In dells and dales conceal’d from human sight:
There hew’d their houses in the arching rock;
Or scoop’d the bosom of the blasted oak;
There is no doubt about it that these are the very same fairies who are still at work in the Gardens, and who have admitted Mr. Barrie into their confidence. All gardens have ghosts, and Kensington Gardens, I think, more ghosts than any other. What a club it must be to belong to, to visit when all London is asleep. Here’s Mr. Tickell with his version of the Peter Pan story:
No mortal enter’d, those alone who came
Stolen from the couch of some terrestrial dame
For oft of babes they robb’d the matron’s bed.
But beyond these, the vaguest hints, Mr. Tickell does not carry. His story has no likeness to the immortal tale of Peter Pan, but has, in common with it, the same knowledge that there are fairies in the Gardens living just as both he and Mr. Barrie know so well under the roots of trees. And then there are the children. It is they who are the sweetest flowers of the town gardens.
IN HYDE PARK.