critical ratification of whatever Bills a Conservative Government may please to pass. In the past four years the Liberals wrote 232 Acts on the Statute Book. But for the Lords they would have written 238 Acts on the Statute Book. I cannot persuade myself that the difference between the 232 Bills that were passed and the 238 that might have been passed is looked upon by the country as sufficient warrant for blotting the House of Lords out of the Constitution. The average man is always a far less excitable individual than his Member, and it is one of the fatalities of democracy that representatives should always be more extreme than the people they represent. While the Radical M.P. is girding himself to smash the veto of the Lords, the ordinary Englishman, who is far more of a human being than a politician, is wondering whether it ought not to be strengthened. I do not detect any real movement of opinion outside the lobbies at Westminster for cutting down the legislative prerogatives of the House of Lords, apart from the single question of finance; but I do seem to detect a movement of opinion in favor of reforming its composition. Even the Conservatives who thought the Lords sufficiently strong to effect the coup d'état of last November appear now to be persuaded that they are not strong enough to carry on the ordinary business of Government; and my belief is that a House of Lords, reduced in numbers, with one half of its members chosen by the Peers themselves and with the other half elected or nominated, gagged on finance but otherwise in full possession of its present legislative attributes, would meet with the decisive approval of the nation. would not be an "impartial" Second Chamber-there never has been or can be an impartial Second Chamber. would not be a Liberal Second Chamber-a Liberal Second Chamber is all

It

It

but a contradiction in terms. But though its tone would be rightly and preponderantly Conservative, it would be freed to some extent from its subjection to the Conservative Party; it would be strong in the consciousness that a large minority of its members were drawn directly from the people; it would be able-and this is what the country wants-to assert itself in the interests of the nation against the excesses of both parties.

The task we are engaged on is little less than that of framing a new organic act of government. It is useless, I know, to plead that such a task should only be undertaken by a Constitutional Convention representative of all parties; and that if the reorganization of the House of Lords is to be attempted it should be attempted not by the Lords alone, still less by the Conservatives or Liberals alone, but by an impartial non-partisan Commission that would command the confidence of the whole nation. The question has been caught up in the machine of party and cannot now be rescued. But there are certain points that Liberals will only ignore at their peril. One is that they must abandon their old attitude towards the internal reform of the House of Lords-the attitude of Austria-Hungary and Russia towards the internal reform of the Ottoman Empire the attitude of doing nothing and waiting "till all be ripe and rotten." They must recognize that the question of the composition of the Upper Chamber and the question of its Constitutional powers are inseparable and cannot be treated apart. Above all they must remember that any readjustment of the relations between the two Houses that is to endure must be the combined work of all parties, and cannot represent the interests and prejudices of merely one of them. It is only in proportion as Liberalism becomes really liberal, rises from the factional

to the national standpoint, and bears constantly in mind the permanent forces that have moulded the peculiar character and genius of our people and The Fortnightly Review.

their institutions, that it can hope to succeed, or even to escape disaster, in the campaign upon which it has embarked.

Sydney Brooks.

I' mi trovai, fanciulle, un bel mattino Di mezzo Maggio, in un verde giardino. Angelo Poliziano.

The Italian humanists of the Renaissance, like the citizens of Utopia, set great store by their gardens. The newly awakened delight in the beauty of nature and the passionate interest in classical antiquity which marked the age, early led scholars to follow the example of the ancient Romans in this respect. They read Quintilian and Varro, pondered over the pages of Pliny and Columella, and turned their thoughts once more to the long-lost art of gardening. In Bacon's famous phrase, "they began first to build stately, then to garden finely."

The love of fresh air and sunshine, the spirit of independence, and taste for roving soon caused men and women to seek the countryside. Tuscan poets took up the strain and sang the joys of the open road and the pleasant Maytime. Folgore, the chivalrous poet of San Gimignano-"San Fina's town of the beautiful towers"-bade youths and maidens leave the city for the villa with the first breath of June, and whisper their secrets in the shady groves where roses bloom and fountains keep the grass green through the parching summer days. Lapo Gianni prayed that he might spend his life with fair women in bowers where the leaves are always green and the birds never cease their songs. And Franco Sacchetti, the gayest singer of them all, called on his company of pleasure-seekers to

fling care to the winds, and, leaving grave thoughts within the city walls, escape to the olive-woods and the hills, the villa and the gardens where the blessed Spring awaited them.

Towards the close of the thirteenth century, Piero Crescenzi, a jurist of Bologna, wrote a Latin treatise on Agriculture, which he dedicated to Charles II, King of Naples, the son and successor of Charles of Anjou. The eighth book of this work is devoted to pleasure-gardens, which the author divides into three classes, those of poor men, those of persons of moderate fortunes, and those of wealthy nobles and kings. "Each of these," Piero writes, "should be adorned with sweet-scented flowers, arbors of clipped trees, grassy lawns, and, if possible, a sparkling fountain to lend joy and brightness to the scene. A pergola of vines will afford shade in the noonday heats, but in small gardens it is well to plant no trees on the lawn, and to leave the grass exposed to the pure airs and sunshine." For the ordinary person, two to four acres of ground should be sufflcient, but twenty acres would be more fitting for kings and nobles. But since those personages who have the means to satisfy their fancies are generally too ignorant or indolent to lay out their own gardens, the writer proceeds to lay down rules for their guidance. "A royal garden," he says, "should be girt about with walls; a fine palace should stand on the south side, with flower-beds, orchards, and fishponds,

and on the north side, a thick wood should be planted to afford shade and protect the garden from cruel winds." A pavilion or casino, to serve as a dwelling-place in the summer, should be placed in some part of the grounds, surrounded with green palisades, while evergreen trees, such as the pine, the cypress and ilex, which are never bare of leaves, should be planted for ornament during the winter months. Nor should a menagerie of wild animals be wanting, or an aviary of singing birds, who should be allowed to fly at will among the trees.

Messer Piero's maxims seem to have met with general approval from his fellow-countrymen, and indicate the lines on which most Renaissance gardens were laid out. As the sense of security increased, as men became rich and prosperous, country-houses and gardens sprang up everywhere. Petrarch had his villetta near the fountain of Vaucluse, and two gardens, the one sacred to Apollo, the other to Bacchus, where he was never tired of contemplating the sky, the mountains, and the waters, and where he would gladly have spent the rest of his life, "were Avignon not so near, and Italy not so far."

"If love of my own things and the force of ancient habit do not deceive me, there is no place in the world better fitted to inspire noble thoughts and lofty dreams." So the poet wrote from Lombardy to his old friend Guido Settimo, Archdeacon of Genoa, who was staying at the villa in his absence. He goes on to speak of the orticella, where he has planted fruit trees of every kind with his own hand, being at once architect and gardener, and begs the priest to go on with the work.

I have been told [he writes] by the oldest inhabitants of the place, more especially by my own servant, who is

most experienced in agricultural matters, that whatever is planted on the 6th of February always flourishes and is never affected by any evil influences. So, when this day comes round, especially if it falls under a good moon, be sure to plant some new tree in the garden, in order that if we are allowed to spend our old age in this spot, your tree may be fairer and its foliage thicker than that of any other. Meanwhile enjoy the trees which are there, both the oldest that were planted by Bacchus and Minerva, and the youngest that were planted by my own hands, and which have grown so fast that they promise to shelter not only our descendants but ourselves. But why, oh why, do I recall every detail of my villetta? Never can I gaze on the beauty of earth and sky without remembering my villa and those with whom I long to spend my few remaining days.1

In his old age, Petrarch was fortunate enough to find another home on Italian soil, at Arqua, in the Euganean hills, where he built himself a villa, "piccola, ma graziosa," and spent the last years of his life in the peaceful enjoyment of the beautiful prospect and sweet, wholesome air. The low white-walled house is still standing in the olive-woods on the heights above Arqua, and the garden, with its medlars and pomegranates, its vines and acacias, is little altered since he lived there. During centuries it has been the goal of pilgrims from all lands, who, like Bembo and Niccolò da Correggio, Byron and Shelley, have climbed the hill to visit the poet's tomb near the church, and have looked down from the loggia of Petrarch's home on the "waveless plain of Lombardy" stretching far away in the blue dis

tance.

When Petrarch was counting his fruit-trees and defending his garden from the Naiads of the Sorgue, another

1 "Lettere di F. Petrarca (G. Fracassetti) iv. 41.

Florentine, those inimitable pages in which he describes the gardens of Poggio Gherardo and Villa Palmieri, near his home at Settignano. In the introduction to the Decamerone, he tells us how Pampinea led her joyous troop up the little hill, far from the dusty highway, to a fair palace surrounded by green lawns and spacious gardens, all neatly kept, and full of such flowers as belonged to the season. "Here," she said, "it is good and pleasant to stay," and Filomena crowned her brow with green laurel leaves, while a table decked with the whitest of linen cloths, with boughs of yellow broom and silver vessels, was set out in the court. On Sunday mornings the fair ladies descended from the heights, and the Queen led the way along an unfrequented lane, where some twenty nightingales sang, and herbs and flowers were just opening to the rising sun, to the Villa Schifanoia (SansSouci), afterwards known as Villa Palmieri. Here they wondered at the beauty of the gardens, at the broad alleys shaded by pergolas, laden with purple grapes, and bordered with red and white roses and jessamine, "that filled the air with sweet scents and shut out the rays of the sun, not only in the morning, but at noonday, so that one could always walk there without fear." More delightful than all was the lawn of the finest and greenest grass, spangled with a thousand flowers and surrounded by orange and citron trees, bearing ripe fruit and blossoms at the same time. In the centre stood a white marble fountain, marvellously carved, sending up a jet of water, which, falling with delicious sound into a crystal basin, was carried through little channels into all parts of the garden, and finally poured down into the valley with such force as to turn the wheels of two mills, "much, as you may suppose, to the profit of the owner."

Boccaccio, was writing

The mills on the Mugnone are still standing, and the gardens where Boccaccio's ladies danced and feasted and told their witty tales have been described by many other eloquent pens.

Both Petrarch and Boccaccio lived when the dawn of the new learning was breaking in the sky, and in Sir Philip Sidney's phrase, "the morning did strew roses and violets on the heavenly floor, against the coming of the sun." But, in the fifteenth century, when men and women were bent on enjoying life in all its fulness-and individual expression had become a passionate necessity-there was a great outburst of garden-making. The newborn love of nature penetrated every phase of society. It stirred the heart of Eneas Sylvius Piccolomini as he watched the changing lights on the slopes of Monte Amiata and the gnarled stems of the oaks that overshadow the ravines in the Volscian country. It moved Ser Lapo Mazzei, that very prosaic-minded notary of Prato, to ride out to his villa at Grignano, in the cool of the evening, and help his laborers tie up the vines and dig the garden. And it impelled Buonaccorso Pitti, the father of the great Messer Luca, to buy a farm at Bogole, which afterwards became famous as the site of the Boboli gardens. This honest citizen took as much delight in his fruit-trees as Petrarch, and kept a daily record of their growth and numbers. "On this day, the 24th of April 1419." he writes in his diary, "I counted all the trees that bear fruit in our gardens and vineyards, not including walnut-trees. I find 564 trees in all, 60 olive, 164 fig, 106 peach, 58 cherry, 24 almond, 5 pomegranate, 25 apple, 16 pear, 2 quince, and 4 filberttrees.""

It was left for Leo Battista Alberti to paint the joys and virtue of countrylife in his admirable treatise, Del Gov2 "Cronica di Buonaccorso Pitti," p. 112.

erno della Famiglia. The sentiments which he puts into the lips of Agnolo Pandolfini, the excellent wool-merchant, who, weary of trade and politics, has retired to his villa at Signa, are worthy of Ruskin himself. In his eyes the villa-that is to say, the country-stands for truth and righteousness, for all that is highest and holiest in public and private life.

What man is there who does not find joy and happiness in the villa? [he asks.] The villa is always gracious and faithful and true. If you govern her wisely and well she will never fail to satisfy you and will always add gift to gift. In spring the villa affords endless delights-green leaves, flowers, sweet scents, songs of birds-and does her utmost to make you glad and joyous. The world smiles on you; there is good promise of a rich harvest, you are filled with hope, with mirth and gaiety. And then how courteous the villa becomes, sending you one fruit after another, never leaving the barn empty. In autumn her rewards are out of all proportion to your labors; she gives you back twelve for one, for a little toil many barrels of wine, and for what is old, things new and good. She fills the house with fresh and dried grapes, walnuts, figs, pears, almonds, filberts, pomegranates, with sweet and luscious apples, and other wholesome fruits. Nor does she forget to be liberal in winter, supplying you with oil and wood, with vine-tendrils, laurel and juniper boughs, to shelter you from snow and wind, and kindle a fragrant and cheerful flame on the hearth. And if you please to stay with her, the villa will gladden you with splendid sunshine and give you fine sport in chasing the hare, the stag, and the wild boar. What need I say more? It would be hard to tell

plains, and listen to the murmuring of fountains and of the running streams that flow through the tufted grass. What is still better, there you can escape from the noise and tumult of the city, the turmoils of the Piazza and the Palace. O blessed country life, how untold are your joys!

So Leo Battista Alberti, the greatest prose writer of the age, sings the praises of the simple life. His words recall many a plain white-washed villa of the fifteenth century which is still to be found hidden among the olivewoods round Florence, with a clump of cypresses by the gateway and a hedge of roses of blue iris along the path where the young wheat is sprouting in the furrow.

The Italians, like the old Romans, were always careful to discriminate between the Villa Urbana and Rustica, the one a palatial building in the city or its immediate neighborhood, the other a modest, oblong house with broad eaves and square tower, half farm and half fortress-the podere or vigna of the landlord who spends six months of the year on his estates. On one occasion, indeed, an animated debate was held in the Roman Academy as to the different meaning of the words villa and vigna, and the philosophers who discussed the question finally decided that their significance was precisely the same. But whether the villa stood in the city or country, the garden was always treated as an integral part of the house, a place to be lived in, which must be adapted to the architectural design of the buliding as well as to the requirements of its inhabitants. was in the age of the Medici, when

It

that garden-design became a fine art and individual culture and character found expression in the creation of the countless pleasure houses that are scattered over the Tuscan hills. In 1417

3" Del Governo della Famiglia," p, 109.