remarked that "Michael Angelo had taught him always to put people of genius into his work?"

We must first of all distinguish between the false variety of idealism that represents what is as it is not, and that true idealism which strives to set what should be, but is not, against what is but should not be. As I see it, realism aims at bringing art back to life, from which, by its very nature, it is always tending to diverge. In this sense, Shaw is certainly a realist—but so was Zola. Idealism, on the other hand, is always reminding art that, after all, it is art, and not life: that, in other words, its aim is the making of a new and better life, which, necessarily, has not yet become "real." And it was in this sense that Shaw recognized his own idealism when he said that "he was always setting a man of genius over against a commonplace person."

Understood in this manner, idealism and realism are mutually complementary as two phases of the same existence, and not mutually exclusive as two incompatible principles. And if we glance back over the buried but unforgettable past, I think it will soon be seen that the greatest poets of all were not those who strove one-sidedly as realists or idealists, but those who, like Shakespeare, Goethe, and Ibsen, recognized and reconciled the ever-present dualism of art and life. With these great

synthetic spirits Shaw will have to be ranked, I think. And in his endeavor to merge the principles that sundered the century lying behind us must be sought the main basis of his importance to the new day. In so far as Dr. Henderson has intuitively recognized this fact, his book tends to give us an effective comprehension of Shaw; in so far as he has failed to give clear and concise expression to that same fact, his work remains unfinished and his book a failure.

S

THE GARDEN OF RESURRECTION

BEING THE LOVE STORY

OF AN UGLY MAN

E. TEMPLE THURSTON

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

UMMER and autumn both have come, both have gone.

It is nearly two months since I saw the last leaf fall from the plane tree beneath which I sit so often in the Park, whose canopy of foliage is the roof of one of my little theatres. I cannot remember ever having realized the passing of a season so actually as I did that day when this poor, dead, shrivelled thing, which once had worn its glossy green, came fluttering down into the mud. I watched it as it circled and twisted. It was like the feeble flight of one of those tired butterflies which have hibernated in some sheltered place until the first treacherous day of sunshine has brought them forth to buffet and destroy them. It was so much at the mercy of the faintest wind that blew. As it lay there in the mud I looked above me at the blackened branches. It had been the last leaf to fall. Both summer and autumn had gone. A few minutes later there passed by one who, unthinkingly, crushed it beneath his foot, and with that it reverted to the dust once more from which originally it had come into which inevitably it was destined to return.

I remember then that I got up from my seat and walked slowly from the Park. As I passed out of the gates and turned toward Piccadilly, they were beginning to light up in the windows of the clubs. I chose the opposite pavement, looking up into the different windows as I went by. Every one of them offered the same picture-men of ease and leisure, reading their evening papers over cups of tea. I wondered what would be their replies if, into each room, I had walked announcing that I had just seen

the last leaf fall from the plane trees in the Park. In my mind's eye I could see them, one and all, looking at me in disgust for bringing such news, then burying themselves again in their papers, goading their minds to forgetfulness by reading the latest report of whatever sensation the moment had to offer them.

How I lived through those two months since that last leaf fell from my plane tree I scarcely know. Depression came regularly to me every day, as though I had entered her into my service. She slipped into the room with Moxon and Dandy in the morning when they brought me my tea and then, while it grew lukewarm in the pot, I would lie staring out of the window into the gray light of the ill-weaned morning, thinking of that day when with such hope in my heart I had set out to meet Clarissa, when with such bitter knowledge of my folly I had returned.

Now, however, it is January. The days truly seem no longer, though we have passed that shortest day in December, when Hope, like a freshening bud, begins to swell again. I have not felt it swelling within me, yet I do my best to drive depression away.

I have bought window-boxes for all my windows, and this morning went down with Dandy to Covent Garden to purchase bulbs for the early spring. Snowdrops and crocuses they tell me are the first to flower. As if I did not know! Though possibly they were quite right to say it. There may be many here who are so sadly ignorant.

I asked the man who stands under that awning where all the little boxes of tiny seedlings are ranged, tier upon tier, I asked him at what time of the year should I sow sweet peas.

I had a sudden fancy to see my own Lady Grizels in their bright green pinafores, growing up with their Young Lord Nelsons in a kindergarten of my own making.

"I suppose they ought to be sown soon?" I asked.

"'Ave yer got a light?" he asked.

"As much as there is these days," said I.

Then we stared at each other, for by his look I felt I had not understood, and by my words he made certain I had not.

Presently he tried me again.

"'Ave yer got a light?"

"Now what do you mean?" said I. "I've got boxes outside my window. There's as much light there as you'll get anywhere."

His look was not contemptuous, but it hurt me as if it were. "A light," said he, slowly, "is a large box with lights to it -like a small green'ouse it is, for to force plants in. Open the lights in the daytime and they gets all the air they want. Close 'em at night and they don't get no frosts."

I understood at once; but had he said frames, I think I should have known sooner.

"Well, of course, I haven't got any," said I. "If I had I should have no place to put them in. I've just got a few windowboxes-that's all."

I think he did look at me contemptuously then. If he had had the seeds of sweet peas to sell he might have been more considerate, but dealing in no other plants save bulbs, he lost nothing by setting me to rights.

"'Ave yer ever tried growin' sweet peas in London?" he asked, "growin' 'em in winder-boxes?"

"If I had," said I, "should I come and ask you when to plant them?"

He took no notice of my excellent reasoning. The smile of pity for my ignorance still lingered in his face.

"Well, you try," he continued. "See if yer can get 'em a foot 'igh-an' if there's a blossom on 'em, bring it ter me an' I'll give yer sixpence for it as a curiosity."

"You shouldn't throw your money about like that,” said I. "It's extravagant of you. But I hope I shouldn't take advantage of it. You may see my blossom of sweet pea. In fact, I'll bring it down to you; but I wouldn't deprive you of your sixpence for the world."

At that he got cross. I was annoyed myself. It is one thing to be made aware of your ignorance and quite another to have it thrown back in your face. He knew by the tone in my voice that he had irritated me, thereby losing a possible customer. No doubt it was that which first ruffled his temper. He liked me no less for my chaffing allusions to his sixpence, and in a desperate effort to get even with me, he looked me up and down, assessing

the possible value of my clothes. They were not my best, but probably he did not know that.

Six

"Yer're very 'igh and mighty-aren't yer?" said he. pence is nuffin to you, is it? Why I could buy you up and not feel the weight of it gone out of me pocket."

"I'm sure you could," I replied. "I don't doubt that for a moment. But you must remember there's a little difference between us. I'm not for sale. You are."

Then, when I asked him if there was another place in the market where I could buy bulbs, he was too red in the face to

answer me.

I suppose in a way I got the best of it. I had the last word, which is the victor's perquisite in these matters. But it left a strange feeling of dissatisfaction in my mind. For however much to the point my retort may have been, he knew more about flowers and gardens than I did, and since I have been to Ballysheen I have come to judge of people by their knowledge and love of the treasures that the earth brings forth. For all my smartness, I counted him a cleverer man than myself.

But it was not that only which made me heavy of heart as I walked away to find another seedsman; it was the information I had been given by my friend of the generous purse. I could not grow sweet peas in my window-boxes. For that matter, could I grow anything but a few bulbs, which for one year at least will blossom anywhere, since they feed upon themselves? And I had visions of eschscholtzias, corn-flowers, asters, gypsophila the Lord knows what-all names that I had heard Cruikshank make such frequent and easy use of-names which Bellwattle loved for ever to be rolling on her tongue. All these, then, I supposed would be denied me.

"Dandy," said I, as we walked down King Street from the Garden, "when God made the world, I don't believe He meant there to be any cities, or why did he begin with a garden? Surely a city, sterile and fruitless like this, can't be an advancement on a garden?"

It occurred to me then that I was taking a very extreme point of view; a point of view without any suggestion of that logic for which I so often pride myself. Of course, there must