Book review: The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

There are books that warm you gradually, like tea cooling in your hands, and The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett is one of those. When I first approached it, I expected a gentle children's tale, a nostalgic window into Edwardian storytelling. What I found was something far deeper: a novel of psychological transformation, the redemptive power of nature, and the often-forgotten potential of lonely or wounded children to blossom.

The Secret Garden, written by Burnett in 1910 and published in 1911, is a classic of children’s literature with a subtle philosophical depth that makes it just as appealing to adult readers. The book is often grouped under the genre of children's fiction, but in truth, it straddles several lines: domestic realism, pastoral fable, and Bildungsroman. While the surface narrative is gentle enough for young readers, the inner journeys of its characters are full of nuance, making it ideal for anyone drawn to stories of growth, resilience, and healing.

Set primarily in the secluded Yorkshire countryside, the story follows Mary Lennox, a sour and neglected girl born to rich British parents in colonial India. After a sudden tragedy leaves her orphaned, she is sent to live with her reclusive uncle, Archibald Craven, in his vast and mysterious Misselthwaite Manor. The estate is riddled with locked rooms and secrets, the most compelling of which is the tale of a locked garden—hidden behind ivy-covered walls and lost to time following a family tragedy. As Mary navigates her new home, she not only discovers the garden, but also begins to uncover hidden chambers within herself and others. The story expands to include Colin, a boy as frail and embittered as Mary once was, and Dickon, a local lad who embodies the natural harmony of the moorland and becomes a quiet guide to their healing.

Burnett’s language is both lyrical and grounded. Her style is marked by clarity and warmth, avoiding sentimentality even when describing the most delicate emotions. She has a keen ear for dialogue, especially the Yorkshire dialect that flows through many scenes with musical authenticity. The book’s structure is straightforward and linear, but its real strength lies in its slow-blooming emotional arcs. The narrative unfolds like the garden itself—initially locked and grey, but gradually vibrant, colourful, and deeply alive.

What sets this novel apart is its use of nature not merely as a backdrop, but as a powerful symbol and agent of transformation. The garden is not a magical place in the fantastical sense—there are no talking animals or enchanted spells—but it possesses a restorative energy that borders on the spiritual. Through careful tending of soil and plants, the children tend to themselves. Burnett subtly weaves themes of health, psychology, and even proto-ecotherapy into the narrative, long before such ideas were academically explored.

I found the emotional evolution of Mary especially compelling. She begins the story as selfish and unlikable, the product of neglect and colonial alienation. Her transformation is not instantaneous but earned. Likewise, Colin's arc from hypochondriac despair to joyful strength is portrayed with both tenderness and realism. The character of Dickon, while bordering on idealized, acts as the stable force of the natural world—he speaks to animals, knows plants by name, and radiates calm. In a way, he is not just a character but an extension of the garden's own gentle wisdom.

One might critique the novel for its slow pacing or seemingly simple plot, but I think this measured tempo is intentional. The slowness mimics the rhythms of nature and childhood, where days stretch long and change is incremental. Another point of critique could be the portrayal of Indian servants and British colonial attitudes at the beginning of the novel. While Mary’s Indian upbringing is integral to her character’s backstory, it is presented through a distinctly Edwardian lens that may feel dated or problematic to modern readers. However, the book is ultimately more concerned with personal renewal than empire, and the troubling elements are not central.

What deeply impressed me was how Burnett managed to capture the healing power of connection—both with other people and with the earth. This novel is filled with a sense of hope and promise, but not naively so. Its emotional truth lies in the idea that growth is possible, but only with care, time, and openness. That lesson, I believe, is as important for adults as it is for children.

Unlike many children's books, The Secret Garden does not rely on external adventure or high drama to create interest. Its drama is internal and rooted in character development. It differs from the genre by focusing on emotional intelligence, nature as narrative, and subtle moral awakening. The book made me reflect on the forgotten places in our lives that might still bloom if given attention. It stirred a gentle joy in me, the kind that lingers quietly after the last page.

The Secret Garden is not merely a charming children’s story, but a rich and layered novel about reclaiming joy and vitality from the depths of grief, loneliness, and emotional neglect. I highly recommend it to readers of all ages who appreciate character-driven stories, literary symbolism, and the tranquil beauty of pastoral life. Whether you’re encountering it for the first time or revisiting it as an adult, Burnett’s novel offers not just a garden to wander in, but a reminder that new life is always possible. My final verdict: a quietly powerful classic that grows on you like ivy on a stone wall.

This book review was written using the following references 👇

• Full text The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett
• Audiobook The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett