during many weeks that tender green waves in the spring breezes, and you are amazed that your hedge alone, your mere fence, as it were, can have such wondrous beauty. When the first soft snows fall, and often throughout the winter, you rejoice in another beauty, the snowladen boughs. Before we enter an enclosed garden, there is a word to be said about landscape gardening.

Many a person, when speaking to you of the new home-garden work, asks: "What shall we call it? Landscape gardening?" It is not landscape gardening. The development of the enclosed garden at the rear of the house, or the terraced garden at the doorsteps, is quite different from landscape gardening. Since the word "formal" is so often accepted as meaning stiff, it seems to me that neither "formal" nor "landscape" need be used.

An English architect tells us: "The word garden itself means an enclosed space, a garth or yard, surrounded by walls, as opposed to unenclosed fields and woods. The formal garden, with its insistence on strong bounding lines, is, strictly speaking, the only garden possible; and it was not until the decay of architecture, which began in the middle of the eighteenth century, that any other method of dealing with a garden was entertained." Therefore, as soon as you enclose your garden, lay out your paths, and arrange your grounds systematically, you have the beginnings of a formal garden, small and simple though it may be. The word "formal" simply implies method, or the harmony that is attained by having the house and grounds attuned.

I suppose that some of the rapidly increasing popularity of the formal garden is due to the fact that it lends itself kindly to the development of small places, whereas greater space is required for landscape treatment. There was a time in England when the formal garden became absurdly artificial, which state was as abhorrent to true garden-lovers as it would be to-day, and which brought forth Bacon's criticism: "As for Knots or Fig

ures, with Divers Coloured earths, that may lie under the window of the House, on that side which the Garden stands, they be but toys, you may see as good sights many times in Tarts." Then landscape gardening became popular, heralded by the pen of certain writers who saw it in fancy rather than in reality. Many of the best old gardens of England fell under the iconoclastic axe of the landscape gardener. Long, straight avenues were destroyed, for they claimed that nature abhorred a straight line. Splendid old walls were overthrown, and boundaries torn down. England woke sad and sore from the abuse of the landscape men of those days. Until then art had guided nature to create a beauty consistent with the object that she should adorn. John Sedding, an English architect, writes: "Certain it is that along with the girdle of high hedge or wall has gone that air of inviting mystery and homely reserve that our forefathers loved, and which is to me one of the pleasantest traits of an old English Garden."

When, in this country, we found time to plant anything besides corn and potatoes, we usually followed the type of gardening then prevailing in England, although we have a few enclosed gardens in different parts of our country, and long, delightful avenues of ancient trees, due to the influence of the traditions of old England. So, for many decades, we have lived either under the sway of landscape gardeners, who have given us beautiful parks and have skillfully treated the rolling landscape of many of our American homes, or we have been dominated by the horticulturist; yet in all these years neither of them has satisfied the great yearning for a garden, which has at last burst forth in various parts of the country. The desire for a garden is too old, even though comparatively new in our country, to be called a "fad." The sincerity of those struggling with our garden problems, and building their outdoor nests, is too apparent for this delicious need to become a transient hobby.

In the country it is possible to have a garden without wall or hedge, but in the town, where there are neighbors and passers-by, the wall is a necessity, if you would enjoy your garden. On your unenclosed land you would be as much surprised to see the public plucking your flowers, lying on your grass, swinging in your hammocks, and enjoying what is strictly yours, as you would be if it had leaped the wall; therefore, the share you give the public is an imaginary one, for it is simply expected to look at your possession from a proper distance. You can leave a part of your grounds open to the public gaze, and there indulge in a lawn, and such flowers as will give education and pleasure. Some of the loveliest homes in England are quite as open at the front as ours.

An outdoor room "filled with flowers, with rich colors, dulcet perfumes, and songs of birds," where you may feel the safety of the enclosing wall or hedge, within which at night you may delight in the skies, as in the day you have rejoiced in your bit of earth, grass, and flowers, seems to me a happy possession.

At every hand we hear: "I have a very small piece of ground, hardly large enough to make a garden, but I should like to improve it, for now it serves only as a clothesyard." That piece of ground often contains more feet of precious earth than the house covers, the floor of which is divided into several rooms. Possibly the loss of the clothes-yard, if it has to be sacrificed to the small garden, may provoke the ingenuity of the Yankee to provide something to take the place of "wash-day;" however, it is quite possible, often, to provide a small enclosure for the clothes apart from the garden. In the beautiful Penshurst Garden, the most important modern garden in England, there is a small square, bounded by a hedge, for the clothes, and, unless you look through the doorway of the hedge, you never see that part of the family privacy. I recall a certain country town, and of such there are thousands,—where the washer

woman's home is on the very roadway; when we drive abroad we see ourselves hanging from her lines, sometimes unhappily inverted, and gusts of playful wind steal round the house corners, leap into the lingerie, and present enlarged and distorted proportions that we resent.

If you want a garden to live in and enjoy, and not to show to the world as a rare exotic, the first thing to do is to enclose your space. Set the boundaries as you would the outer walls of your house; then the divisions, if such are possible, and all the rest that is to make you happy in an outdoor retreat will come, increasing in beauty, and becoming, from year to year, more personal and intimate, as your house does. No one can tell you just what chair you want here, what desk there, what shade of tapestry, what kind of a rug; that is usually for the homebuilder to decide, always governing himself by the amount he has to spend, and the establishment he is able to maintain. The garden should be quite as personal an affair as the house. As there are most interesting shops, where all kinds of house furnishings are found, so there are seed and plant catalogues, giving everything that will grow in America, with color, time of blooming, height, and a list of plants as well as seeds that have been tested before they are put on the market. There is little need of importing, except for personal pleasure. If you leave your town house for the summer, there are all the early flowers and shrubs, and again a delightful list of fall flowers, and that little town garden gives a bit of beauty and color that, once we have owned, we find it hard to live without. It is the personal attention to the development of the garden that gives it a place in the heart of the owner. It is a pity that a garden ever has to be perfectly new. A new garden seems to me like a young baby; only the most extraordinarily generous can attribute beauty to another's new baby; but there is a wonderful fascination in its promise, and it requires little imagination to see the delightful possession, either baby or

garden, in its full-fledged beauty, captivating us by its charms.

The Italian, French, Japanese gardens, and the old Pleasure Gardens of England, have been copied in our land; but for a practical garden there is something better than all these,-although to our country, with its varying scenery, any type of garden can be adapted, and that is the small home garden, which with its abundance of flowers is a part of every English home to-day; for, after all, what better can a small garden do, when placed in happy conformity to its house, than produce an abundance of flowers? These gardens we may study, adopt, and live in; the English type is sufficiently elastic to fit all needs.

By all means, let us have the most beautiful gardens that our pocket-books can build and maintain. There is a restraint and refinement of taste in the old Italian garden that seldom appears in the gardens of our country that bear the name; but then, the old masters died a good many hundred years ago. Whether that is sufficiert reason for the heavy hand that is too often evident with such legacies as the old masters have left us is a question; which recalls Bacon again, for, you remember, he said, "Men come to build stately sooner than to garden finely, as if gardening were the greater perfection." Such a type, even were it well copied, could never be our national type; it is too expensive, and at any price has not the quality of home. It is England's small garden that makes her nationally beautiful.

Although we have an abundance of health, wealth, and happiness, and a great increase of art treasures housed by beautiful architecture, splendid great parks, and a country abounding in the most glorious natural beauty, yet throughout immense areas where man has made his home we are abominably ugly. In our present state of civilization there is nothing uglier than the unsightly and unadorned houses in the crowded regions of our factory towns, -even the savage

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cliff-dwellers' home was not an excrescence on the face of the earth, yet there is no town but could and should be rich in its quiet beauty. Who has not closed his eyes to shut out the frightful squalor along the railroads? I know a little town, and it is not in Utopia, where all the houses are so arranged that not one stands back to the railroad. I am aware that an American must perform a mental somersault to adjust his point of view to such conditions. In England even the factory town has its garden. Whatever improvements may exist in such a town, the garden is the crowning glory; for the architect may build well, the engineer may work under the influence of the gods, the plumber may lay aside precedent and work for a possible halo,-yet if the garden is not in the town there are heights yet to be attained. In such a garden, as in many a one of greater pretention, utility and beauty go hand in hand, for not only are there fruits and vegetables, but again and again the story of the year is written in the flower borders that bound the garden walks. The tall hollyhocks and delphiniums stand back to make room for the many beautiful flowers that adorn these delectable old-fashioned borders where the sweet perennials delight the passersby. Here you find the snowdrop, the crocuses, the daffodils, the blue monkshood, the foxglove, the evening primrose, the best of all the roses. In looking over the catalogues, with a view to our spring and fall planting, we may be sure that the most expensive is by no means the most beautiful or the most desirable plant. The enormous masses of rhododendrons, that are provided at great cost, are often most unsatisfactory, and frequently the colors are not harmonious. Of course we need not banish them, but there are a few other things! The parks, city and town public squares and gardens, are off the road I have chosen, unless by way of them we reach the home gardens, which seems quite possible. Our home gardens would increase much more rapidly if the public planting consisted oftener of the

delightful perennials, and even annuals, that make the private garden a long summer delight, so making the breathingspaces not only a pleasure to the eye, but an education.

There is a joyous time ahead of us. We have passed through our Dark Ages, and now throughout the country there is a wondrous awakening to the value and necessity of outdoor art; and as the Italians copied their gardens from the ancients, so, while we are developing our national type, we must turn to those who have gardened before we were born, and use results they have attained for our models, always bearing in mind that it is the smaller garden that gives the most intimate pleasure, just as the small house, filled with the warmth of home, gives us a thrill of comfort that the great, roomy palace never can.

We have an abundant indigenous flora, a long list of hardy exotics; we have taste, cultivation, leisure, and we love the beautiful; why should we not have as charming a garden as ever graced any country? Either a terraced garden on the hillside, or an enclosed garden on the level ground; for the garden, that it may give us its best, and that it may serve as it has in other lands during a long and honorable past, must be private, so providing us with a delicious outdoor room VOL. 97 NO. 4

at home, teeming with the delights of outdoor life.

means,

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Think for a moment what the garden - the delight, the refreshment of it. The leaven of true garden love is such that we rejoice with the poet who says:

"I wish the sun should shine, On all men's fruits and flowers as well as mine."

Even before the Sun lifts his smiling face to greet our drowsy mother Earth, we yield to the charm of the garden, and in fancy follow the happy proprietor as he takes his brisk morning walk among the flowers and vegetables of his little garden; we exult with him as he catches his first morning glimpse of the rose unfolding her dewy petals, of the pale green of the tender-leaved lettuce or the greener parsley; with him we toss a smile to the radiant hollyhock, or bend in gratitude over the ripening strawberry; we share with him the pungent red radish, fresh from the cool earth; we carry off to the factory a charming handful of sy eet peas and sturdy carnations to gladden the long summer day within the factory walls. When the day's work is done, every man and maid, every mother and child, may smile in the face of the sweet evening primrose as she vies in color with the long yellow twilight.

THE doctrine called materialism, current thirty years ago, was the product of imperfect science, and it has been the duty of a science less imperfect to crack the clay feet of that unpleasing image. Similarly, it was held by many, not long ago, that science had finally disposed of the validity of religion, which must henceforth be styled superstition; but the advance of science has entailed grave criticism of this view, and is gradually substituting for it another view still in need of exact formulation. In making the attempt to contribute to this desirable end, it is obviously necessary for a professed student of science to begin by recognizing the rational demand that he define his terms.

Now it may easily be demonstrated, as by reference to the breasts of any subhuman mammal, that morality is older than what we commonly understand by religion; and as easily, by reference to not a few brutal and immoral religions, that morality is not a necessary ingredient of all religions. A perfect definition of religion is very difficult to obtain, and, at a recent meeting of the Sociological Society of Great Britain, the collected opinions of many distinguished British and Continental thinkers showed much agreement in the view that such a definition cannot be framed. Nevertheless, it is unquestioned that morality does enter into all the higher religions, without exception,a fact upon which we must later ponder,

whilst it is agreed by nearly all scientific students of religion that this great fact in the history of man is not essentially an assertion of any dogmas whatever, but is rather a psychic tone or quality, in other words, a state of emotion. Now the occurrence in this connection of these two words, morality and emo

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tion, suggests one of the most famous of all the many definitions of religion. In his remarkable book, Literature and Dogma, Matthew Arnold coined two memorable phrases. He spoke of the "power, not ourselves, that makes for righteousness," and he defined religion as "morality touched by emotion." Certainly all the higher religions, all those that have helped to make human history, answer in some measure to this latter definition. At least, they issue in a system of "morality touched by emotion." In considering the manner in which the cardinal truths of biological science, as revealed by Darwin and Spencer, bear upon the function and destiny of religion, I propose to accept this definition of Matthew Arnold. Bearing it in mind, let us endeavor to consider the outstanding facts of the history of life upon our planet.

The writer of the first chapter of Genesis perceived a cardinal truth when he put into the mouth of his God the command, "Be fruitful and multiply." The more we contemplate life as a whole, seeking to discover its main tendency, the more certain does it appear that the chief concern of life is to multiply and magnify itself. I would insist upon the distinction between these two verbs. Many writers have noted the fact that life tends ever toward multiplication. In gratifying its consistent tendency to increase and endure, life has tried innumerable experiments,

the biologist calls them variations,

has ruthlessly cast aside its failures. or fed them upon its successes, careless of everything but their survival-value. But the mere multiplication of life, were that the completest means of achieving the greatest amount of life, would have led toward the production of bacteria and lice, and the like, alone. Every effort -so