Following the description of each garden, any later changes could have been noted and discussed, with appropriate references to those who recorded and illustrated them. A longer explanation of why sultans’ gardens changed in the nineteenth century with the advent of designers from abroad would have been helpful. There is almost a sense of surprise that the sultans abandoned traditional plantings and layouts at that time. But gardens do change when a new owner arrives, a new political persuasion takes hold or new plants arrive from abroad. Did every sultan like the same flowers? Did a sultan ever change the garden at Topkapi because he didn’t like it? One wishes to know, but one does not find answers to such questions. While it is a pleasure to see the paintings of florists carrying stretchers laden with flowers and the models of gardens used in processions, the text does not mention that Dr John Covel, Master of Christ’s College, Cambridge, noted in 1670 that the artificial fountains on these models actually worked, “the water supplied by an engine of clock work contained in them”. These models show gardens laid out in a very formal manner, whereas only a few miniature paintings of Topkapi show formal layouts. The extraordinary painting of women enjoying the grounds at Kagithane (see page 40 of this issue) shows the canal which separated the women’s garden from the men’s a point often overlooked in discussions of Turkish gardens. Sadly, the view depicted by Preziosi is not included for comparison. An appraisal of the importance of water in sultans’ gardens would have been worth attempting. At Aynalikavak Kasri a stream ran through the grounds. At Caglayan Kasri the stream has become a canal, with changes of level and stepped falls; three kiosks and statues stand in the water. At Yildiz a canal was laid out in the shape of Sultan Abdülhamid’s signature and a water grotto built beneath the palace. (Interestingly, reinforced concrete was used to line the banks and construct the grotto concrete was only for the rich in the nineteenth century.) The 1710 drawing of Fener Bahcesi by Cornelius Loos (see page 45) is one of the strangest illustrations in the book. It depicts part of a kiosk with a covered colonnade and within it a small fountain, a feature also seen at Aynalikavak Kasri. The text suggests that under the covered area are “squares of faded colour resembling flowerbeds or carpets”. Closer inspection shows they are clearly carpets, not flowerbeds. As I have mentioned, the book is lavishly illustrated. With over 400 illustrations, it is vital that the author is served by editors, translators and proofreaders of the highest calibre. One of the disappointments of this book is the spelling mistakes in the English translation and the difficulty of marrying up text with images. The photography is of such quality that one can almost see the glaze on some Iznik tiles. But cropping the pictures to show the details rather than the whole object reduces the book’s value as a work of reference. There are botanical queries, too. The plant in a stylised painting is identified as “Garden azalea, Clarkia euchardium”. I do not know what a euchardium is. Clarkia is a plant discovered growing on the west coast of the Americas after 1806, but this picture, the author suggests, was painted in Ahmed III’s reign (17031730). The leaves could be those of a Clarkia. I do not think it is an azalea. Another illustration is captioned “Peonie-Murakka (Album)”. The discerning reader will query this, as peonies do not have thorns along their stems. It is clearly a double rose with the bud opened, to be compared with the adjacent picture of a rose with tight buds. Despite these reservations, the chapter at the end of the book devoted to treatises on gardening (as opposed to gardens) and various flowers is an excellent piece of research, especially helpful for scholars. I have often wondered, when the sultan employed so many people at his court, where all the fruit trees and vegetables were grown to feed this army of staff. If the scholar consults these references, hopefully answers will be found. How were the tulips grown and hybridised? And were they brought from a garden outside the sultan’s own garden, or picked from fields outside the capital? We know that Sheik Mohammed was the lalezari, or chief tulip grower, in the last two years of Ahmed III’s reign and that he produced two tulip manuscripts while in office. One of them lists 1,323 varieties and names two women growers: Azize Kadin and Fatma Hatun. To have women as tulip growers was very unusual at that time. Sadly, by the end of Ahmed’s reign the tulip abruptly lost its status as an imperial flower. Why? Having had our appetite whetted, we need to know more. Nurhan Atasoy has unlocked the gate to the sultans’ gardens, revealing some of the secrets hidden for years behind high stone walls. This book, with its fascinating illustrations, will certainly lead to more interest in Turkish plants and gardens. John Drake is a garden historian and keeper of Britain’s national collection of aquilegia. See Cornucopia 18 Seven Gardens for Seven Heavens, John Drake's Turkish garden in the Cambridge fens. | 
