiced chroniclers, because in the further arbours of the garden he could with the rod or by other equally stringent measures, “persuade” undisturbed those of the reformed religion to recant and adopt his views. His successor, Grindal, used the Garden for more laudable and peaceful practices, and his work of planting was much appreciated in that garden-loving age. Bishop Aylmer, who, after Sandys, succeeded Grindal in 1577, was accused of destroying much of Grindal’s work and cutting down his trees, then some thirty-five years old. Strype, however, protests that he only cut down “two or three of the decayed ones.” That there should be a controversy on the subject only shows how much was thought of Grindal’s planting. The same thing happened after the death of Compton, the next great planter, as Robinson, who followed him, let the gardener sell and cut down as much as he liked. In our own day, even, some of Compton’s elms have been removed, to make the alterations in the Bishop’s Park when it was opened to the public. The Bishop’s Park is the long, narrow strip of land between the moat and the river. Flowering shrubs on the bank of the moat, and rows of cut plane trees by the river, have been planted. There are two long asphalt paths, and some bedding out and rock gardening between the grass lawns. It is now kept in order by the Borough of Fulham, which reminds the public of the fact by the notices stuck up: “Ratepayers, protect your property.”

The Elm Avenue was part of Compton’s design, and many very fine trees known to be his remain to this day. During the long duration of his episcopate—1675 to 1714—he had time to see his plants grow and flourish. His gardening achievements were much appreciated in his own day. John Evelyn, a great authority on horticultural matters, was often at Fulham. He notes in his Diary on Oct. 11, 1681: “To Fulham to visit the Bishop of London, in whose garden I first saw the Sedum arborescens in flower, which was exceedingly beautiful.” Richard Bradley, a well-known gardener, in his book published in 1717, quotes many of the plants at Fulham as examples in his pages. With regard to the passion flower, his notice is interesting, as it gives the name of Bishop Compton’s gardener. “That [the passion flower] may bear fruit,” he writes, “we must Plant it in very moist and cool places, where it may be continually fed with Water; this I had from the Curious Mr. Adam Holt, Gardener to the late Bishop of London, who shew’d me a letter from the West Indies, from whence I learnt it was an Inhabitant of Swampy Places.” Bradley had seen the pistachio fruiting against a wall at Fulham, and he thought he had also noticed an olive flourishing there. From time to time there have been special notices of the trees round the Bishop’s palace. Sir William Watson wrote a paper on them for the Royal Society, in which he gives a list of thirty-seven special trees, many of them the finest of their kind in England. “For exemplification of this I would,” he says, “recommend to the curious observer the black Virginian walnut tree, the cluster pine, the honey locust, the pseudo-acacia, the ash maple, &c., now remaining at Fulham.” Many of the later bishops have paid great attention to the grounds. Bishop Porteous (1787–1809) who planted cedars; Howley (1813–1828), and especially Blomfield (1828–1856), all took delight in the Garden. Bishop Blomfield planted a deciduous cypress and the ailanthus, which now measures 10 feet 4 inches at 4 feet from the ground, curiously exactly the same girth as the one at Broom House close by. In 1865, Bishop Tait had the old trees measured, and there are later measurements of some of the finest. The cork tree was 13 feet 9 inches, and although sadly shattered, part of this magnificent old tree, with its thick cork bark, still holds its own. The great black walnut or hickory has not been so fortunate, and died about ten years ago, and only a venerable stump is left; but a good specimen still stands in the meadow. The great tree in 1865 measured 15 feet 5 inches; in 1894, 17 feet 3 inches. The tulip tree died about the same time as the hickory. The honey locust (Gleditschia triacanthos), one of Bishop Compton’s trees, only died last year, the large white elm in 1904, and, sad to say, the flowering ash (Fraxinus ornus) was blown down in March 1907. The Wych elm and a beautiful walnut still flourish, and also the variety of Turkey oak (Quercus cerris lucumbeana or fulhamensis), so in spite of many disasters Fulham Palace still can show some fine trees.

Chelsea still abounds in gardens. There are the modern plots along the Embankment, laid out with the wriggling path that municipal authorities seem to deem necessary nowadays. The private gardens in front of some of the houses are an older institution, and some can boast of delightful patches of old gardens in their rear also. Behind Lindsay House the Moravian burial-ground is hidden away, and part of its wall may be the actual wall of Sir Thomas More’s garden. There are the remains of elms and several good mulberry trees. The large mulberry on the Embankment near looks as if it once might have been in the garden too. Chelsea further possesses one of the first botanical gardens in England, the Duke of York’s School with large grass area and fine elm trees, and the spacious grounds that surround the Hospital. Much of the old stately simplicity still clings to these latter, although last century saw many variations in their plan.

The site was occupied by King James’s College, founded by Matthew Sutcliffe, Dean of Exeter, in 1610, which, in spite of the King’s patronage and the interest of Prince Henry, was a failure. It added to, rather than allayed, religious discussion, and was familiarly known as “Controversy College.” The ground was, in 1669, given to the Royal Society, but the buildings were too dilapidated for them to use. To Sir Stephen Fox is probably due the idea of founding a hospital for disabled soldiers, although tradition also attributes some of the credit to Nell Gwynn, who is said to have appealed to Charles II. on their behalf. The King laid the foundation-stone, on the 12th of March 1682, of the building designed by Wren. John Evelyn, as one of the Council of the Royal Society, had been consulted when the idea was first mooted, and in January 1682 he notes in his Diary a talk on the subject with Sir Stephen Fox, who asked for Evelyn’s assistance with regard to the staff and management. So in Sir Stephen’s study, as Evelyn writes, “We arranged the governor, chaplain, steward, housekeeper, chirurgeon, cook, butler, gardener, porter, and other officers, with their several salaries and entertainments.” This list of officials shows the importance of the Garden from the first—and no wonder, as the grounds occupied some twenty-six acres. A survey made in 1702 shows how this space was divided. The largest part, lying to the north of the Hospital, is what is now known as “Burton’s Court,” and is used as a recreation ground for the soldiers in the barracks near, and a cricket ground for the brigade of Guards. The avenue down the central walk, “planted with limes and chestnuts,” was included in the early design, and “Royal Avenue” is a continuation of it, Queen Anne having, it is said, intended to carry it on to Kensington. This part, called “the great court north of the buildings,” occupied over thirteen acres. The rest was divided into grass plots between the quadrangle courts and canals, nearly three acres; the “garden on the east, now the governor’s,” about two acres; a kitchen-garden towards the river of more than three acres, two L-shaped canals with wide walks between, an “apothecary’s garden” for medicinal herbs, bleaching yards, and the churchyard. The front garden, with its canals in Dutch style, ended in a terrace along the river. This garden was subject to much abuse by the landscape school of designers. “It was laid out,” wrote one in 1805, “when the art of landscape gardening was at its lowest pitch; the principal absurdity in the garden is cutting two insignificant canals as ornaments, whilst one side of the garden is bounded by the noble stream of the Thames.” The writer adds that the gardens were open on Sundays in summer, and were much frequented as a public promenade. These severely-criticised canals were filled up in the middle of last century, and the space is now grass with avenues on either side, and a central obelisk, a monument to our soldiers who fell in the battle of Chillianwallah.

The statue of Charles II. as a Roman emperor, by Gibbons, in the centre of the court, was given by Tobias Rustat. The view over the simple, spacious garden from this central court, to the long balustrade with steps down to the lower terrace, is very satisfying, and in keeping with the stately architecture. The Governor’s house has its own special garden, a fine, wide terrace and large, straight beds, and a delightful red-brick wall covered with trailing plants and fine iron gateway. The old pensioners, in their long coats and weather-beaten faces, enjoying their “peace pipe” and their well-earned repose, add very greatly to the picturesque effect of the Garden, and all its surroundings. The churchyard, clearly seen through the railings along Queen’s Road from Chelsea Barracks, has an air of dignified repose. It has been closed since 1854. The first soldier buried there in 1692, Simon Box, had served four kings: Charles I., Charles II., James II., and William III. The tombs are much worn with age, and it is no longer possible to find some of those known to have been laid to rest there. Among them are two women who had served as privates; one of them, who died in 1739, Christian Davies or “Mother Ross,” had served in Marlborough’s campaigns. The extraordinary number of centenarians this small burying-ground contains is astounding. William Hisland surely beats the record, as he was married when he was over a hundred! He was born in August 1620, and died in February 1732. Another veteran of 112 died five years later, while another, Robert Comming, who was buried in 1767, was 115, and before the end of the eighteenth century three others, aged respectively 102, 111, and 107, were interred. The eldest of these three, who died in 1772, had fought in the Battle of the Boyne! It certainly speaks well for the care and attention bestowed on them in the Hospital.

The garden to the east of the buildings was part of the original ground, but has had a career and history of its own. It was the famous Ranelagh Gardens, which enchanted the beaux and fair ladies of the eighteenth century. From 1742 to 1803 its glories lasted. Ranelagh House was built by the Earl of that name, who was Paymaster to the Forces in the reign of James II., a clever, unscrupulous person, who amassed considerable wealth in the course of his office-work. He obtained a grant of the land from Chelsea Hospital, built a house and laid out a garden, where the “plots, borders, and walks” were “curiously kept, and elegantly designed.” After passing through the hands of his daughter, Lady Catherine Jones, the property was sold to Swift and Timbrell, who leased it to Lacey, the patentee of Drury Lane Theatre. The idea was to turn it into a winter Vauxhall. Eventually it was open from Easter till the end of the summer, and effectually outshone Vauxhall. Walpole, in a letter two days after it was first opened, did not think much of it. “I was there, last night, but did not find the joy of it. Vauxhall is a little better, for the garden is pleasanter, and one goes to it by water.” Two years later he wrote in a very different strain. “Every night constantly I go to Ranelagh, which has totally beat Vauxhall. Nobody goes anywhere else—everybody goes there. My Lord Chesterfield is so fond of it, that he says he has ordered all his letters to be directed thither.” Fanny Burney, in “Evelina,” to bring out the character of the “surly, vulgar, and disagreeable man,” makes him abuse the place which fascinated polite society. “There’s your famous Ranelagh, that you make such a fuss about; why, what a dull place is that!” The chief amusement was walking about and looking at each other, as the poem by Bloomfield puts it—

The great attraction was the Rotunda, supposed to be like the Pantheon at Rome. The outside diameter was 185 feet. An arcade ran all round, and above it a gallery, with steps up to it through four Doric porticos. Over the gallery were sixty windows, and the whole was surmounted by a slate roof. In the middle, supporting the roof, was a huge fireplace, on the space at first occupied by the orchestra. “Round the Rotunda,” inside, were “47 boxes ... with a table and cloth spread in each; in these the company” were “regaled, without any further expense, with tea and coffee.” The whole was adorned with looking-glasses and paintings, imitation marble, stucco, and gilding. Dr. Arne wrote music for the special performances; breakfasts were at one time the rage, and at another masquerades were the order of the day; while fireworks and illuminations amused the company at intervals, all through the years in which Ranelagh was prosperous.