because fences conceal, the entrance which reveals takes away the wonder and the charm with it. If the gates opened on nothing at all, like triumphal arches, I should still love them—quaint, intriguing, human notes that they give to the little Japanese landscape inside. They seem so insouciant and inviting, and, though they have their hard and fast regulations governing them, so individual and personal. It is as if a pretty child stood there, in its bright kimono, and said to the passing stranger, in its sweet English, “Will you pliss come in!”
According to the inflexible rule that governs all garden accessories, the gate must correspond in style with the fence, and the fence with the garden; and the garden must have unity in size and character and scope, so that the whole is in proper relation to each part, and each part to the whole. By this time the reader will think that this rule may be taken for granted, but, although I apologize for reiteration, it can hardly have too much stress laid upon it. It is the key-note of the success of the Japanese gardener.
You never see in Japan, as you so often do in other countries, great gates, which could withstand the attack of armies, set in insignificant walls or in light iron fences. My own country is a notable offender in this particular, and beautiful gates of wrought iron or bronze, of the
