The well-head itself should be built of brick raised about eighteen inches above the ground, and should be at least fourteen inches broad in the shelf, so that the buckets have ample room in which to stand. The coil and windlass are better if they are both simple, and of good timber. Round this a brick path, two feet broad, should be laid. Over all a roof of red tiles supported on square wooden posts or brick pillars, would give shade to the well, and to a seat of plain design that should be placed against the outer edge of the brick path. And if beds of flowers were set about it all, as I have seen done, and well done, in a cottage garden in Kent, the effect is quaint and beautiful.

I have no doubt that in Roman England such wells were built where the supply of water was not equal to great distribution. But it is amazing to think that such a tiny village as Laurentium, where Pliny had one of his villas outside Rome, held three Inns, in each of which were baths always heated and ready for travellers, and that it has taken us until the present day to bring the bath into the ordinary house.

Naturally, when one casts one’s eyes over a picture of a Roman garden in England, and compares it with a garden of to-day, the very first thing we find missing is that mass of colour and that wonderful variety of bloom that constitutes the apex of modern gardening. Where they were surprised, or gave themselves sudden shocks to the eye, it was by means of little grottos, fountains, vistas at the ends of long alleys, statues in a wild part of a garden, or unexpected seats commanding a prospect opened out by an arrangement of the trees. We prepare for ourselves wildernesses in which the Spring shall paint her wonderful picture of Anemones, Daffodils, Crocuses, and such flowers; where Blue Bells and Primroses, Ragged Robin, and Foxgloves hold us by their vivid colour. Our scarlet armies of Geranium, our banks of purple Asters, or the flaming panoplies of Roses with which we illuminate our gardens would seem to the Roman something wonderful and strange. Yet, in a sense, his taste was more subtle. He held green against green, a bed of Herbs, the occasional jewel of a clump of Violets, more to his manner of liking. And he arranged his garden so as to contain as many varieties of walks as possible.

In the evenings now, when I am, by chance, staying in the house whose garden holds that summer-house I love, I can see my old Roman of my dreams wandering over his estate, and I almost feel his presence near me as his ghost sits on the wooden seat by the lawn and his eyes seem to peer across the meadows back to where Rome herself lies over the eastern hills. An exile, buried far from Rome, his spirit seems to hover here as if he could not sleep in peace away from the warm, sweet Italy of his birth.

II
ST. FIACRE, PATRON SAINT OF GARDENERS
AND CAB-DRIVERS

Gardeners who, to a man, are dedicated to peaceful and meditative pursuits, should care to know of the story of Saint Fiacre, the Irish Prince who turned hermit, and after his death was hailed Patron of Gardeners.

He left Ireland, says the story, at that time when a missionary zeal was sending Irish monks the length and breadth of Europe. As Saint Pol left Britain and slew the Dragon on the Isle of Batz; Saint Gall drove the spirits of flood across the Lake of Constance; Saint Columban founded monasteries in Burgundy and the Apennines, so did Saint Fiacre leave his native land and take himself to France, and there by a miracle enlarge the space of his garden.

At Meaux, on the river Marne, near Paris, the Bishop Saint Faron had founded a new monastery in the woods and called it the Monastery of Saint Croix. To this monastery came the son of the Irish King, and made his vows. It was early days in Europe, for Saint Fiacre died in or about the year 670, and it is almost impossible to imagine the perils and discomforts of his journey, for in Britain and Gaul fighting was going on, roads were bad and unsafe, the sea had to be crossed in an open boat.