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diff --git a/old/51779-0.txt b/old/51779-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 08e19fc..0000000 --- a/old/51779-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,9021 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Sentimental Garden, by -Agnes Sweetman Castle and Egerton Castle - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: Our Sentimental Garden - -Author: Agnes Sweetman Castle - Egerton Castle - -Illustrator: Charles Robinson - -Release Date: April 17, 2016 [EBook #51779] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN *** - - - - -Produced by Clarity, ellinora and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - Transcriber’s Notes - - Obvious spelling and punctuation errors corrected. On page 296, “raste” - could be meant to be “haste” or “taste” - it has been left as in the - original. Inconsistencies in hyphenation in the original have been - retained. - - The original text used ‹ › as parenthesis instead of ( ), this style - has been retained. - - One of the color illustrations is referred to as “THE MOOR” in the List - of Illustrations and as “THE MOORS” in the original caption. The - caption has been changed to “THE MOOR” for consistency. - - Page headers from right hand pages have been retained as sidenotes and - placed by relevant text. - - There were two chapters named XXXII in the original. The second XXXII - has been renumbered XXXIII in this text, and subsequent chapters also - renumbered. - - Italics have been represented as underscores surrounding the _italic - text_. - - Small capitals in the original text have been converted to ALL CAPS in - the text. - - Descriptions of illustrations have been added to the text. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: - - OUR - SENTIMENTAL - GARDEN -] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: THE HEMICYCLE] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - [Illustration: View of Garden is background behind text] - - OUR SENTIMENTAL - GARDEN - - BY AGNES AND - EGERTON - CASTLE - - _Illustrated by - Charles Robinson_ - - PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO - LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN - MCMXIV - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - _Printed in England_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - _To our Kind Neighbours, of Rogate_, - - SIR HUGH & LADY WYNDHAM - - _who viewed the “Villino” garden, - even from the beginning, with indulgent - eyes; and, with friendliest tact, - persisted in descrying possibilities of - grace in the wildest tangle, this - chronicle is affectionately inscribed - in pleasant remembrance - of too rare visits._ - - _September - 1914_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: flowering plant] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - Villino Loki - - - Over the hills and far away, - A place of flowers crowns a rise; - And there our year, from May to May, - Comes with a breath of Paradise; - There the small helpless soul that lies - So sweetly, innocently gay, - In little furry things at play, - With perfect trust can meet our eyes; - Over the hills and far away, - Over the hills. - - Over the hills and far away, - In every rose a dream we prize, - While thousand tender memories - Flutter about the lilac-spray; - To-day, to-morrow, yesterday— - Each unto each make glad replies; - Over the hills and far away, - Over the hills. - - ELINOR SWEETMAN - -_Never was trifling chronicle begun so light-heartedly as this chatty, -idly reminiscent book of ours—and now it is under the great shadow of -war, of death and suffering, that we see it pass into its final shape!_ - -_The “little paradise on the hill,” with all its innocent pleasures, its -everyday joys and cares; with the antics of the “little furry things at -play,” the sayings and doings of the “famiglia”; the roses, the bulbs -and seedlings; our alluring garden plans, our small despairs and -unexpected blisses—our earthly paradise, as we have said, seems like an -unreal place. We wander through it with spirit ill at ease; oppressed, -as by a curse, through no fault of ours. The sight of an Autumn -Catalogue (hitherto so tempting, so full of promised joys) evokes only a -sigh. The offer, from the familiar Dutchman, of bulbs which “it will -help Belgium if we buy,” turns the heart sick. We know we must not buy -bulbs, this year, because we shall have to buy bread—bread for those who -will surely lack it—and yet, if we do not buy, others in their turn must -needs go wanting. And here is but the merest drop in the monstrous tide -of evils wantonly let loose upon humanity by the self-styled Attila! -There are times when, looking out upon our place of peace, we feel as -though, surely, we must all be lost in some fantastic nightmare. It is a -September full of golden sunshine; as this night falls, a benign, placid -moon rises over the silent moors into a sky the colour of spun-glass. -The breeze choirs softly through the boughs of scented Larch and Birch. -All is beauty, harmony—while in those fields yonder, south of the sea, -the Huns.... Pray God, by the time the Spring begins to stir shyly once -more in our copses; what time the Crocus pushes forth its little tender -flame, and the Snowdrop (with us fugitive and reluctant) bends its -timorous head under our hill-top winds, we may indeed look back upon -these days as upon some dreadful dream!_ - -_Meanwhile—even as the Villino itself is now to become a home of -convalescence for some of our wounded, still unknown, but to be welcomed -soon; even as the Cottage is to be a refuge for women and babes fled -from burning Belgian hamlets—the following pages, breathing content and -all the harmless ways of life, may perchance help to beguile thoughts -surfeited with tales and pictures of mortal strife. We hope that, as a -sprig of Lavender, or a Cowslip, by his pillow might for a moment -relieve the blood-tinted vision of a stricken soldier, so, perhaps, some -unquiet heart labouring under the strain of long-drawn suspense, will -find a passing relaxation, a forgotten smile, in the company of Loki and -his companions._ - - _Sept. 1914_ - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -[Illustration: landscape with trees] - - LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS - IN COLOUR - - THE HEMICYCLE _Frontispiece_ - THE DUTCH GARDEN _To face page_ 16 - THE BEECH ” ” 142 - SUMMER ” ” 150 - THE MOOR ” ” 208 - AUTUMN ” ” 234 - THE HOLLY TREE ” ” 272 - WINTER ” ” 292 - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: small landscape] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - OUR SENTIMENTAL - GARDEN - - - - -I - - -It is easier to begin with our beasts.—First, they are much the most -important, and secondly, there are only six of them. Our bulbs lie in -their thousands with just a green nose showing here and there now in -January and are nameless things: only collectively dear, if -extraordinarily so. - -It will instantly be perceived what kind of gardeners we are, and what -kind of garden we keep. We have scarcely a single plant of -“individuality.” We do not spend ten guineas on a jonquil bulb, nor -fifteen on a peony. To our mind no flower can be common: therefore we -lavish our resources on quantity. I was going to say: not quality, but -that is where, in our opinion, the modern kind of garden-maker goes -wrong. What is in a name? Where flowers are concerned, nothing! But how -much, what treasures of joy and colour, of shade and exquisite texture, -of general blessedness in fact, lurk in the beloved crowd of the -nameless things, that come to us designated only thus: “Best mixed -Darwin Tulips”; “Blue bedding Hyacinths”; “Single Jonquils, best mixed,” -and so on! We once descended so far as to order “a hundred mixed -Delphiniums at 10s.,” and when, last June, we looked down on a certain -bed in the Reserve Garden from the seat under The Beech Tree ‹which -commands that enthralling spot› and saw the blue battalion glowing with -enamel colours draw up against the moor beyond, we felt not at all -ashamed of ourselves—yea, we felt conceitedly pleased. - -[Illustration: woman looking out at garden] - - * * * * * - -But our beasts are individual indeed; and, as it was said, there are -only six of them. - -[Sidenote: CONCERNING THE PEKINESE] - -The first in order of importance is the Pekinese, who, purchased at a -moment when we were much under the enchantment of the “Ring,” we -ineptly—yet, from the ethnological standpoint, not altogether -inappropriately—called Loki: his coat is fiery red, and he is an adept -at deceit. When we want to impress strangers we hastily explain that he -is Mo-Loki, son of the great Mo-Choki, the celebrated champion. Loki -‹who frequently assures us that he was a Lion, in Pekin› was born on the -roof of the Imperial Palace in High Street, Kensington. His appearance -and behaviour are such as bear testimony to his princely lineage. We let -him run a great deal when he was a puppy, with the result that his legs -are a little longer than is usual with members of the Imperial Dynasty, -but “Grandpa”—Stop! It is as well to explain from the outset that, since -the advent of Loki in the family, Grandpa is the name that has devolved, -automatically, upon the Master of the House: the infant Loki’s mistress -having assumed, from the very necessity of things, the post and -responsibility of mother ‹in Pekinese ma-ma›, it must follow as the -night the day that her father “illico” became Grandpa.—To resume: though -his legs are a trifle longer than is usual, the Master of the House says -he is much more beautiful by reason of this distinction. And we all -agree with him. - -[Illustration: dog resting] - -Loki will not believe that the Manchu masters have fallen in China ‹of -course it is not from us that he has heard these distressing rumours›, -so he still demands as his right the best silk eiderdowns to lie upon, -satin for his cushions, grilled kidney for his breakfast, freshly poured -water in his bowl every time he wants to drink; and expects immediate -attention at lunch and dinner-time, play-time, “bye-bye” time, and all -the other times when he thinks he would like his chest rubbed. He sits -up and waves his paws with imperious gesture; or else rolls over on his -back and puts them together in an attitude of prayer. He had not at -first much oriental calm about him. Indeed, when he first came to us his -one desire was to play with every living thing he saw, from a cow to a -chicken; but the cow misunderstood and ran at him, and the chicken -misunderstood and ran away. The poor puppy was perplexed and wounded. He -always believed every new Teddy bear toy to be alive at first, and would -receive it in a rapture of tail-wagging and nuzzling kisses, until what -time, it dawning upon him that Teddy was a senseless fraud, he set -himself to shake and worry it like a little fury. Now he is older and -wiser. He pretends not to see cows, and condemns chickens; he will growl -at a strange dog, and bite and shake a new toy the very first day. Thus, -alas, do years make a cynic of the young idealist! - -[Sidenote: LOKI’S OWN ANIMALS] - -He only plays with his own animals. These are: Susan, the Butler’s dog, -and Arabella, the Lavroch setter, a long, lovely, lithe, foolish -creature, whose surname is Stewart, having come to Villino Loki out of -far Scotland from a distinguished member of that Royal clan. Arabella, -who is ten times the size of Loki, turns him over and over, tramples on -him, nibbles and licks him till he is unspeakable. He will leap at her -nose, hang on to one of her long flapping ears, race up and down the -slopes and round and round the green terraces, till they both collapse, -and their tongues hang out of their laughing mouths, seeming to flicker -with their panting breath, and become as long as the tongues of dragons -on old manuscripts. - -[Illustration: dogs playing outdoors] - -A matter to be noticed is that they never play in their walks with us -across the moors—apparently that is against dog etiquette—but they will -lie in wait for each other at the garden gate on the way home, and the -fun and the pouncing and growling jocosities begin the instant they are -inside. - -Susan doesn’t play with the other animals, though she exercises an -irresistible fascination upon every dog that comes within a mile of her. -She has a kind of Jane Eyre charm, we suppose, for it is not at first -visible to the naked eye. She always does remind us of a small elderly -German governess, for she is squat, undemonstrative, and eminently—oh, -eminently!—respectable. She is a fox-terrier. She has, however, one -terrible weakness. Her only joy is to have stones thrown for her. She is -not, therefore, an agreeable person to take out for a walk, for she will -get right under your feet, dig up a stone, point at it, and bark, -“Throw, throw!” with a shrill persistence that goes through your head. -And if you are weak-minded enough to yield, then indeed you are undone. -You will be kept throwing till you wish her in the Dog Star. She will -scratch up stones till her paws are raw. This we think a great defect, -but Loki sees no flaw in her. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: CELLARERS YOUNG, CELLARERS OLD] - -When Susan’s Butler first came to us, we had suffered acutely from -butlers young and butlers old, butlers bashful and butlers bold—all of -whom drank steadily. One nearly murdered his Buttons. Another, engaged -by correspondence, vouched for by the agency, announcing his years as -forty-five, arrived huge, decrepit, asthmatic; almost, if not quite, -qualified for an old-age pension. The eight o’clock dinner he found it -impossible to serve before nine; and then that ceremony became a perfect -torture of dazed crawling, enlivened by stertorous breathing, for which -asthma and chronic alcoholism disputed responsibility. When the Master -of the House, who is very tender-hearted, intimated that he thought -that, for the good of the newcomer’s health, they had better part with -the utmost celerity, the veteran assented resignedly with the husky gasp -peculiar to him. - -[Illustration: man with serving tray] - -“You know,” said the Master of the House, mildly, “you are not quite -what you represented yourself to be. You said you were forty-five!” - -“I think,” wheezed the Ancient Cellarer; “I think I said forty-seven, -sir.” - -“Oh, forty-seven!” The Master of the House was a little satiric. “Even -if you had said forty-seven, you are a great, great deal more than -that!” - -“Sir,” said the delinquent, with a beery twinkle, “no butler can ever be -more than forty-seven.” - -This, we understand, is a maxim of life in the profession. - -A third—he was young and beautiful—had a fondness for a brew called -gin-and-ginger, which had so cheering and immediate effect upon him -that, having left the drawing-room after tea the very pink and -perfection of propriety, he would announce dinner in an advanced -condition of jocular elevation, and when the plates slid out of his -hands he would survey them with a waggish smile, as one who would say: -“Bless their little hearts, see how playful they are!” We became anxious -to secure a servant who would have more than a few streaks of sobriety, -and when Susan’s owner came, we felt we had secured that pearl. He came -in a great hurry ‹without Susan› because of the equally hurried -departure of the beautiful hilarious one. After a week or so, we asked -him if he would consider us as a permanency. He said he would have to -consider us a little longer. After another ten days he informed us of -Susan’s existence, and announced his intention of going to fetch her. We -breathed again. - -[Sidenote: IN THE MATTER OF O’REILLY] - -[Illustration: dog looking away] - -[Illustration: dog sitting in front of plant] - -Juvenal—that is his name—is very fond of animals. A little too fond, we -thought, when he invited a military friend’s dog to stay, during the -owner’s absence at manœuvres. This animal, by name O’Reilly, arrived in -dilapidated, devil-may-care, barrack-yard condition, which was a great -shock to our Manchu prince. He also had pink bald elbows and knees. His -hind legs were longer than his front ones, which gave him an -ourang-outang gait. As became his Milesian name, he fought every one he -met on his walks. Why he did not fight Loki, we do not know, for Loki -loathed him and, we believe, suffered acutely in his poor little Chinese -soul all during his stay. Yet unwelcome as he was, scald, ungainly, -tiresome, there was something pathetic about the creature. He had a way -of looking at one, deprecating and pleading at once; and he would -display such rapture at the smallest token of toleration, that, despite -our satisfaction at his departure, we had an ache in our hearts too. We -have a shrewd suspicion that the corporal-major who owned him was a -rough customer, and that poor O’Reilly’s life was not that happy one -which every “owned” dog’s ought to be. A dog should not be treated as a -dog. - - * * * * * - -As for cats, once they have passed the giddy days of youth, in which -they are imps, sprites, goblins, pucks, furry, fairy, freakish -things—anything but mere animals—one cannot help feeling a certain awe -with regard to them. Despite the many cycles of years that have elapsed -since their ancestors took habitation with us, they have remained true -Easterns. From father to son, from mother to daughter they have handed -down secret stores of occult knowledge which they keep jealously to -themselves, a sacred inheritance of race. Those eyes that fix you with -pupil contracted to a slit, and look through and beyond you into -mysteries undreamt of by you: that lofty detachment, that ineradicable -independence, that relentless indifference: have we not all felt by -these signs and tokens how completely the cat puts us outside the sphere -of his real thoughts and feelings? Priests or priestesses they seem to -be, of some alien creed, soul satisfying, contemplative, with sudden -savage rites. Have you ever watched a cat with regard turned inwards, -meditating? Its body sways, but the spirit bubbles softly as if it were -seething in content over a mystic fire. It does not want you to join it -in its rapture, like your dog. It has no desire to admit you into its -comradeship. It is as self-contained and self-absorbed as the highest -grade Mahatma. - -[Illustration: cat in garden] - -[Sidenote: KITTY-WEE THE LOVELY] - -Kitty-Wee, the Lovely, is chief of our three cats. She is a Persian lady -with a wonderful robe of silver grey, faintly blue, and orange eyes -inherited from that most beautiful, most evil monster, Tittums the -Bold-and-Bad, her father, who spent his adorable kittenhood and his -stormy youth under our London roof, until his habit of lying in wait for -the servants at odd corners and jumping at their elbows, made it -imperative for us to part with him. He was then adopted by a gentle -parson’s daughter, in the freedom of whose country dwelling it was hoped -that he might sow his wild oats and settle down into respectability. But -alas! the day dawned, when lying on the rector’s cassock in the -dining-room, he was so incensed at the reverend gentleman’s polite -request to move, that he chased him round and round the room, ran him -down in the hall and bit him. The churchman was not an unreasonable -being and had made many allowances for the frailty of degenerate -creation; but he drew the line at the violation of his reverend elbows. -Tittums was once again, with many tears and heart-rendings, passed on. -This time to a lady who keeps a cattery. We hear that he has become a -model of every virtue, and that she only wears a fencing mask and boxing -gloves when she combs him, because on the day when she left them off, -Tittums, in a fit of absence of mind, bit her through the thumb. Anyone -who takes a cat paper can hear more of this most distinguished beast, -under the name of “Saracinesca.” - -Kitty-Wee is supposed to have inherited her father’s superlative -looks—only he was “smoke”—and her mother’s angelic disposition. If -occasionally a spark of the paternal temper flashes out, the gardener’s -wife ‹with whom she prefers to dwell› says “Kitty is a bit nervous -to-day.” - -[Sidenote: KITTY-WEE’S MESALLIANCES] - -It was after Kitty-Wee’s first _mésalliance_ that she took up her abode -with the worthy pair in the “little cot,” as Mrs. Adam calls it, at the -bottom of the garden. Persian princesses, from the time of “A Thousand -and One Nights” onwards, are proverbially capricious. But what perverse -freak of youthful fancy induced our delicate silver-pawed highborn -damsel to fix her young affections upon Mr. Hopkinson was and is, a -painful mystery. - -Mr. Hopkinson, a very hooligan among cats, so degenerate indeed as to -have lost all his eastern characteristics, and to have assumed a -positively “Arry-like, bank-’oliday, disreputable, Hampstead-Heath kind -of vulgarity,” was a lean, mangy creature with a denuded tail. He had a -black spot over one eye; the other eye was conspicuous by its absence. -We could hear his raucous voice uplifted in serenade, suggestive of -accordeons, night after night, and his guttural whisper of “Me -’Oighness” behind the bushes when we went on our walks. Every effort was -made to discourage the preposterous suitor. But, alas! Kitty smiled. The -infatuated Princess escaped the vigilance of her distracted family. -Perhaps it is best to draw a veil over the consequences of this rash -alliance. Kitty indeed did her best to obliterate them, refusing to do -anything but sit heavily on three black and white kittens with ropy -tails. She only purred again the day the last one died; “Oh! she was -pleased, Mam,” said the gardener’s wife; “quite took up again, she did.” - -[Illustration: animals watching each other] - -Kitty-Wee’s next matrimonial venture, though likewise, we grieve to say, -morganatic, was very much more successful. In fact it is to it that we -owe—Bunny! The name, the lineage, the very personality of Bunny’s father -is wrapt in mystery; but judging by the splendour of Bunny’s black fur, -it is to be conjectured that Kitty-Wee’s choice was of a dark -complexion, and if not royal, at any rate of noble blood. - -Two brave brothers Bunny had, but he is the sole survivor; all the more -cherished. And really, even if he lacks his mother’s supreme -distinction, we cannot but feel proud of him. Waggish, gentle, humorous -creature that he is, he will hang round the neck of Adam, the gardener, -like a boa, for a whole morning together; or stalk the dogs from tree to -tree, pounce on them at unexpected moments to deliver a swinging -friendly slap on Susan’s fat back, or to waltz with Arabella, or to -inveigle Loki, with odd freakish sidelong gambols, into a mysterious -game of his own, which, as our little Chinaman has something of the cat -in him, he seems to understand. - -[Illustration: cat in garden] - -We are very glad that Adam had Bunny to console him, for Kitty-Wee’s -offspring has an odd resemblance in size and appearance to Cæsar, the -late Garden Cat, much beloved, who alas! went the way of all fur ‹with a -melancholy little assistance from the chemist› shortly before Bunny’s -appearance in this plane. - -“Oh, Miss,” said Mrs. Adam, on the Sunday that followed that Socratic -tragedy, “last night was the most dreadful night we ever spent! It was -the first time for thirteen years we hadn’t had a cat in the house! Oh! -Miss, I thought Daddy would have broken his heart. He just sat with his -head on his hand, and sighed. Really Miss Marie, I don’t know when we’ve -felt so bad.” - -[Illustration: cat and dog] - -It will be seen that Mr. and Mrs. Adam have the right feeling towards -“little sister cat and little brother dog,” as St. Francis of Assisi -would have called them. This suits us very well, and oddly enough, -Villino Loki is a kind of paradise for things of fur and feather. Cat -and dog live in a strange harmony. To see Loki kiss Bunny, or Bunny -clasp Arabella round the neck, is as pleasing a sight as you could -imagine. And if Kitty-Wee occasionally boxes Loki with a kind of -delicate compactness, it is with her claws in. As for Juvenal, the -butler, whose pantry is full of singing birds, no sense of etiquette -will restrain him from public blandishments when Loki is on the scene. -George, the footman, can be heard addressing him—Loki—in back passages, -as “My loved one!” And Tom, the old long-haired English cat, rules the -kitchen. - -[Sidenote: THE VICISSITUDES OF TOM] - -Tom has reached the patriarchal age of eighteen years, and is cherished -by the master of the Villino. He has had many vicissitudes. He was stung -by an adder during our very first summer, years ago, on these moors, and -lay for a day in a coma with one paw swollen the size of a child’s arm, -to be saved by doses of brandy and milk. A few years later he was caught -in a trap. How he got free no one knows, but we found him crawling, -piteously complaining, with a shattered leg. With the help of the cook, -who followed the tradition of the establishment and was Tom’s slave, the -leg was set with strips of firewood, the bone being very successfully -mended. It so happened that the Master of the House had, about the same -time, snapped his _tendo-plantaris_ at tennis; and it was a sight to see -them both when they stumped down the wooden passages—the master -dot-and-go-one on his crutches, Thomas following in his splints, -dot-and-go-three. - -[Illustration: _Tom_] - -The amateur surgery, however, was not completely successful. Though -Thomas’ bone knit, the poor mangled flesh remained unhealed, and at last -the cook conveyed her darling in a basket to the most celebrated London -animal doctor. Thereafter ensued a time of horrible suspense. Telegrams -went briskly backwards and forwards. Dr. Jewell “doubted if he could -save the limb.” Tom’s adoring family could not contemplate the tragedy -therein implied. “Better euthanasia!” we wired. “Will do my best for -little cat,” the sympathetic Æsculapius of God’s humble creatures -replied. Hope and devotion triumphed. Tommy returned to us with three -legs in large fur trousers, the fourth as close as a mouse. The fur -thereon has never grown to full length again. We fear it will never grow -now. - -Dear old Tom is toothless, and he is getting a little bald on the top of -his head; but he is a beautiful creature still, and a dandy. His four -spats are always of an almost startling snowiness; his shirt-front -ditto. He is not very fond of any of the other animals, and was so -revolted by Kitty-Wee’s _mésalliance_ that she could not show her face -in the kitchen without his instantly using as severe language as ever -John Knox to Queen Mary. “Hussy!” was the mildest of his terms. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: THE DUTCH GARDEN] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -[Illustration: house on hill] - - - - -II - - -Where we live, high on the southern moorlands of Surrey, the desolation -of winter never seems to reach us; unless, indeed, upon certain days of -streaming rains, or weeping mists that rush rapid and ghost-like up the -valley, and blot out the world from view. But those days would be dreary -anywhere and in any season. - -Our funny little house, more like an Italian “Villino,” perhaps, than -anything English, stands high, midway between the rolling shoulders of -moor and the green-wooded dip of the valley. And the moor has always -colour in it. There are some sunset days when it seems not so much to -reflect as to give out rose and purple and carmine. And now in January -it is a wonderful copper-brown, with the tawny of dying Bracken and the -yellow of young Gorse. And opposite to us a belt of birchwood is purple -against solemn green of pine. And the purple and solemn green run right -down together to the bright verdure of fields and dells; then up again -to moorland, where the fir trees march up once more against the sky. - -There are Larches in these woods, and Oaks, so that the spring tints are -almost as wonderful as the autumn. When the Furze and Broom are all -guinea-gold on the moor, the young Bracken begins to creep in green -patches that are pure joy. Later on the Bell-heather breaks into a deep -rose which, with the sun on it, holds such a glory of colour that you -could scarce find its match in an old Cathedral window. And when this -splendour begins to turn to russet, then comes the tender silvery -amethyst of the Ling, and spreads a mantle all over those great -shoulders of wild land that is of the exact hue most beautiful to -contrast with the full summer woods and the blue of an August sky; a -combination so matchless for colour-loving eyes that it seems as if -one’s soul were not big enough to hold the complete impression. And when -our Delphiniums rear themselves against this background, we feel, -looking on it all, as if we could sing for the mere rapture of it; -or—having no voice—roll in the grass like Loki or like Bunny. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: A LITTLE PLACE OF ONE’S OWN] - -For a long time we—Loki’s Grandfather and Grandmother—had said to each -other that we must have a week-end cottage. We were so tired of hiring -other people’s houses, summer after summer, and of the labour ‹not -unattended by some pleasurable excitement on Loki’s Grandmother’s part› -of pulling their furniture about, and hiding away all the family -portraits and the choicest works of art, to make the alien spaces -tolerable to one’s own individuality. So tired, too, of the boredom and -worry of having to restore everything to its pristine ugliness and hang -up the enlarged photographs and the dreadful oil paintings on the walls -once more—a tedious task, albeit enlivened on one occasion by the -thrilling discovery that, having consigned these treasures to an oak -chest in the hall, most of them had grown fur; and that on another the -oil painting of your detested landlady, in middle Victorian chignon and -the hump of the period, has received a scratch on the nose which no -copious application of linseed oil will disguise. We always detest our -landlady ... though not as much as we loathe the tenants who may happen -to hire a house of ours. - -[Illustration: street view of house] - -At the end of each summer, therefore, we would make elaborate -calculations to prove what a great economy it would be to have a little -place of our own. Finally these plans and desires crystallized into -action. When Loki’s Grandfather returned from a round of inspection to -the hotel where we were staying in the district we fancied, and told -Loki’s Grandmother that he had visited a funny little house with a -terrace upon which he “saw her”—in his own phraseology—she was extremely -sceptical. And when we drove down the hill to view his discovery, and -were literally dropped from the side road through a perfunctory gate -into the steepest little courtyard it is possible to imagine, and she -beheld green stains on the rough-cast wall of the white small house, her -scepticism increased to scoffing point. She was blind to the charms of -the pretty pillared porch. The narrowness of the entrance passage filled -her with disdain. Though she grudgingly admitted a possibility in the -drawing-room, it was not until we emerged upon the terrace that her -preventions vanished.—That rise and fall of moorland in such startling -proximity, and the way in which the house and its terraces seemed to -cling to the hillside and be perched in space between the giant curves -and the dip of the valley beyond, fairly took her breath away. An artist -friend described the first impression of the view in these words: “It is -so sudden!” For a long time, even after the queer, fascinating spot had -become our own, this wonder of “suddenness” always seized us. - -It still seems incomprehensible to us that anyone could have desired to -dispossess himself of so attractive a place—an Italian “Villino” on the -Surrey Highlands is not to be found every day. - -But, after all, it only became a Villino after our ownership. It was -just a small white house on the hillside before that. Heather and Gorse, -Bramble and Bracken pressed hard upon the small area of the property -which was at all cultivated, between densely growing clumps of pine and -holly. - -[Sidenote: THE FIRST TRANSFORMATIONS] - -The courtyard is no longer dank: it is widened, levelled, and walled in -against its high fir-grown strip of bank. It is guarded by bright green -wooden gates, and three sentinel Cypresses that begin to mark the -Italian note. - -As for the lower reach—the Reserve Garden now—which in former days was a -dumping-ground for horrors of broken glass, potsherds and tin cans ‹a -dreary patch of weeds and couch grass withal›, it is unrecognizable. -Especially this year, when, to the herbaceous border, to the espaliered -apple-trees, and to the neat little turfed walks, we have added a -Rose-Garden between screens of rustic woodwork which are to blaze in the -full luxuriance of the adorable Wichuriana tribe. - -Where the jungle waxed thickest, fair paths have been cleared. An avenue -bordered by a double row of tall slender Pines runs from top to bottom -of the hill, with a view of our neighbour’s buttercup field on the one -hand, and of our own Bluebell and May-tree glade on the other. It -requires a positive effort of imagination to recall that this was a -literally impenetrable thicket when we first came. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: entrance to house off street] - -[Sidenote: A VILLINO ON SURREY HILLS] - -Nor is the house less altered. As it was hinted before, a small white -Surrey house has, by some singular, scarcely intentional process, become -enchanted into an Italian Villino. Of course, some structural -alterations were necessary. - -[Illustration: house interior with plants] - -On entering the red-tiled hall ‹once the pantry!›, at the end of which -the glass door giving on the terrace frames Verrochio’s little naked -boy, struggling with his big fish, flanked on each side by Cypresses, -you might easily fancy yourself at Fiesole or Bello Sguardo, but for the -unmistakable northern stamp of the moorland beyond. Passing through the -other glass doors into the inner hall, the first object to meet the eye -is the big della Robbia over the gracious figure of the Madonna kneeling -against a blue sky with dear little green clouds upon it. Through the -open dining-room door you have a vision, all golden orange, of different -deep shades. The Scotch builder we employed for the construction of the -two new wings opined that “the scheme was verra’ daring.” Personally, -every time we go in, it warms the cockles of our hearts. We had the -golden-hued carpet especially dyed. We chose the tangerine distemper for -the walls. We had, indeed, considerable difficulty in obtaining the -higher note for the curtains. Antique chairs, with seats and backs of -brown leather tooled like old bindings, we brought from Rome; from -whence also came the yellow marble sideboard table on its gilt-carved -legs, above which a bronzed cast of Gian di Bologna’s Mercury springs -out from that orange wall on a flamboyant gilt bracket, with a grace we -have never seen that adorable conception display anywhere else. We found -a handsome, but anæmic, oak fitment in this room, filling the whole -right wall with cupboards, panelled overmantel, and bookshelves. It is -no longer anæmic, but polished by our industry to a pleasing depth of -amber gloss. - -[Sidenote: THE DORATORE’S ANTIQUES] - -[Illustration: house interior with window view] - -So Italy walked into the little white Surrey house almost as soon as the -doors were open to us. But it is in the drawing-room that she has mostly -established her self. It is so filled with dear Roman things that we can -think ourselves back again in that haunt of all joy, when we cross its -threshold. It is full of associations of delightful days, of quaint -beings. There is the rococo _paravent_, gilt and carved in most delicate -extravagance, which we bought of the _doratore_ in the Piazza Nicosia. -That fire-screen—a real Bernini, once the frame of an altar-piece—now -holds in its strong bold oval a pane of glass where perhaps some wan -Madonna shewed her seven-pierced heart. The _doratore_ picked up these -things in old villas and disused churches. His booth was indeed a sight -to see.—Having recently been on a visit to Rome, Loki’s “great-aunt” was -naturally charged with many commissions in that quarter. Armed with a -letter of directions from the Italian scholar of the family, she and a -Lancashire maid wandered down there one misty afternoon in November, at -an hour when all the crazy little houses of the ancient Piazza seem to -fold up and huddle together in the purple Roman dusk. - -The _doratore’s_ wares winked through the dimness; and having duly -knocked their heads against wreaths of dangling frames in his doorway, -the pilgrims proceeded to steer a perilous path among the heaps of -gilded _débris_ within. - -The _doratore_, made visible only by his paper cap, was seated in a nest -of angels, tinkering at a fat cherub and whistling gaily. Hearing steps -he poked his head through the large oval of an empty mirror, and stared -unconcernedly at the visitors, whose advance was punctuated by -cataclysms of falling frames, church candlesticks, and other “_oggetti -religiosi_.” - -At the fifth or sixth tumble, he rolled away from his angels with -unimpaired cheerfulness, and apologized. - -“_Scusi, scusi!_” Smilingly he picked up a broken wing and a bit of -acanthus leaf. “_Scusi!_” again. “Aha! a letter!” - -Here the fat laugh merged into a bellow which made the walls ring, and -brought a dirty little urchin tumbling down a ladder from some loft -overhead. The urchin diving under a heap of prostrate apostles, produced -a stick with an iron spike, which he held respectfully under his -patron’s chin. The doratore stuck a candle on the spike, lit it, and -with the flame in fearful proximity to his bearded face, proceeded to -open the letter. - -“Aha! from the noble family at Villino Loki!” Here he took off his cap -with a flourish and did not replace it. “The _signor Inglese_, is he -well?—_Mi piace._ And the _gentilissima signorina_ who does me the -honour to write?—_Mi piace, mi piace._ And Mama?—Better?—_Bonissimo!_ -Please the good God to bring her again to Rome. But not this month,” -waving a warning finger before his nose. “In April. In the _primavera_, -Rome is as salubrious as she is beautiful. Now what does Mama want? -Brackets? Angels?—_Ecco._” - -He pointed to a pair of fantastic creatures that jutted out like -gargoyles under the ceiling. “What? Not pretty? _Ma! Scusi!_ they are -_antichi bellissimi_—they come from a castle in the Abruzzi; there is -not their match in Rome.” Snapping the candle from the imp, on whose -locks it was unheededly guttering, he waved it round his own head, -waking up unexpected companies of saints on the walls and making pools -of light and darkness among the golden hillocks. - -“They are exactly the noble family’s taste,” said the _doratore_, -replacing his cap with an air of finality. “She said _cinquanta -lire_—she shall have them for _quaranta_!” - -Recognizing that this incident was closed, Loki’s aunt thought she would -do a deal on her own account, and picking up a little antique frame, -fell back on the only Italian word she knew: - -“_Quanto?_” - -The _doratore_ unexpectedly priced the frame at twenty-five lire, and -cheap at that, and all of a sudden the little shop was filled with -confusion. The would-be purchaser wished to take away her prize, the -_doratore_, misunderstanding, vociferated that nothing would be broken -on the sea-journey; the Lancashire maid struck in with English addresses -for the other wares; finally, the candle-bearer was sent flying round -the corner to fetch a friend who, by the grace of God, had the gift of -tongues. - -Breathless, he returned, with a bundle of rags hobbling along on a -crutch, by his side. - -“_Benissimo!_” exclaimed the _doratore_, with a sigh of relief. “This -gentleman, _signora_, is a friend of all the artists in Rome! He knows -English, French, German—everything!” - -He then performed the ceremonious rites of introduction! “Signor -Guiseppi Renzo, a person of great worth and learning.—The noble lady -belonging to the family of my cherished patrons, i Castelli.” - -The bundle of rags swept off its battered hat with a flourish, -disclosing a wall-eye and a three-weeks-old beard, and remarked, in -Italian, that the weather was beautiful for the time of the year. - -“But not so beautiful as in spring,” said the _doratore_ encouragingly. -Upon which Loki’s aunt bowed too, and smiled and murmured, “Oh! _si_, -_si_—I mean no.” And then feeling dreadfully uncouth and ill-mannered in -presence of so much courtesy, picked up her frame again and looked -helpless. Instantly the interpreter warmed to his office. In fluent if -curious English, he ascertained her wishes, and then communicated them -with much gesticulation to the _doratore_, who slapped a fat forehead, -exclaiming in a contrite manner, “_Va bene, va bene!_” Finally, the imp -was dispatched on a last errand in search of a little open carriage, and -having carefully wrapped the frame in a copy of the “_Corriere_” -produced from his own pocket, the bundle of rags hobbled out into the -Piazza, where he and the _doratore_ stood bareheaded to wish the ladies -a safe journey to England, and a speedy return to Rome. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: fancy glass] - -[Sidenote: MORE BRIC-A-BRAC] - -It is little wonder that the _doratore_ should cherish us. The -drawing-room of the Villino on the Surrey hill is chiefly furnished out -of his store. Therefrom come the Venetian chairs, the huge _Goldoni_ -armchair, the two cabinets of rusty gold. The hanging cabinet is full of -Venetian glass, picked up—of all places—at that roaring cheap emporium, -Finocchi’s, in the hideous modern corso fitly dedicated to _Vittorio -Emanuele_. ‹To think these bubbles of ethereal loveliness, these liquid -curves, these foam-frail phantasies, should have been discovered, -unshattered, in such a spot!› There from the walls a wistful -_Giovannino_, with pious, sentimental, guileless head inclined, looks -down from his golden background, a true bit of early Siennese simplicity -and faith. He came to us from the talons of a voluble Jew in the _Via -due Macelli_, from which unclean grasp were likewise rescued those meek -companions, “St. Bernardino of Siena” and “St. Antoninus,” on the -opposite wall. St. Bernardino’s face is quite out of drawing, but, -nevertheless, rarely has any presentment been more impregnated with holy -benignity. The gentle pair hang just above a statue of Polyhymnia.... -Oh! that “_Manifattura di Signa_,” in the dark purlieus of the Via -Babuino! It is a blessing that we only discovered it the last week of -our four months’ stay in Rome, and that our resources were then at a low -ebb; else, indeed, the exiguous limits of our new country home never -would have held our purchases. Another “Madonna” between the -rose-coloured curtains in the narrow window. - -Yes, indeed, there are a great many “Madonnas” about the place. There is -an undeniably papistical atmosphere.—An old gentleman, of developed -intellectuality, who stumbled in upon us shortly after our -establishment, could not conceal the horrible impression it made upon -him. His thoughts would have been easy to read even if the hurry of his -adieux had not so plainly proclaimed his disgust. Seeing his eyes fixed -upon the majolica statuette in question, we ‹perhaps with a little -malice› informed him that it was known as the “_Madonna del Bacio_.” It -was then he rose, not quite swallowing down his “Faugh!” - -[Sidenote: AN OLD-TIME NOTE] - -“You had not expected to find such superstition abroad in an enlightened -age,” we murmured politely. We cling to these old-world symbols—some of -us by conviction, others for mere love of the beautiful past.—A little -mistake? The wrong house, say you? How could we have been so stupid as -not to guess!—Of course, you wanted the bungalow at the other end of the -village. Yes, Mrs. Ludwigsohn is everything that you can desire to meet. -Up-to-date cap-a-pie. Socialism, rationalism, suffragism. You can begin -on the suffrage: she will saw the air with her right hand in a -convincing platform manner. A delightful, capable woman! She feeds her -infants scientifically on proteids. And there are Röntgen -pictures—anatomical, you know—in the hall, that you will find more -inspiring than della Robbia. Oh, you will get on with her splendidly. We -know her ... slightly. Indeed, we blush when we think of our one and -only meeting: it was so inharmonious on our part. She began to argue—and -instantly had us in a cleft stick: “Soul?” she exclaimed, fiercely -interrupting an incautious remark. “Soul? there is no such thing. I deny -it.—Prove,” she cried, “prove I have a soul!” - -Poor lady, how could we? No—the Villino is certainly no place for the -higher critic; for the lady of ’isms. We are not rationalistic in our -tastes; we love old and simple things; prefer to take much for granted -in life and enjoy the good peace that is vouchsafed. - -[Illustration: decorative oval] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -III - - -[Sidenote: SIX GARDENING VIRTUES] - -When we first began to own a garden we could not bring ourselves to wait -in patience for developments. We expected our beds to bloom as by magic. -We vehemently ordered pot-plants because no seedlings could be expected -to “do anything” in June; and the disproportion between our bills and -the result filled us with dismay. But a garden is at once the most -delightful and cunning of teachers. How kindly are the virtues it -inculcates!—Patience, faith, hope, tenderness, gratitude, resignation, -things in themselves as fragrant and beautiful as the flowers, or like -the herbs, a little repellent of aspect, but sweet in their bruised -savour. - -[Illustration: garden view - two pages wide] - -Now we have even been taught to take pleasure and comfort from the -vision of the beds in their winter preparation, where with the -believer’s eye, we anticipate the fulfilment of the spring. In the -little Dutch Garden under the new wing, the two long beds between the -clipped Bilberry hedges are full of compact cushions of Forget-me-not. -Through these the green noses of the china-blue Hyacinths, that are to -make lakes of colour and scent at the end of March, are beginning to -push upwards. - -The winter has been very mild.—Another garden lesson: too much spoiling -in infancy is bound to produce forwardness in the young, and the -inevitable result of withering snubs! - -When the Hyacinths have faded, the Forget-me-nots will have spread a -sheet of tender beauty over the unsightliness. ‹Did we mention that a -garden teaches charity?› And between this flying scud of blue foam the -Darwin Tulips will have already reared bold green snake heads which will -gradually become invaded by tints of mauve, rose, dark purple, until the -day when their glorious chalices will open, as if cut out of living -jewels, translucent to the light. - -[Sidenote: DUTCH BULBS AND ROSES] - -The Dutch Garden is bounded by a clipped yew hedge on two sides, divided -by a rustic archway where Pink Dorothy rambles in June and onwards. -Against this hedge there are two long beds lying to the south, filled -with crimson and red roses: in spring edged with Darwins and Arabis, -before Mme. Normand Levavasseur spreads her disappointing maroon -clusters. On the north side the brick wall of the terrace, divided in -its turn opposite the archway by brick steps, is flanked by Darwin tulip -beds. The beds under the side of the house to the west have also Darwins -with a carpet of Forget-me-nots and a fringe of Arabis. The space that -runs back to the outer wall under the study windows is planted with -Gloire de Versailles, Pyrus Japonica and the ubiquitous Tulips and -Forget-me-nots. - -There is one thing we have succeeded in impressing on the patient and -kindly Adam, and that is that we “cannot bear bald spaces.” Our bulbs -lie as close as they can without injuring each other. Our Wallflowers, -even now, in January, jostle! - -In the bed that runs right along the bricked upper terrace, there lie, -awaiting the call of the different months ‹please add docility and -punctuality to the moral list›, behind a deep border of Mrs. Sinkins, a -double row of Crocuses, a row of Thomas More Tulips, a little hedge of -white and red “Polyantha” Roses, and groups of “Candidum” Lilies. At -intervals, on the top of the terrace wall, are large Compton vases which -will foam with Forget-me-Nots, and thrust clusters of Hyacinths up -against the Moor by and by. Just now they carry little yellow torches of -Retinospora Aurea, which Adam said, when he first planted them, looked, -he thought, “very lonely,” but which, each rising from a field of green -moss, stand out, we think, with a classic dignity against the sombre -magnificence of those rolling winter hills. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -IV - - -[Illustration: dog looking at grave] - -And did we say that one could ever in any circumstances wish Susan into -the dogstar? Alas! poor dear little Susan, she reposes in a raw, -ostentatious grave in the Oak Tree Glade with six bulb spikes at the top -of the mound. We should like to put a granite stone there with the -words: “Here lies Susan, a good dog.” All that was possible was done to -save her, and she was the most pathetic, gentle, patient creature; at -the very end, seeking blindly with one small paw for her master. - -[Sidenote: FORBIDDEN TERRITORY] - -Poor Juvenal was so disconsolate that we did not know what to do. We -hit, however, on the happy thought of purchasing a small white Highland -Terrier puppy from a litter on sale in the neighbourhood. Bettine ‹thus -she has been christened with a fine disregard of local colour› arrived, -a dirty, cringing, abject little wretch; but the atmosphere of Villino -Loki has wrought so great a change that she is now a perfect imp of -mischief and general cheekiness. The Master of the House says she is -like a Paris gamin, and that Gavroche is the only name that befits her. -The days of cringing are certainly over. Her long ears cocked, her wide -mouth derisively open, she defies authority, with attitudes and -expressions that can only be transcribed by such remarks as “Pip, Pip,” -or the gesture which the French know as _Pied-de-nez_. - -[Illustration: dog walking down stairs] - -The other dogs at first protested fiercely against this substitute for -their beloved Susan even Arabella curling a ferocious lip, and striking -out with her fringed paw. But now they have accepted the new comrade -with all the generosity of their fine characters. Loki himself makes no -objection, except when she ventures upon territory which he regards as -peculiarly his own; such as the grand-maternal bedroom. - -The month that has taken away the harmless humble life of Juvenal’s -fox-terrier, has also brought the news of England’s loss in one of her -most gallant sons. He was a friend of the household, and Loki, I am -sure, does not forget—for a long memory is one of the Pekinese -characteristics—how the South Pole hero played hide-and-seek with him in -his puppyhood for a whole hour, one summer’s day, like a very child -himself. The family of Villino Loki have memories, too, of that -friendship which they valued so highly; and they will always carry the -vivid picture of the strong brown face, with the blue eyes that were at -once as guileless as a child’s and full of a far-away vision, as if they -never ceased to contemplate their high and distant goal. The world is -crowded with bumptious people who do nothing at all that is useful, if -they do not do harm. Here was a man who had already accomplished mighty -achievement and was set on mightier still, and there never was anyone so -modest, so anxious to push others forward and keep himself in the -background. He was asked by one of us to write a line in an autograph -book, and he set down characteristically a tribute to another: - - “The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, - Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel....” - -We laughed ‹after that futile fashion that becomes a kind of habit -nowadays› and said, “We always think that sounds so uncomfortable!” - -He raised those blue eyes, half humorously, half deprecatingly. “You -make me feel ashamed of being incorrigibly romantic.” - -It was we who felt ashamed. - -“We are sure,” we answered, “you have a good friend somewhere.” - -“Yes,” he said, “the best ever a man had.” - -We are glad to think that friendship was with him all through and at the -end. In one of the last letters ever received from the doomed Antarctic -Expedition the tribute is paid again: “No words of mine,” writes he, -“can describe what he is.” - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: bird on branch] - -[Sidenote: TOM’S GRAND MANNERS] - -The birds have eaten every single bud on our baby almond trees—the first -year that they have had any flower buds at all. Ungrateful little -wretches! the Master of the Villino sees personally to the replenishing -of the numerous bird-baths and drinking-pans; and Juvenal provides them -with cocoa-nuts filled with lard and baskets full of crumbs—aided by -Gold-Else, the cook, who loves little creatures in fur and feather as -much as the rest of the household. Tom, the old cat, is very happy under -this lady’s kind rule, and, to show his appreciation, accompanies her in -stately fashion every night up the kitchen stairs to her bedroom door. -The act of courtesy accomplished, she as solemnly reconducts him -downstairs again to spread his couch for him—a sheet of brown paper, by -his request. - -The Hyacinths are breaking out of their green hoods, shaking blue bells; -but our Scillas seem to be going to disappoint us. This sandy soil on -our Surrey heights is not at all appreciated by bulbs. Snowdrops will -have nothing to say to us, unless in a prepared bed. Narcissus Poeticus -disappeared altogether after one year’s blooming. We are trying to -naturalize Bluebells in a glade which we have cleared—and in which this -year has been planted an avenue of pink May trees, to end at the bottom -of the dell in a group of white Azaleas—but we are not at all sure that -we shall succeed. However, we have our compensations: Azaleas thrive, -and so do Rhododendrons. We are year by year adding more of the former -to the wild slopes. - -Below the terrace, yclept the “Hemicycle,” a path bordered with Azalea -Mollis was a perfect glory last May, although it had only been planted -the preceding autumn. The “Hemicycle” was a little fairy glade of Crocus -a week ago, the second in February; and we have still hope of the -Scillas which surround our bereft almond trees. A rough wall rises from -it to the Upper Terrace, over which Dorothy Rambler will fling its -lovely blooms in immense trails by and by; and its stones themselves -hold a never-ending succession of delight in the shape of Arabis, -Aubretia, Cerastium, Thrift, and the like. Yellow roses climb up to meet -the Dorothy, and the dear little pink China Rose grows in bushes all -along the front between the Lavender plants which we are trying to -acclimatise, but which, year after year, are blighted by the frost -before they have had time to grow strong. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: garden path] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: two ladies working in garden] - -Satisfactory as our wall-garden is, there is a wall-garden at a cottage -in a neighbouring village which never fails to fill us with envy every -time we see it. It belongs to two maiden ladies, whom we have christened -Tweedle-Ann and Tweedle-Liza. They are so extraordinarily like each -other that even they themselves ‹we have heard› hardly know which is -which. They have the same rotundity of figure, the same uncertain -obliquity in one eye, the same cheerful rosy visage, the same sleek -bands of grey hair. - -When the Master of the House was a young man, an Irish servant was heard -to observe to him, gazing rapturously at him as he walked away from her -vision, all unconsciously, in his shooting-garb: “And indeed he’s a -lovely gentleman. Them jars of legs!” ‹As a matter of fact, Loki’s -Grandfather has very nice legs.› But Tweedle-Ann and Tweedle-Liza, in -short, sensible grey tweed skirts, bending their portly forms over their -wall garden, have more than often presented to the passer-by a -vision.... - -The Japanese say that reticence is the very soul of art. Our aspirations -are always towards the artistic, but there is something touching in four -... exactly similar ... side by side...! - -[Sidenote: A TERRIFYING GOOD WISH] - -To digress once more: Loki’s Grandfather is no doubt a man of fine -proportions; though he is not at all plump, he has all the athlete’s -dread of becoming so. Once when we were stranded at a small wayside -station in Ireland, without even a bench to sit upon, he began to while -away the time by testing his weight on the automatic machine. The -indicating needle travelled considerably further than he expected! He -was standing, transfixed, staring at the pointing finger, when a very -old woman with a shawl over her head, holding a very small boy by the -hand, suddenly broke into loud paeans beside him: - -“God bless your honour!—Isn’t it the grand gentleman you are! Glory be -to God, may you grow larger, and larger, and larger!” - -“For heaven’s sake,” cried Loki’s Grandfather, wheeling round in horror, -“don’t say such a thing!” - -“And indeed I do, yer honour.—Look at him now,” she went on, shaking the -little creature she held by the hand, “you’ll never see a finer -gentleman. Don’t you wish you had a Dada like that?” - -Then she burst out again and continued to wish him increase in Sybilline -tones. They were both so extraordinarily serious, she in her benisons, -he in his terror of the curse, that as Loki’s Grandmother sat on her -trunk she was weak with laughter. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: A LOCAL POET] - -The Master of the Villino had a charming little experience last spring. -Some time before, in the winter, he fell into conversation with an old -sweep, who was tramping up the hill, the evidence of his life-work thick -upon him. They discoursed of many things, for the sweep had a wide range -of interests. They spoke of the moorland place as it was in bygone days; -and of the learned Professor whose eulogies first put it into fashion; -of the lectures on Science delivered by this latter; and of the way in -which the spring first shows itself in the lower copses while it is -still winter on our heights. The sweep knew a dell where the primroses -were always a month in advance of any other spot. He had a soul for -primroses, unlike Wordsworth’s horrible Peter—which reminds me of the -delicious remark made to Loki’s young mistress by an old pensioner in -Chelsea Gardens. He led her to the plot he cultivated for himself, with -all the childish eagerness of the aged, and pointed to a single yellow -crocus, blown this way and that by the wind, for it was a shrewish day. -“Look at it, Missie!” he cried. “It’s as playful as a kitten.” - -[Illustration: house exterior] - -We do not know at what hour in the bleak late February morning the -little box was left in the porch. It was found there by the earliest -maid, and brought to the Master of the House with his letters in due -course; a box that obviously had lately contained carbolic soap. Inside -in a nest of moss, carefully covered with red bramble leaves, was a -bunch of primroses tied with red wool, and the following “verses”: - - “Beneath the moss and the mast, - Though the weather has been wet and cold, - I manage to raise my head - Down in the Sussex wold.” - -Thus it began, speaking in the name of the Primrose, to enter, rapidly -and boldly into the sweep’s personality: - - “To-day I passed by the way, - So I stayed and picked you a few, - To show I do not forget - The chat I had with you.” - -Here the muse got a little tired; but it ended up with unimpaired -cheerfulness: - - “I hope you are hale and well - And now I must say Addue, - Yours respectfully, - STAR.” - -Over the page there was a charming P.S.: - - “Perhaps you have younger fingers - The flowers to unfold, - Mine are rather clumsy - Being big and old. - - Pleasant Hours, - Live long.” - -It is the kind of little incident that seems to happen at Villino Loki, -where animals and human beings are queer and unexpected, and live -together in simplicity and cheerfulness. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -V - - -Travelling along the pleasant path of life, on the reverse side of the -hill, the downward course ‹how graphic is the French of it for the later -and “smaller half” of our allotted span: _sur le retour_›, there is a -tendency to dwell more upon memories and proportionately less on -ambitions. The prospect now ahead, placid and mellowed as it may be, -naturally dwindles to narrower margins. Its interest is more of the -immediate order; deals mostly with hopes and doings of the coming -season. And, the circle of recollection widening, things distant in the -past appeal with proportionate insistency to the mind’s eye. - -[Sidenote: “DREAMING BACKWARDS”] - -I believe this is the case with all thinking creatures ‹says Loki’s -Grandpa—who has fallen into a reminiscent mood›. With one whose lazy and -musing propensities, whose delight in day-dreams has proved his -paramount weakness, the habit of “dreaming backwards” and hunting for -old impressions has become as haunting, in these years of the sixth -decade, as was, in salad days, the “dreaming forward” and the straining -for a sight of things still below the horizon. - -For instance: in a life which has always been one of constant -book-companionship, the printed passages which most delight me are those -which, having been first read in another age and re-discovered in this -one, bring back a pulse of some long forgotten impression. The -impression may be one that sober and critical memory does not record as -having been so particularly enthralling at the time—yet it now comes -back with a subtle fragrance all its own. - -The long darkness of winter provides the richest reading hours. And if -the page-turning is by the side of a wood fire—as happens on this, the -coldest day of the year—if it is in a deep armchair with the lamp -throwing its quiet rays over one’s shoulder, why, it is apt to become -interspersed with long spells of wide-eyed dreaming. The fire burns with -that special clearness, that kind of conscious eagerness which one -observes inside the hearth upon a keen frosty night. In the town a -frosty night is but a cold night. But here, on our country hill-side, -when winter, albeit officially over, is in reality still with us, a -frosty night inevitably turns our thoughts to the threatened hopes of -the garden. - -[Illustration: view of garden] - -Now, as one who knows practically nought of the gardener’s “Arte and -Mysterie,” my interest in the matter is of the irresponsible kind. I -look forward, of course, and keenly, to the satisfying display, first of -our sappy, turgid fragrant Hyacinth beds in the Dutch Garden ‹somehow, -the Dutch Garden seems to belong more particularly to my own side of the -Villino—to be a precinct of my study in fact› than to the proud-pied -array of the subsequent Tulips, nodding in the breeze over their bed of -close clustering Forget-me-Nots. This is the annual treat provided in -the spring—for Grandpa’s especial behoof at Villino Loki—by the -industrious care of the knowledgeable ladies. Nevertheless, as I say, my -interest is of the general order; not of details; not of ways and means. -I expect, in the maturity of every season, delightful achievements, and -find them; but I take little part in their planning. I am of no use for -device and not called upon in council. I thankfully enjoy the results; -and this is perhaps not the worst part the Master of the House could -play in the year’s transaction. - -Only on two occasions have I volunteered a suggestion with regard to -planting—and both are related to early, very early, reminiscences. - -Creepers of all sorts we have in profusion. Ivy, of course, and -Jessamine and Honeysuckle, and the gorgeous, if short-lived, -Virginia-Ampilopsis its name, I believe. But there is one thing, I -pointed out, I must have also, and that is the blue clustering, the -incomparably fragrant _Glycine_ of my early childhood’s days. Wisteria -is its proper English name. - -Odoriferous bushes, again, we have, of every description. Ribes, Cassia, -Gummy Cistus, what not?—lurk in ambuscade at the turning of paths to -waylay you with their gush of essence, not to speak of the Azaleas in -their banks; but all these perfumes, in their subtleness, belong to the -middle years. No memories of the complete freshness of time cleave to -them such as belong to the simple Sweet Briar. - -[Illustration: outside entrance to house] - -So, now, the two rooted creatures of the Villino, which may be said to -exist there more specially for the behoof of Loki’s Grandpa, are the -Briar bushes at the end of the Lily Walk and by the _Schöne Aussicht_, -and the still tender but promising Wisteria climbers in the re-entering -and most sheltered corner of his study walls. - -[Sidenote: FLOWER LOVES OF CHILDHOOD] - -And it is for those young hopeful Wisterias that on this frosty night I -feel a concern. Last year we had a score or so of purple clusters; we -look to a goodly increase during the coming _Renouveau_.—‹You perceive -the old, obsolete French word for Spring comes back of itself!› The -anticipation of the near future, within the shrinking vista of coming -pleasures, elicits as usual a return to the widening past. In this case -the past that is recalled is that of a childhood spent in France. - -The book lies forgotten on my knee. The brown Meerschaum grows cold in -my hand. My eyes, lost in musings among the flame-fringed logs, now peer -beyond the past half-century—at a time which seems verily as far distant -and as little related to the present as that year 1636 stamped and still -faintly discernible on the antique cast-iron backplate of the -fireplace.... I see a farm-house in a village of that province which in -ancient days was known as Ile-de-France ‹I hate your modern régime -_départements_›, by name Mesnil-le-Roy; not far distant from Mantes, the -natty little town on the upper and green-watered Seine, generally -adverted to as _Mantes-la-Jolie_. - -[Sidenote: GLYCINE!] - -Therein, during nearly a whole year, for reasons of delicate health, -resided a certain very small English boy—French enough in those tender -years. In this delectable old place, so full of good-smelling things in -their seasons: hay, and grain, and fruit, and at all times the -health-restoring cow, the house was in the spring-time covered with -Glycine. And with the adorable Glycine the small boy, who loved flowers -as much as milk and fruits and beasts, fell forthwith in love. - -How that coquettish Jappy plant came originally to find a footing in so -rustic a corner as Mesnil-le-Roy is more than I can account for. Your -French peasant is not, as a rule, addicted to the delights of flower -raising; and, in those distant days, Wisteria was still something of a -rarity anywhere. But there it was, already in the sturdiest strength of -its age, embracing the old walls, forcing its fibrous wood into every -cranny of the greystone, framing every window, striving up the chimney -stacks—and filling the air with honey sweetness. It must have taken at -least two score years to reach such a size. - -With the English boy, then barely four, it was a first love. He feasted -on it with his every sense. From morning till eve he would be sucking -the base of some blue corolla plucked from its calyx, for the sake of -that intense sweetness to which the thing owes its Gallic name of -_Glycine_; he would, whenever he could, run round and rejoice his eyes -with the delicacies of pale green and purple, drink in the scent, and -listen hypnotized to the never-ceasing buzz of honey-seekers in the -sunshine. And, in the morning, his first thought, as he crept out of his -small truckle-bed, was to go and plunge his hands into the dew that -glittered upon these Glycine branches nodding in from every side at the -mansarde window. - -Like all first loves it was, as you see, violent. Well do I remember -how, for months after he was removed back into the Paris house, the -small boy would ply his mother with the yearning question, infantilely -incorrect but vernacular: “_Quand que nous retournerons aux Glycines, -Maman?_” always to receive the non-committal but consoling: - -“_Tantôt ... tantôt._” - -This “tantôt” is the wonderful “by-and-by” which never comes to be! - -And like all first loves this one was utterly forgotten in later -years—to reappear, however, in the sere and yellow of age. For years a -many, a purple Wisteria spreading about the eaves of a south-country -house, was to me only a purple Wisteria. It was a creeper, and it was -nothing more. It was not a “_Glycine_” until I had a creepered wall of -my own. Then it surged before imagination’s eye with all the glamour of -_les premières amours_, to which, in accordance with the old French saw, -“_on en revient toujours_.” - -Now, therefore, at Villino Loki, nothing will serve but a _Glycine_ to -creep along those walls which are more especially my own; to embrace my -south windows and nod in at the casement. And the suave-breathed Eastern -beauty, first brought over to the West and god-fathered by Professor -Wister, will privily remain Glycine for me; although I may draw the -indulgent visitor’s attention to her under the better-known name of -Wisteria Sinensis.—I have, by the way, an ever-ready pretext; for I -learn from “The Language of Flowers” that the special significance of -this blossom is “Welcome, fair stranger!” I mean to have a profusion of -it, for old sake’s sake. Besides, is it not meet that Loki should not be -deprived, during his villeggiatura, of the company of some Chinese -living thing? - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -VI - - -[Illustration: view of house from distance] - -Strange how sharp and detailed will some of our very early memories -remain in after life, when even important scenes of our later years are -so easily forgotten! That old farm of Mesnil-le-Roy is still a clear -picture, vignetted, so to speak, upon grey pages of oblivion.... I can -yet see the orchard, strewn with myriad fallen apples—the byres, whereto -at sundown returned the slow-pacing, dreamy, placid-eyed milch cows; the -giant walnut-tree, with one of its main branches blasted by -lightning—blasted on the stormy night, during which “thunder had fallen” -freely ‹as the little boy heard the labourers say, awe-struck, in the -morning; but during which he had slept under the brown-tiled roof -without the slightest disturbance›.... I can see the _Four Banal_, that -co-operative bread-oven, a relic of mediæval institutions, which was -still common enough in those days; where you could have such an -entrancing view of lambent blue flames lined with yellow when the door -stood open to receive the unbaked loaves; and where the air smelt so -divinely of hot wheaten crust when they were removed on completion.... - -[Illustration: little boy with two adults] - -It was, by the way, on that alluring spot—the boy used to find his way -there regularly on the days when _on cuisait_—that he heard a certain -remark, which to his child ears had no special meaning, but which -remained on memory’s tablets to assume later an interesting -significance. The country folk were very kind. The little English boy, -left for the good of his health at the farm of _père Pelletier_, was -known to everybody; was accepted and treated as one of the community. -Rarely did he stroll, as might any roaming puppy dog, into an open door -of the village without being supplied with a generous sup of milk, or a -_tartine de raisiné_; or again, in season, with a _pomme cuite_. The -roasted apple, be it said, browning and lusciously oozing caramel, was a -standing affair in that old-world village. There was, however, on that -day, a benighted wayfarer who obviously could not reconcile with these -rustic surroundings the yellow-haired, barelegged little boy gravely -gazing at the glowing oven. - -“_D’ousqui sort, ce gosse-là?_” ‹for which barbarous lingo I take leave -to give as an equivalent: Who’s the kid?› asked the man. And the answer -came: “_Ça?—ca, mais le p’tit godem, donc_.” ‹That—why, that’s the -little “goddam.”› - -[Sidenote: THE LITTLE GODEM] - -_Le petit godem!..._ Such was the name under which that young innocent -was known at Mesnil-le-Roy, and, be it understood, in all cordiality and -benevolence! Of a certainty not one of those excellent people had the -remotest idea of the meaning of their “godem:” with them it was only the -established equivalent for English. - -The term is a noun, not an expletive, which has come down through five -centuries—from the days, in fact, of the English occupation of France. -Among the written records of those stirring times we come across many a -passage in which a Duguesclin, a Maid of Orleans, or a Dunois is heard -to mention hatefully “_les godems_,” or “_les godons d’Angleterre_.” -Now, all that fertile country of the Vexin, the Ile-de-France and the -Beauce, of which the fat farm land of my old _père Pelletier_ was so -fair a sample, was obstinately fought for by the English for the best -part of a century. Mantes-la-Jolie—now mainly famed for its river -terraces, its sweet water grapes and its savoury _matelottes_ or eel -stews—was once a fortified place of note, taken and retaken by French -and English more than once; but finally captured ‹in 1418› by the noble -Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, the Achilles of England, as the French -themselves dubbed him, and firmly held by the “godems” for more than -thirty years. To have heard that mispleasing word used dispassionately, -merely as a substantive, is indeed a link with the past. - -Strange paths of the musing thought, winding from Wisteria Sinensis to -the days of our conquering English archer! - - * * * * * - -I spoke of these childhood memories as of oddly clear pictures emerging -here and there out of grey mists of oblivion. Another now detaches -itself in the same way from the clouds of the very distant past. - -It belongs to the following summer. A perfume of Glycine still lingers -about it, no doubt; for there again, upon the stone and through the -curvetting iron-work balconies of the fair Louis XV house overlooking -the park of St. Cloud, pale silvery green leafage, with here and there a -cluster of faint blue, spreads in a well-regulated display—widely -different, though, from the foaming profusion of the Mesnil. But the -impression more specially associated with those happy St. Cloud days is -the incense of the Sweet Briar. - -[Sidenote: SWEET EGLANTINE] - -[Illustration: outside of window with small balcony] - -What has happened—I pause and ask indignantly—to the Sweet-Briar of the -world? Whither has the celestial, the entrancing scent of the true -Eglantine vanished? Our twentieth century Briar is still—there is no -gainsaying it—a delicious being, in its ephemeral exquisiteness of -flower and its pleasant, if but slightly more lasting, leafy odour. But -never, in subsequent life, have I captured again the sudden delight -first brought to my childish nostrils by a puff of breeze that had -passed over some hidden clump of sweet Eglantine. This first impression -is connected with certain grassy alleys piercing deep the grand -old-world park, or rather forest, of St. Cloud, which were my favourite -playgrounds in the early sixties of the last century. ‹There is -something distinctly suitable to the status of Grandpa, albeit merely -“brevet” rank as in my case, in memorising thus about a past century!› - -[Illustration: flowers on stem] - -I can see the five-year-old arrested short upon the turf, in the midst -of the hot pursuit of a blue butterfly, by his first whiff in life of -Rosa Rubiginosa: so might a setter halt and stiffen, having got the wind -of a grouse.—The source of the fitful stream of fragrance was hidden -among clumps of forbidding brambles. Besides, there was no following the -trail: it seemed ubiquitous. Like some Puck in his most tantalising -mood, it would lead up and down, up and down—luring now to right, now to -left, now straight ahead, anon seemed to whisk past from behind, until, -in a kind of “dwam,” the child would give up the baffled purpose and -pensively trot home by the nurse’s side. - -For days the ambrosial fragrance dwelt in his little turned-up nose. It -haunted the sensitive child-mind much as, later, in budding manhood, the -remembrance of some enchanting face seen for an instant and then lost to -sight. He had at last to confide his hopeless passion to his mother. It -smelt ‹he explained› like the _Pomme Reinette_ of the dessert plates, -but oh, so much, so much better! The reference to the well-known and -excellent variety of apple left no doubt about the nature of the plant -which had exhaled the elusive trails of perfume. “Reinette” became the -accepted name of the woodland charmer and the hunt for Reinette bushes -in the more devious paths of the wood a daily occupation. - - * * * * * - -With these expeditions is associated another first acquaintance that -made a singularly strong impression. - -There was, at the end of one of those heavenly grassed alleys, a group -of brushwood greenery from which the unmistakable fragrance flowed -deliciously across the path when the wind blew from a certain -direction—I should say, now, from the west; for the path led to Garches, -a place which, some eight years later, during the siege of Paris, became -notorious as the scene of some very ferocious bayonet fighting. -Undoubtedly there was a wealth of the desirable “Reinette” amid that -underwood. But, to the mild surprise of nurse or mother, or whoever it -might be who escorted the child upon his daily constitutional in the -wood, nothing could induce him to draw that particular cover. He -developed an ingenuity ‹or rather should it be called a -disingenuousness› for pushing investigations or carrying on a game in -paths that gave this spot a wide berth. Whenever possible, even, he -found some specious argument for avoiding the Garches-ward alley -altogether. No one, I believe, ever knew the reason. - -[Sidenote: THE BLANCHING, LAUGHING ASPEN] - -The fact is that, hard thereby, as if standing sentinel, rose a company -of tall, slender Aspens—trees that, in a small boy’s estimation, did not -behave as mere trees should. He had realised this, with a suddenness -that first made his heart jump, and then rooted him on the spot, one day -when, having caught up his scent, he was rushing with a whoop to the -capture of his bush. The Aspens, up to that instant quite placid, palely -green, grew all at once white with excitement and nodded their heads to -each other; after which came the noise of their leaves; not the honest -rustle of green trees, but derisive laughter; sounds, too, weirdly -human, ringing as though in mockery of the discomfited invader. - -Mark you, there is something decidedly uncanny in the deportment of the -Aspen and its gracile, long-stalked trembling leaves, the white -undersides of which any puff of wind exposes simultaneously to -view—turning, on the instant, the whole of the green to foaming silver. -There was no doubt about the matter then. These paling and odd rustling -trees completely overawed Master Louis ‹Louis is Loki’s grandpa’s -baptismal name, now sunk into disuse›, though, in his budding masculine -pride, he kept the secret of his abhorrence very close within his own -little bosom. - -[Illustration: child in front of trees] - -On one occasion, however, when he had had to make up his mind to walk -past the blanching, murmuring group unless he were prepared ‹which he -was not› to explain the nature of his objection, he asked, with a fair -show of indifference, what manner of tree it was which “made that funny -noise: he-he-he-he.” “One would say,” he added with elaborate airiness, -“that they make a mock of one!” - -When informed that “_Tremble_” was the name thereof, he became sunk in -fresh unpleasant musings, and was fain to look back, fascinated, over -his shoulder, each time the chuckling called after him. - -The sound of the breeze, as it ruffles through the leaves of “Populus -tremula,” is like nothing else in the woods. I have always retained my -interest in the “Tremble” of my young days; and in the course of time it -became one of delight instead of terror. I would give a good deal to -have one of my own: one living not far from my bedroom window. It would -be good to hear it laughing gently outside, when one first woke, and to -know that it was powdering itself, so to speak, under the rays of the -rising sun. But there are no Aspens in our part of the world. And, as -for planting a council of these in the hope of silvery rustle and light -effects, why, it is perhaps somewhat too late in the day! But I still -seem to hear and see them with the ears and eyes of that dawning spring -of life in the St. Cloud days. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -VII - - -Poor little old town of St. Clodoald! In later years I spent an -afternoon hunting up its distant remembrances. Alas, but it was like -looking at some worn-out engraving, some faded dun picture once known in -all its brilliancy. - -[Illustration: stone feature in garden] - -Obliterated was the dainty white stone Palace; scene of the revelries -and the bright-coloured elegancies of the Regent; favourite retreat of -Marie Antoinette; theatre of the “_Dix-huit Brumaire_” drama; early home -of _l’Aiglon_! The Château de St. Cloud, the summer residence of the -last Napoleon, had been burned by the Prussians—even as they burned the -bulk of the town—in 1870.[1] - -Footnote 1: - - _This was written long before anyone here dreamed of the near - possibility of another German war._ - -Many a time, when, not so many years ago, we could read daily the -shameless slander, the wilful calumnies, of the German press on the -subject of the “barbarity” of our soldiers during the South African -wars, has my mind flown back to the picture of charred and jagged ruins -standing against the rise of the hill which once met my eyes when I -looked for the quiet, happy prospect I had known. - -[Sidenote: THE OLD PARK OF ST. CLOUD] - -The town, when I last saw it, and its ancient church had been rebuilt; -but the Palace was a dismal ruin; and the park seemed scald and -deserted. Gone also, worst luck of all, the _Lanterne de Diogène_—the -quaint tower at the river-side opening of the main alley, built in the -pleasure-loving days of _Louis-le-Bien-Aimé_. ‹It was called a -_mirador_: I believe a structure of that kind is now known as -“gazebo”—deplorable word!› From the top of it a magnificent panorama of -distant Paris could be descried. - -The neighbourhood of _la Lanterne_ was the great trysting place of -nurses and guardsmen, and the playing ground of children. On that day of -back-dreaming exploration, I had been looking forward, with a kind of -tenderness, to gazing once more on its bizarre shape. There is a -well-known _ronde_, dating it would seem from the Middle Ages: - - “_La Tour, prends garde— - La Tour, prends garde— - De te laisser abattre!_” - -which is sung by the Gallic infant, in a game somewhat cognate to our: -“Here we go round the Mulberry Bush!” It used to be danced under the -shadow of this tower; and, in a child’s way, I had always instinctively -associated the unnamed stronghold of the ballad with this peaceful -erection. - -Alas for the dear old _Tour_, it was destined to be laid low, after all, -in spite of our eager warning! The terrace on which it was built was -seized as the emplacement of a battery of heavy Krupps, for the -bombardment of the obstinate capital yonder away. The _Lanterne de -Diogène_, in its white stone and clear outline against the trees, -offered too distinct a mark to the answering gunners to be tolerated. It -had to be levelled. It was never rebuilt. I could find nothing -appertaining to it but the grass bordered slabs of its foundations.... - -[Illustration: tower rising from trees] - -Lost, too, to me was the particular alley redolent of the memory of both -_Reinette_ and _Tremble_; no doubt absorbed in some of the metalled -motor roads that now traverse the park. - -The _Grande Cascade_, however, which Lepautre, by order of Louis XIV, -devised for the glorification of the Duke of Orleans’ future home, was -still there. Its tiers of white stone steps over which the water, on -_Grandes Eaux_ days, used to pour down, foaming yet disciplined, in -symmetric balustered channels, between ranks of allegoric statues -standing like guards and lacqueys upon a royal stairway—still descend, -framed by huge umbrageous elms, from the middle height of the hill to -the wide marble _bassin_ on the river level. How fully the great garden -designers of the _Roy Soleil_ understood the life-giving virtue of -moving waters in their grandiose if freezing conception of the formal -landscape! Here, in the midst of the nature-made beauty of the old -Park—where there had been forests, more or less wild, ever since Gaulish -days—these architectural waters have a startling effect; incongruous no -doubt, but the artificiality of the stone-work has been mellowed by two -centuries and more of summer suns and winter frosts. And these -monumental streams are beyond compare more beautiful than their -prototypes of Versailles and the copies erected in other Continental -residences in imitation of the _Grand Règne_ manner. This Lepautre was a -man of fine power, in the style of his age. But he had also the servile -fawning mind of that age. Soon after the triumph of the St. Cloud Park, -he could find it in him to die in three days of jaundiced envy because -some other design of his had been passed over by the King’s eye in -favour of one by Mansard! Yea, to die of heart-burning, even as that -greater man, Jean Racine, who, some years later, gave up the ghost in -despair over a harsh remark passed by his royal master in a fit of -temper; even as Vatel, the _maître d’hotel_, who fell upon his sword, -and put an end to a life dishonoured by the failure of the fish at the -celebrated Chantilly banquet! - -Yes, the old cascade, at least, was still there, that once had filled -the five-year-old’s imagination with a sense of the supreme in earthly -grandeur. The _Jet Géant_, also; that spouting jet that reaches a height -of ... but no, why cramp the stupendous into figures? Figures are finite -things. The shaft of hissing water, in those days of confident -wondering, reached the limit of the conceivable before it fell down -again, in its thundering showers, through the iridescent bow, the -_arc-en-ciel_, that could always be looked for when the sun shone on it -at the sinking hour. But, alas, for the middle-aged visitor who sought -for a taste again, however transient, of the noisy joyousness, the -brilliance, the colour, locked up in memory’s casket!... The _cidevant_ -royal park—now _Propriété Nationale_, and duly stamped, wherever room -can be found for it, with the priggish and lying motto: _Liberté, -Egalité, Fraternité_ was dull and drab and neglected: silent and morose. -The _Grand Monarque’s_ extravagances in stone seemed positively -shamefaced. The whole place—this artificial park within the ancient -woods—had the melancholy of things outworn and disowned. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: FIRELIGHT PICTURES] - -Yet here, in my armchair by the firelight, up on the side of our dear -Surrey hill, I can still picture sharply to myself the summer life of -St. Cloud as it was in the careless precarious days of the Second -Empire. - -[Illustration: children outdoors] - -The Empress Eugénie, then a young wife, and one of the most beautiful -women of Europe, lived at the _Château_. And the Park, though thrown -open to the people, was kept trim with jealous care. Roads generously -sanded, lawns watered and mown with systematic care, parterres ever -bright with flowers, all was marvellously different then from the -present day shabbiness. - -I seem to see again, even with almost a lifetime’s experience -intervening, the vivid scene impressed on the observant and eager eyes -of the child. The gay-hued crowds of ladies in all the then elegance of -scuttle bonnets and crinolines; the bevies of children, of every class, -but all joyous and noisy; the bands of marching youths, buzzing the -popular airs of the year on the euphonious _Mirliton_; the siege of -every “kiosk” where the wafers hot from the mould, or the cool lemonade, -were dispensed; the swans, stately but voracious, being fed upon the -great pond; the bright coloured beribboned _nourrices_ squatting with -the nurslings on the circular benches within sound of the _musique -militaire_, and the inevitable giant bearded _sapeur_ in flirtatious -attendance; the quite too beautiful officers with tight waists, waxed -moustaches and swaying gold epaulets—what not? - -Before the great gates, solemnly walking to and fro, or standing -picturesquely sentinel, there never wanted a party of veteran grenadiers -in their towering brass-fronted bearskins and white cross-belts to -produce the desired “Old Guard” effect. Or it might be heavy-moustached -troopers, _Guides_, with sweeping plumes over the huge _colback_; with -pelisses of fur and eagle-embroidered sabretaches, copying, on their -side, the grim appearance of Napoleon’s ‹the real one’s› body guard. - -The whole place, indeed, was pervaded with the “immense” uniforms of -those pretorians: those long service professional soldiers for whose -showy maintenance the Imperial Government stinted an otherwise dwindling -national army—disastrous army, destined, despite its gallantry, to be so -soon decimated, swept away, by the legions of _das Volk in Waffen_ -wielded with the ruthless mastery of German generalship! - -[Sidenote: FORGOTTEN BRILLIANCIES] - -For such as have only known France since the strictly utilitarian days -that followed the great _débâcle_; days when the notion that any kind of -smartness is incompatible with “republican efficiency seems to have -become an obsession” it is difficult to realize the gilded magnificence -of the _Garde Impériale_. Still less, perhaps, in these anti-militarist -times, the idolatry of the people for its _beaux militaires_. Of a -truth, on a sunny day, they brightened the park walks almost as much as -the Geraniums in the great stone urns, or the forbidden golden fruit in -the orange tubs! - -The authorities were sedulous, especially in such places as St. Cloud, -to keep the pleasant side—the pride, the pomp and circumstance—of -soldiering in evidence. The happy little town was awakened in the -morning, was apprised of noon and again of sundown, by the incredibly -joyous “sonneries” of the _Lanciers de l’Impératrice_, whose trumpeters -specially gathered from far and wide, could sound all tuckets and points -of war in an admirable harmony of high overtones blended with the noble, -grave sounds of the ordinary calls.... Entrancing music to the little -boy, in the glycine-clad house of the _rue du Château_, who would start -awake, hearken, and then turn round and go to sleep again in great -content. The drums of the _garde montante_, headed by the olympian -_tambour-major_, sedulously tossing and twirling his cane, daily rattled -the window panes as in great pomp it ascended the hill, palace-wards. It -never failed to draw the same crowd to the same doorsteps. Estaffettes -clattered hourly along the narrow paved streets, on their way to and -from Paris; glittering, clinking, full of official importance, and with -an eagerness no doubt wholly uncalled for by any existing necessity. - -All that colour and bustle and pleasant make-believe of strength and -“tradition,” was typical of all one has since learned to associate with -that Empire on the high road to ruin. But it had its attractive side for -those who had not found it out; and, seen through the prism of distance, -a picturesqueness that modern France, so systematically democratized, is -scarce like to know again. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -VIII - - -The ways of our musings are as devious, as unexpected, as those of a -general conversation: there is no presiding spirit to keep us to a -standing topic! This topic, with us, should be “Our Sentimental Garden.” -And our tattle should, really, be connected, even if but distantly; with -plants or scenery; with country life and friends ‹or foes›; with -emotions or reminiscences plausibly evoked by the flower side of life. -Happily it is pleasant enough to be brought back to the right theme; as -I am just now by a thought of the head-line. - -[Illustration: two people by tall tree] - -[Sidenote: REDISCOVERED DELIGHTS] - -To one who has taken somewhat late in the day to a life in the country, -most of its interests seem to be a rediscovery of early, simple, and -intimate delights; to be connected with impressions long forgotten. - -There is an episode in the biography of Jean-Jacques Rousseau which, if -I remember aright, bears upon this point. I have not got the -_Confessions_ by me—it is, no doubt, in that cynical autobiography that -the anecdote is recorded—nor, indeed, any other work of that exceedingly -antipathetic writer. ‹This is the usual course: the books I require for -reference when in the country happen oftener than not to be on my London -bookshelves; and _mutatis mutandis, vice versa_!› The precise wording -cannot in consequence be given here. But it is a small matter; the story -is to this effect: - -In his young and singularly impressionable days, Jean-Jacques was taking -a country walk with one very near to his heart. At a certain spot of the -garden, or the wood, in which he was tasting the subtle joys of -_solitude à deux_, the lady suddenly exclaimed: - -“See, yonder is a _pervenche_!” - -“Indeed,” returned the youth, little intent then, upon the beauties of -the outer world, and gazed absently upon the tender blue peeping out of -the tender green. “So, that is a periwinkle?” And he resumed the thread -of his interrupted discourse. - -But, later—much later on, in twilight days of his life—some one happened -again to say in his hearing: - -“See—a Periwinkle!” - -And Rousseau, now old Jean-Jacques, amazed the company by an almost -incredible exhibition of sensibility. - -“_Une pervenche!_ Where—where?” he called out, throwing himself down on -his knees to look for the flower, with eyes bathed in tears. - -If this is not quite the exact tale, it matters, as I said above, very -little. It is the story, in its essence. The age of sensibility ‹praise -be to our fate!› is no longer with us; but there is something -permanently true in the picture it sets forth. To the _philosophe_ of -mature years the mere word _pervenche_ suddenly recalled, in a -poignantly intimate manner, the first love of his spring-time. _Veteris -vestigia flammae!_ - -And we are not to wonder that the echo from a world irremediably lost -should have affected the morose, self-centred reprobate in an -uncontrollable manner. I venture to think that, with the least -sentimental of us, the sudden rediscovery, of some long forgotten -youthful impression can hardly fail to evoke, however transiently, a -certain dreamy emotion: half pleasure, half melancholy. - -[Illustration: child outside with hoop] - -Now, in the case of the Master of the House—and he is thankful to -realize it—early memories of delight in flowers and such things are -associated, not with the troublous times of young manhood’s protean -heart affairs, not with the _Sturm und Drang_ days of the dawning -moustache, but rather with the quaintly fanciful inner life of boyhood. -They come back borne upon the colours and odours of such early friends -as Lilac and Acacia; common Wallflower—_Giroflée_, our Gillyflower; wild -Violet and Primrose—_gallicé “Coucou”_; Hollyhock or rather -_Rose-trémière_; Lily-of-the-Valley; _Muguet_.... It is the old French -name that most readily slips from my pen. - -Owing perhaps to a childhood spent almost wholly in France, and to the -completeness of the break that necessarily ensued when the English born -but French nurtured boy was at last allowed back to his own and proper -land, all these memories seem to belong to a world utterly apart—to -something rather fantastic, unconnected with later life and interests. -Moreover, being of childhood and of a time when the world seemed -uniformly kind, they retain an allurement all their own. One pleasant -recollection of those far-off days does not hook on to others, bitter, -regretful, or let it be even merely ruffling ... inevitable chain of -responsible experiences! - - * * * * * - -Our early memories are like works of art: they have a way of -perpetuating in beauty things that perhaps were not really beautiful in -themselves. About them there is an unconscious selection which, having -been made by a mind still essentially serene, has contrived a subtle -harmony of all the elements. Upon the pictures of its store, a child’s -memory lays an emphasis strangely different to that which the critical -powers of later growth would set. And it is this quaint insistence on -certain “odd corners of things” which ‹among other reasons› makes them -so dearly personal and private to the older mind. - -In my own case, as I have said, they belong to a world still more remote -than the childhood of most men of “Grandpa” status—a world which has not -even the link of language to connect it with the present! - -Paradoxically, this is perhaps the reason why I take so much pleasure in -finding these happy-hued and odorous things now rising, and living under -their right English names, in a garden of my own. To the other denizens -of Villino Loki they are part of the excellent general company -foregathering in our garden: but to me they are in many ways my -intimates. We seem “to have known things together”; things doubtless of -no importance, but pleasant to recall in casual intercourse. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -IX - - -[Illustration: flowers on branch] - -The Lilac and Acacia, for instance, were the flower-bearers of the -tree-planted playground of that jocund old school where I received the -first rudiments of education: the _Institution Delescluze_, then situate -in a kind of backwater of the faubourg St. Honoré at the angle facing -the _Palais de l’Elysée_. It has, alas long since been swept away to -make room for modern mansions. This ancient _Institution_, or -preparatory school, would seem to have dated from the distant days, -early Louis XV probably, when the north side of the then lengthening -noble _faubourg_ must still have been occupied by meadows and orchards. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: branches with leaves] - -By the way, it has never occurred to me before to look up that little -topographical matter authoritatively. I do so now. I have here a copy of -a wonderful work, the “perspective” map of Paris as it stood in the -’thirties, of the eighteenth century. It is called the _Plan de Turgot_, -having been surveyed, and engraved, in lavishly decorative style, by -order of _Louis-le-Bien-Aimé_, under the care of the celebrated _Prévost -des Marchands_. The book is quite the most fascinating of its kind I -know—and I think I have handled as goodly a number of such works as any -man alive. ‹The nearest approach to it, in point of what one may call -picturesque perspicuity, is the wonderful bird’s-eye view of Edinburgh -set down by James Gordon of Rothiemay, and engraved at Amsterdam by F. -de Wit, about a century earlier.› This plan of Turgot is an elaborate -affair indeed—an atlas of twenty large sheets, showing practically every -individual house of any importance. Would we had such a work in -existence dealing with Georgian London! - -Well, to investigate.... Aye, here are the orchards and market gardens, -beginning at the very back of a narrow line of houses, covering all the -ground of what nowadays is a close network of stone-fronted streets! -Here stands the Hôtel d’Evreux, the last, moving westward, of that array -of lordly mansions: the Hôtels de Montbazon, de Guébrian, de Charost, de -Duras.... A few of these patrician dwellings, each with their own formal -gardens stretching southwards to the Champs Elysées, have retained to -our own times their dignity unimpaired. But where are now scattered most -of these grand French family names, since the tornado of the great -Revolution? But, to our map.... Yes, this Hôtel d’Evreux—whilom appanage -of Madame de Pompadour, now the aforesaid Palais de l’Elysée; residence, -in due rotation, of the swift-changing presidents of the Republic—is -here under my finger. And its position unquestionably fixes, some two -hundred yards westward, that of the now vanished _Institution -Delescluze_, so interesting to me. And here spread themselves the -orchards, of which the existence a moment ago was, after all, only a -matter of surmise! - -[Sidenote: PLUM-TREE GUM] - -My discovery adds particularity now to the remembrance of that mellow -place.... A goodly number of antiquated fruit trees were scattered about -the _cour de récréation_. I can now carve it, in fancy, out of the -cultivated land shown by the engraver in the most engaging conventional -manner, at the back of the northern street front—an acre or so. Perhaps -a little more; likelier still, a little less: recollections of this kind -have a knack of magnifying affairs. It is bounded by grey walls, tall -and thick, but distinctly decrepit. The trees were, of course, long past -bearing, through age and neglect; but they were pleasant company, -whether snow-laden, or in summer affording their scanty shade. Plum -trees they were, I should say. At any rate the rough bark of their boles -distilled a kind of brown gum which was in great demand among us small -boys for immediate consumption; and sedulously scooped out, as soon as -discovered, with the help of the stump end of a steel-pen nib. - -Interspersed among these remnants of the forgotten orchard were the odd -groups of Lilacs and Acacias previously mentioned. The latter, the -Acacias, were tall and above interference. But strict were the standing -orders touching the bloom of the Lilac, and dire the prospect of -_pensum_ or _piquet_ to the youthful scholar who should dare to pluck -the fragrant bunches! - -Thus came the Lilac to assume a character at once sacred—or, at least, -“taboo”—and at the same time perennially tantalizing. It was long before -the realization dawned that _Lilas_ were not the rare and precious -blossoms that so uncompromising a prohibition appeared to proclaim. As a -matter of fact, the _Lilas_, _Blanc ou Rose_, is one of the commonest of -spring objects in France. Almost might it in its popularity be regarded -as the national emblem of the _renouveau_, much as with us the pallid, -delicate Primrose is held to herald the last of wintry days. - -The old French name for the latter is _Primerole_, suggestive by its -etymological connection with “prime,” of the youth of the year. We have -made of it Prim_rose_, through the usual process of popular phonetic -adaptation, which ever tends to make a word sound like something already -familiar. So that the old _Primerole_—meaning simply an early floweret, -_primula_—has become with us “the early rose”! The French dubbed it -_Primevère_ a learned equivalent for the _Coucou_ of the rustic tongue, -to symbolize the advent of vernal days. - -The name brings at once to mind the well-known yearning lines: - - “_O Primavera, gioventù dell’ anno!_ - - * * * * * - - _O gioventù, primavera della vita!_” - -In France, however, the accepted harbinger of _les beaux jours_, is not -the - - “Pale cowslip, fit for maiden’s early bier,” - -not the faint Primula but emphatically the Lilac—the Syringa Vulgaris; -the joyous _fleur des humbles_, as contrasted to the noble Rose. - - “_Oh, gai! vive la rose, - La rose ... et les lilas!_” - -runs the refrain of olden days. - -During the last century or two it has grown as common, almost, around -villages as the hawthorn, the _Aubépine_ itself. But it is perhaps best -appreciated in the towns. While the tender purple bloom lasts, there is -scarce too modest a working home’s window-sill or mantelpiece for the -display of a _branche de Lilas_ stuck in the gullet of a water-bottle. -And your gay-hearted _grisette_ or _midinette_, early afoot in the -streets, will always spend her first _sou_ of the day on a sprig of the -sweet-breathing rosy cluster. - -[Sidenote: LAYLOCKS—LILAS BLANC] - -One may learn, whilst intent upon other matters, many unsuspected things -about objects even as familiar as the common “Laylock.” ‹A collection of -old letters of Georgian and very early Victorian days, with which we -have had much to do at one time, show a preference for this phonetic -rendering of the name.› Thus it appears that a valuable febrifuge -“principle” is obtainable from its fruit; that its wood, veined in -pleasing colours and very fine-grained, is in high request for delicate -articles of turnery and in particular for inlaying; that a perfumed -essence is sometimes distilled from it that is almost indistinguishable -from Rhodes Balsam—and so forth. - -Those, however, are not the points of interest which have made it -imperative to have a plant or two of “Laylocks” in our Sentimental -Garden. ‹They do fairly well, be it said, in their own specially -sheltered, suntrap corner of the ground.› No, there is in life an -ever-growing motive—old sake’s sake. Syringa Persica may mean much to -the operative gardener, but it can never mean _Lilas blanc_ ... _Lilas -rose_! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -X - - -As for the Acacias, in that queer old courtyard—distinctly exotic -creatures, aristocrats in the company of those palpable sons of the -soil, the caducous orchard trees—I still wonder how they ever came -there. Their rôle in the life of the small-boy school seems to have -been that of a butt for cockshies, and thus passively to foster a -notable precision in the use of those small river pebbles with which -the playground was covered. A game, deeply favoured by the young -scholars ‹but not recognized by the authorities› when Acacias were -“in,” consisted in the bringing down of some selected bunch of -fragrant, creamy flowers from its lofty station with the minimum -number of pebbles. The feat was the subject of wager, the stakes -stated and paid in steel nibs. Nibs—in the tongue of the aborigines, -_becs-de-plume_—were accepted as currency and legal tender. It would -be truly interesting to find out how this particular token of exchange -came to be established among the youthful communities of French -elementary schools. Be it as it may, the convention was hallowed by -tradition “whereof the memory of boy ran not to the contrary.” - -[Sidenote: GARLANDS AND ACACIAS] - -When, however, the pale yellow, incense-smelling, honey-tasting racemes -were “out,” the devoted Acacia became the object of other, slightly -different, balistic attentions. The boys, be it stated, were regularly -released from the durance of bench and desk every hour for some ten -minutes ‹a commendable system with seven to ten year-olds› during which -the courtyard became clamorous as any aviary. During these short -intervals of recreation, too short to allow of any settled games, a -favourite occupation was the adorning of the inaccessible branches with -long streamers of coloured paper, previously manufactured at -home—_guirlandes_ by name. These _guirlandes_, some twenty or thirty -feet long, were wound with sedulous care round a suitable stone, leaving -a small length as trailer; the apparatus was then cast up in a parabola -over the tree-top. If the indirect fire was successful the trailer -caught in the leafage, unrolling the remainder and releasing the -ballasting stone. The most successful shot was, of course, that which -left the streamer properly entangled on the topmost boughs. Each boy had -his chosen and declared colour, or mixture of colours; and the trophy -remained, flaunting his achievement “in its own tincts” as long as wind -or rain permitted. It afforded the small breast a distinct satisfaction -when, reaching the school of a morning, the boy could see his pennant -still flying in the breeze.... - -Such is the strength of the association of ideas that I never could come -upon a roadside plantation of Acacias in the hot plains of Hungary—where -the tree is used as commonly as in France the Poplar, that inevitable -feature of the great highways—without adorning it in imagination with -the multi-coloured _guirlandes_ of my first school. - - * * * * * - -If there was no reasonable accounting for the presence of Acacias at the -_Institution Delescluze_, the great Poplar, on the other hand, that -raised its height in the very centre of the _cour_, had a -well-authenticated history. A relic of Revolution days, it was then in -its eighth decade, in the strength of its age; having been planted, at -the same time as hundreds of others, as a Tree of Liberty—Populus, -emblematic of _sans-culotte_ ascendancy—at the time when the royal -Bastille, emblem of another form of tyranny, was laid low. - -For some cryptic reason, by the way, the democratic Poplar, which had -subsisted through many changes of régime, and had become undoubtedly too -ornamental a mark of antiquity to be destroyed, was never honoured by -the flights of our banderoles. Perhaps it was a result of political -prejudice, which in France characteristically affects the views even of -scholars at the hornbook stage of life. Or perhaps it was that the old -_Peuplier_ was the site of the disciplinary punishment known as -_piquet_—the playground equivalent of our nursery “corner.” - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: GLAMOUR OF YORE] - -Poplar and gummy Plum-trees, Lilac and Acacias, courtyard and indeed the -whole _Institution_, had already disappeared when I bethought myself, -for the first time after so many years of oblivion, to go and gaze upon -the scene once more. It was quite in middle life. I had lately been -reading that sad and strangely affecting work, “Peter Ibbetson,” the -first, and to my mind by far the best, of the three novels written by -Georges du Maurier in the late autumn of his days. By the thousands who -for so many years had, week after week, enjoyed the delicate humour and -pencilling of the great Punch artist, the book was received with a -favour that paved the way for the greater popular success of “Trilby.” -But I doubt whether it ever appealed to any denizen of our planet as -intimately as to the Master of the House. - -Those who have read the curiously original novel which, like so many -first attempts at fiction, is autobiographical—autobiographical as to -feelings, if not necessarily as to facts—may remember his description of -the English boy’s early “French days;” and, later on, of the mature -man’s poignant impressions on revisiting the old playground of his life. -Now, there were so many points of resemblance between the surroundings -of Du Maurier’s hero’s childhood and my own; so many allusions to the -kind of things and the kind of people I had once been familiar with but, -as time flowed on, had dismissed from mind as removed from real -existence and new workaday points of view; they were presented, -moreover, in so sympathetic a manner, that one need hardly wonder at the -sudden resolve that rose within me, to go and look up the old place -again. - -Such a desire, when it comes, has something of the twist of hunger about -it—it is _une fringale_, to use a word for which, oddly enough, we have -no counterpart. But, alas! delight in scenes of the _beau temps jadis_ -is not to be recaptured! It may but be espied in fitful, elusive -glimpses. The world has moved on and the _genius loci_ has fled. Have -you ever found out that the return, after many years, to a place oft -dreamed of until then and with never-failing tenderness, besides leaving -you blankly unsatisfied, seems to have killed the glamour, to have -broken the magic spell of memory? The dream is dispelled. It will -henceforth nevermore haunt your pillow. You have seen the phantom of the -past with the eyes of nowadays; the new picture has replaced that of the -dream—for ever. - -Well, _la boite Delescluze_—as we irreverent youngsters called that -respectable institution—unlike those other places, St. Cloud, for -instance, which were fated to evoke but a melancholy disappointment, -could not be beheld again with the carnal eye—not the least vestige of -it. And it is, no doubt, for that reason that so many memories still -come flitting back, smiling and clear, of that forgotten cradle of -scholarship. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XI - - -A glowing log rolls down from its allotted place on the hearth, sending -into the room a jet of wood smoke, blue at the stem, white feathering as -it spreads out; and the pungent smell immediately revives a fresh set of -scenes from the past. - -[Sidenote: NOSTRIL MEMORIES] - -[Illustration: man on path in town] - -That nothing brings back old memories so suddenly and so vividly as -perfume is a commonplace remark. But I wonder whether the extraordinary -persistency of a first impression, in the case of odours constantly met -with, has been so generally noticed. Perhaps I am peculiar in this -sensitiveness. Smells, pleasant, indifferent, or otherwise, which one is -liable to encounter in the most varied circumstances, should, one would -think, cease in time to recall any particular period of existence. - -For example, the delicious smell of roasting coffee—an aroma not common -in England—may well bring you back, at a jump, to some foreign, -unfamiliar experience of your youth—to that early morning walk in the -little Flemish town of which you have forgotten the name; where, as you -sauntered down the street, you were greeted at nearly every doorstep by -this pungent savour. The black cylindrical family roaster, its berries -rattling musically within, was being carefully revolved over its bed of -live charcoal by the boy of the house, or perhaps by the housewife -herself. The delicate, diaphanous sky-blue smoke of the beans, as they -reached the perfecting point of their charring, struck your eye as -gratefully as the fragrance it conveyed to your nostrils. No wonder -that, after a long spell, even a distant whiff of that odour of promise -should bring back a definite picture. But that essences of such everyday -character, say, as petrol; or that which accompanies the peeling of an -orange, should still have the power of bringing me back, instantly, to -the hours of my early schooling, is in truth a curious matter. - -In the case of petrol, perhaps, the connexion is less extraordinary. -Until the age of the motor was ushered in—and that is barely a score of -years ago—the smell of “petroleum,” as it was still called, could come -upon the sense as an odour out of the usual run. - -Whenever I come across it now, it never fails to waft me back to the old -class-room of the _Institution_, the _Etude No. 3_, where I first made -acquaintance with the possibly wholesome but not otherwise attractive -redolence of the _lampes à petrole_. That was during the short days of -the year, when these luminaries were brought in soon after four o’clock, -and suspended over our young heads—a ceremony coinciding with the last -hour of _classe_—at the end of which the assembly would be dispersed for -the day: the bigger boys walking back to their neighbouring homes, the -smaller being fetched by their _bonnes_, or it might be the footman; or -yet, in unpropitious weather, by anxious parents in carriage or -_fiacre_. - -[Illustration: back of child sitting on bench] - -Quaint place, that _Institution_—when one looks back on it from this far -end of the road! I think I can breathe its peculiar atmosphere this -instant—and see the queer, long, low room, with the beams across the -ceiling; the whitewashed walls, covered with highly coloured elementary -maps and graphic pictures of the metrical system applied to measures -lineal and cubical, solid and liquid, and to the national coinage.... -There they are: the six rows of benches and desks, each with its -half-dozen youngsters, some elaborately drawing a steel nib, in strokes -alternately swelling and slender, over a copybook of bafflingly soft -paper, productive of periodical splutters; others reading ‹in earnest or -in pretence› a chapter of _Epitome_; others, again, committing, with -dumb mouthing, a fable of La Fontaine to memory for to-morrow’s -recitation, until such moment as the cracked voice of the courtyard -clock striking five should proclaim the hour of release. The usher, -ensconced _in cathedra_, at his high desk; a smaller lamp for his -especial benefit burning ‹and smelling› by his side; a book before -him.—In his own walk he must have passed, methinks now, for something of -a dandy, in the cheap line; for he remains associated more with sedulous -trimming of nails, with pulling out of curly brown whiskers; with a -nervous, tricky settling of collar, tie and cuffs ‹obviously false›, -than with anything else.... He yawns amain. He consults his watch, and -closes it with a click in the midst of the great silence of the room—the -silence made more sensible, rather than disturbed, by the recurrent -splutter of a pen-nib, or the turning of a leaf of _Epitome_. - -That _Epitome Historiae Sacrae_ was a primer adapted to first year -boys—a small buckram-bound book compendized, poetically expurgated, and -made in truth singularly attractive to the young imagination—more -attractive even, I fancy, than those Fables of La Fontaine and of -Florian that, read in the light of “short stories,” were such -favourites. It was, by the way, called _Epitome Sacrae_ or even _Sacrae_ -pure and simple, in the same manner as the volumes allotted to the two -subsequent years were known respectively as _Latinae_ and _Graecae_. - -I would give a fairly large coin of our present money for a copy now, -could I come across one in some old bookstall on the quays. But, from -their very nature, the cheapest books are among the rarest things to -recover at second hand. - -[Sidenote: SCRIPTURE STORIES] - -It was within the pale green covers of that queer little tome that I -tasted for the first time the literary savour of the various _genres_ in -tale-telling; of pastoral and romance, of idyll and tragedy. One could -not truly say that any very strong impression of a sacred character was -conveyed through the collection of Holy Scripture stories. But it is -doubtful whether anything read in after-life was stamped so clearly on -the imagination as the poetry of Ruth amid the ears of barley, of -Rebecca and the pitcher of water, of Rachel; as the romance of Joseph -and his brethren; as the tragedy of Samson and Delilah; as the war -pictures of Jericho and Jerusalem. It may have been a jumble of -disconnected tales—and, for the boys, nothing more than tales—but each -remains cut out in clean outline and brightest colours that are never -likely to fade. To this day a field of golden corn, newly reaped, in -pastoral Dorset, under a hot harvest sun, will raise the bright phantom -of Boaz and the gentle gleaner. A country lass at the fountain, or even -merely the rim of some disused and filled-up well, aye even such cryptic -names as Jakin and Boaz, the pillars, will conjure up again some picture -first raised from the pages of that _Epitome Sacrae_, read under the -light of the brown lamp gently swaying in the draught of the school-room -above our ruffled heads ... and steadily smelling of petrol! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XII - - -Connected with those enthralling first tales, now that I come to think -of it, is the development of certain simple tastes in food which have -endured through a life not altogether devoid of gastronomic -discrimination. Among these may be mentioned a special delight in -lentils—later on extended to other members of the pulse tribe, but in -its origin especially concerned with lentils. It is to be noted that the -_Epitome_ rendering of what in the Authorised Version appears as red -pottage is _un plat de lentilles_. Now lentils, stewed in some toothsome -reddish sauce ‹not innocent of the savoury onion› was a standing Friday -dish in the refectory at Delescluzes ‹together, be it said, with a -_Saint Jean_ fish-pie—Saint Jean being the equivalent of our own -mediæval “Poor John,” otherwise salt cod›. The small boy, however, who -was destined, at the maturity of time, to become the Master of the House -at the Villino Loki, was allowed a fair mutton chop of his own by -special compact with M. Delescluze, as a concession to his Protestant -heresy. - -[Illustration: children eating at table] - -[Sidenote: THE DELECTABLE LENTIL] - -The arrangement had been made when the dietary of the _jours maigres_ -came, quite accidentally, to the knowledge of his anxious parents. Such -a concession might have bidden fair to scandalize the youthful republic -at dinner time—if not perhaps on purely dogmatic ground, at least upon a -question of invidious privilege. But it happened that the intended -beneficiary of the bi-weekly _côtelette_ had been struck by that -puzzling tale of Esau’s birthright so readily exchanged for a _plat de -lentilles_.—Red pottage had become invested with an almost mystical -quality. - -There is often a good deal of auto-suggestion connected with matters of -food pleasure. At any rate the Friday _plat de lentilles_ ranked among -the most desirable of eatable things, in his young opinion. The answer -to the jeer that greeted him from the neighbour on his right, as the -appetizing grill was laid by the grinning attendant for the first time -upon the wooden board before him, was a prompt offer of half the flesh -portion for the whole of his allowance of pulse—and a similar disposal -of the remainder on the left-hand side. One chop for two plates of the -savoury mess: the barter, as far as the pleasures of the table were -concerned, was one of gain, for all parties. It had the further -advantage of cutting at the root of conversational unpleasantness. The -exchange of a single fat, heretical chop for two helpings of orthodox -meagre fare became an established compact—one, it must be said, which -demanded not only secrecy but adroitness for its fulfilment. - -The redistribution of the courses was usually carried out under the -shelter of an enormous _broc_ ‹a relic of conventual furniture›, the -French representative of our old English Black Jack; an obese, jug-like, -wooden contrivance with iron hoops, containing something better than a -gallon of the anodyne mixture called _abondance_—one part thin red wine -to four of water. It was a supply which could, without danger to -sobriety, be drawn upon, as the regulation had it, _à discretion_. - -The parties to this lentil transaction, which took place at the end of -the long table farthest from the eyes of the presiding usher, had to bid -for turns.... Where are you this day, you the only two whilom reprobate -amateurs of chops on fast days whose names I can yet recall? You, Victor -de Mussy, with the notable store of infantile catches and conundrums? -And you, Guilleaume Moreau, of more plebeian stamp, who used to look up -words for me in the dictionary—a task I truly loathed—at the rate of -three words for one _bec-de-plume_? If you are still in the land of the -living, I would take a fair bet that it never occurs to you now to -order, of your own accord, a dish of lentils! - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THE INCOMPARABLE ORANGE] - -Another persistent “nostril memory,” as I have said, is that of the -orange. It is a curious one. Of a certainty I must have eaten of the -golden apple many a time before that notable night when I was first -taken to a theatre. And yet it is invariably that delirious occasion -which is recalled, for however fleeting a moment, when the bursting of -the essential oil cells of an orange peel sends forth its fragrance. - -[Illustration: child leaning over] - -The drama was “_Bas-de-Cuir_”—an adaptation of Fenimore Cooper’s Red -Indian tale “Leather Stocking.” When I say that the part of “Leather -Stocking” was taken by Frederic Lemaitre—personified genius of the old -Romantic Melodrama!—that the playhouse was _Les Folies Dramatiques_—it -will be patent to anyone familiar with the annals of the Paris stage -that I refer to a very distant period. I could not have been more than -eight years old. In those days, apparently, the custom, delectable to -the boys if less so to their elders, of consuming oranges between the -acts had not yet fallen into desuetude. - -It is very odd. There are as we know a large number of recognized -methods of eating an orange: from the elaborate and super-epicurean -Japanese dissection within the skin, which removes every pellicule and -every pip out of the fruit, preparatory to “spooning” the pure pulp, -with or without sugar, down to the simple suction known as “Mattie’s -way.” Whatever be the process, the effect never fails if I stand by: as -sure as the first puff of fresh orange peel meets me, so is my mind -instantly brought back to some scene connected with “Leather Stocking”; -to some sense of the very first dramatic emotion ever known—the silent -laughter of the trapper; the faint, distant war yell of the Huron; the -darting of the bark canoe down the rapid; the crack of a gun: the flare -of the camp fire—what not? It is, of course, but a transient flash now, -but there it always starts, harking, for a second or so, back half a -century in the middle of completely unrelated thoughts and in -surroundings the least likely to evoke the past—in the silence of a sick -bedside, or amid the hot dustiness of a holiday crowd; or even, at -dessert time, in the company of some fair neighbour whose young, healthy -powers of table enjoyment enable her to conclude a regular dinner with a -whole orange eaten in the appreciative and fragrant manner known as _à -la Maltaise_. - -Scent alone, and that only for a second at a time, possesses this -fantastic power. The taste of marmalade, for instance, is fraught with -no special memories. As for the pleasure of sight in connexion with the -orange, it is now concentrated upon the half-dozen trees—in pots, but -bravely bearing year by year their little burden of fruit destined to -grow for purely ornamental and “Italian” effect within doors at the -Villino. - -What a marvel would an orange be considered, had it not become an object -of our everyday life! We take it as a matter of course; but how much -poorer would the world suddenly seem if oranges became henceforth -unobtainable! And the lemon! If lemons cost a guinea apiece, I once -heard a physician say who had a special experience of its wide-reaching -healing powers, then would mankind appreciate the treasure it has at -hand! One-half of its being, and by no means the less important, the -rind, is deplorably neglected. We deal with it as with a practically -worthless husk. If we more generally understood the value of its -ethereal oil, we might save ourselves many a spell of unaccountable -physical depression. I can personally testify to numerous instances of -feverish bouts cured solely by a hot decoction of lemon zest. - -A similar virtue, by the way, seems to reside in the leaves of the -Citrus Limonum. In southern countries—especially, I am told, in Spanish -America—these leaves are obtainable in the dry state, and used as a -febrifuge and alternative “tea,” or rather tisane, with marked results. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XIII - - -[Sidenote: THE INVALUABLE ONION] - -Talking of the proper need of appreciation that might be rendered to -some of nature’s goodly gifts, if only they were presented to us as -something rare and novel—what of the humble but invaluable onion? “The -onion,” as Stevenson says in his masterpiece, Prince Otto ‹and great was -my satisfaction when I first read the pronouncement›, “which ranks with -the truffle and the nectarine in the chief place of honour of earth’s -fruit.” - -Truffle and nectarine are doubtless honourable terms of comparison, but -I make bold to believe that any well-constituted jury of epicures would -not hesitate to award the humble onion the place paramount among all the -savours of civilized cookery. There are a certain number of curiously -constituted people who absolutely refuse to countenance the onion in any -connexion, however subdued and distant; who profess, whether in æsthetic -affectation or through some innate queasiness, to look upon it as pure -abomination. There are also those who assume a similar intolerant -attitude towards tobacco. But who shall deny that, even as tobacco to -the meditative and restful moments, the savoury onion has not added -through the ages an incalculable zest to the hour of physical -restoration? There could be no cuisine, on any varied scale, without it. - -“If the onion did not exist,” said a great _cordon-bleu_, paraphrasing a -well-known philosophical pronouncement, “it would have to be invented.” - -Discreetly introduced, and subdued by happy blendings, it holds the -finest of _fumets_ for your gastronomist’s palate: and, in all its own -undisguised vigour, it will invest the coarsest or most tasteless food -with never-failing allurement for robust appetites, whatever changes be -rung upon the raw or pickled, the white-boiled, the golden-fried, or the -brown-stewed. - -[Illustration: man at outside table] - -It must have been that russet background of onion which justified my -youthful preconceived notion of the pricelessness of “Red Pottage” as an -article of food. It no doubt fixed the taste for life. Of course, in all -matters of earthly enjoyment, the “psychological” moment ‹which, by the -way, is so often purely physiological› plays an important part. Certain -tastes reveal themselves only as pleasurable in certain surroundings. A -draught of coarse, dark wine of la Mancha, sucked out of the goat-skin -sack, with its obtrusive, pitchy twang, will be a pure delight on the -side of some dusty, stony Castillian road. And no one who has not had, -in some wild out-of-the-way mountain village, to break his fast at -peep-o’-day upon a chunk of grey bread, stone-ground and tasting of the -wheat-fields, a handful of salt and a couple of Spanish onions, will -ever know all the excellences of that juicy bulb. - -It is reported that, like his furiously assertive relation, garlic, the -onion has very definite medical virtues. Some claim for it a power to -cure sleeplessness—dreaded distemper—and also various antiseptic -properties. This is as may be. The province of the precious plant, the -duty which it fulfils well and simply, is that of supplying savour to -things that may be nutritious but lack appetizing virtue. Many are the -instances that might be adduced in support of this economic plea, but -none more directly to the point than that of the _soupe à l’oignon_, -which your thrifty French housewife contrives at shortest notice—the -traditional “soup meagre,” object of such bitter contempt in our -beef-gorging Hogarthian days. - - * * * * * - -This new culinary topic sets me once more back in the streets of old -Paris, on the occasion when I made personal acquaintance with the -possibilities of a penny meal—the best appreciated breakfast I have ever -known. - -It was in the very last of my French days. Paris had then recovered from -the miseries of the German siege and the nightmare of Commune anarchy, -three years past. Within the next few months a new life was to be opened -to me in England. The prospect of the great change, albeit fraught with -some features of gravity, was exhilarating. - -The _Lycée_, for all its admirable scheme of studies, had lately been -abandoned in favour of a quaint old British scholar, very poor, very -learned, who lived on the heights of Montmartre, in the oddest little -house—so filled with books that almost everywhere one had to move -literally edge-ways. The very stairs, for lack of shelves, were piled on -both sides with volumes, old and modern, tattered or nobly bound, stored -regardless of subjects, merely in sizes for the sake of room. - -Long could I talk about you, O my dear Mr. Gilchrist—you with the keen -eyes and the vigorous hook nose ‹always half-filled with snuff›; with -the flowing beard of venerable threescore and ten, who taught me to read -“the classics” after the English manner, _i.e._ with a regard to -quantities; who, for the modest and evidently much wanted fee agreed -upon, gave me daily at least five hours tuition ‹sometimes more› instead -of the stipulated three! Hours, be it said, that went by lightly enough -in that queer, snuffy room, where we sat facing each other on two -straight-backed chairs—eager boy and no less eager old man. For, the -Latin and Greek tasks over, there always followed excursions, one more -fascinating than the other, into the deep and still unknown forest of -English letters. And such was the variety and the happy choice of -excerpts that, incredible as it may seem, the scholar of fourteen was -oftener sorry than elated to leave the garrulous and enthusiastic mentor -on his hill-top and return to the paternal house in the lower planes of -the Champs Elysées. - -[Illustration: child and old man] - -An odd way of life for a youth, during those last few months of spring -and early summer in Paris! It was full of glad aspirations towards the -future, it is true, but at the same time not without an almost regretful -enjoyment of the present. The distribution of time was peculiar. There -was in it a kind of unconscious anticipation of that light-saving Bill -of Mr. Willet ‹which has so little chance of being embodied in an Act›. -The queer boy, in his transition stage, had taken a cranky turn on the -subject of hours. Having made up his mind, on the one hand, that he had -an enormous amount of new things to read and assimilate before his fresh -start in England; and, on the other, having heard that one hour of -morning study was worth ‹on what authority it matters little now› two -after noon, he had invested in a specially ferocious alarum clock. The -merciless clamour of this machine drove him out of dreamland daily at a -quarter to five _ante meridiem_; and, strange as it undoubtedly was, it -is not on record that he ever failed during that period to obey the -summons. - -[Sidenote: A SEDULOUS SCHOLAR] - -There must have been somewhere at the back of so unnatural a submission, -of such a persistency in a purely self-imposed and unnecessary -discipline, a sort of romantic smack of mediævalism.... The “sedulous -_escholier_” ‹so warmly commended by Saint Louis› was found awake and -already absorbed in his search for lore as returning day began to whiten -his window. - -The net result was a couple of hours of really earnest work before it -was time to dispatch the morning bowl of _café au lait_ and the _pain de -gruau_ and hasten to the ascent of Mons Martis, where impatient Mr. -Gilchrist looked for his scholar’s appearance at eight sharp. It was -very special reading—English History—a subject with which the _cours -d’histoire_ at the Lycée could only deal in a sketchy manner; but the -early-rising _escholier_, greedy of new knowledge, was fortunately -helped by the appearance in that year of Green’s “Short History of the -English People,” and fell under the charm of the captivating work. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XIV - - -[Sidenote: PLAYING TRUANT] - -I have said that it is not on memory’s record that the whilom schoolboy, -now in his mediæval student mood, failed to rise at the appointed clock -crow. Of a truth he rarely had less than his eight hours good sleep, -glad enough as he was to retire to rest at nine—“curfew time.” But it -must be admitted that on one occasion or two he succumbed to the -weakness of compounding with his studious resolutions. The French -equivalent of playing truant is _faire l’école buissonière_—a taking -term, redolent of the allurement of hedgerows and free green fields. And -it is the memory of one of these _écoles buissonières_—or rather, in -this case, _écoles riveraines_—that, through the usual devious paths, -brings me back to the forgotten question of _soupe à l’oignon_. - -It must have been a very early day in May, for at a quarter before five, -when the imperative rattle was sprung, sun-rays were just beginning to -dart between the curtains. The birds in the Champs Elysées kept up their -concert through the morning silence of the gardens with more persistent -enthusiasm than usual. And on looking out of window, under such a pure -sky, the out-of-door world looked quite extraordinarily inviting. It -would have been folly to decline such an invitation! - -The “Short History,” opened at a chapter of the Hundred Years War, was -left for the nonce undisturbed: the scholar sallied forth to roam under -the tall trees of the _Cours la Reine_, intent, no doubt, on returning -after a short stroll. But there is in the early morning hours, -especially on such a morning, the spell of the “invitation to the road.” -The river-side, so fresh and green, and the unending line of giant plane -trees on the quays, as he swung along to meet the sun, still low behind -the Isle of Notre Dame, drew him on and on. He decided only to return -for breakfast and Gilchrist. Then he bethought himself there would be -time to stroll through those populous quarters which, unlike the -residential districts, were still in many ways the Paris of the Middle -Ages. That was the Paris which held for him then so potent an -interest—the Paris within the walls of Charles VI; the town of Armagnacs -and Burgundians, which had been governed by Bedford for his infant -English King; the crowded space, in short, between the old Louvres and -the new Bastille, which had been kept in order by the tramping of -English men-at-arms. One inquisitive excursion led to another—nearly two -hours had been spent in delightful ferreting; there was no time to -return home for breakfast before the Gilchrist-ward ascent. Meanwhile a -positively wolfish hunger had begun to assert itself. The scholar -“searched his pouch.” This was quite in mediæval style; and what was -decidedly in the same style was the discovery of but two poor deniers -for all asset! His usual pocket-money allowance was then reposing on the -bed-side table, far away, save for these two pennies luckily forgotten -in a waistcoat pocket. - -This discovery was made, ruefully enough, as he was looking about in the -vicinity of Saint Eustache for some respectable _restaurateur_ wherein -to obtain the matutinal coffee. But two deniers—twopence, _vingt -centimes_—would never purchase breakfast at any table under a roof. What -the devil...! Well, twopence in this workmen’s district would buy bread -enough, anyhow, to appease the sharpest-set morning appetite. Saint -Eustache, as every one knows, is close to the Halles Centrales, the -great food emporium of Paris—a kind of combined Smithfield, -Billingsgate, Covent Garden, and Leadenhall Market. The now frantic -owner of the two pence was darting about the galleries in search of the -first bread-stall, when he was arrested by a floating savour, truly -ambrosial. As he stopped and involuntarily, if quite obviously, sniffed, -a tempting voice rose beside him, engagingly familiar: “_Oui, elle est -bonne, ce matin. Tu en veux, beau garçon?_” And so saying, a fat smiling -_dame de la Halle_, with an alert eye to business, plunged a ladle into -a deep iron _marmite_ and filled a generous-sized white bowl, something -a trifle under a pint in capacity, with a steaming brown pottage, that -in the circumstances was positively irresistible: “_Combien, la mère?_” -asked the truant scholar, falling into the speech suitable to the place, -and fingering the two modest coins with doubt and anxiety, even as might -a ravening Villon, a destitute Gringoire. - -[Illustration: woman holding steaming bowl] - -“_Combien, mon p’tit gros? Mais un sou, toujours!—Et au fromage_,” -changing her tone to mock deference as one addressing a client of -importance, “_au fromage, dix centimes_, _mon prince!—Mais, bernique! -n’y en a plus!_”—she added, laughing complacently and tossing her head -in the direction of a second cauldron that lay empty on her left. - -The more luxurious cheese pottage being “off,” and time of importance -‹it would, volunteered the culinary Madame Angot, take ten minutes to -prepare the next potful› the famished wanderer proffered his penny and -received his grateful bowl together with some eight inches of “long -bread” in lieu of his half-denier change. And, leaning against a pillar, -he set himself to the enjoyment of what, as I have remarked before, was -the best breakfast of his life. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: SAVOURY POTTAGE] - -Hunger is the finest of all possible sauces—a truism even more than a -proverb. The snatched crust, the draught of clear water in the palm of -the hand, at some dire moment of want, is more welcome than the most -cunning dish, the rarest cup in the easy tenor of life. But the plain -bread and the clear water, however eagerly seized, must ever savour of -hardship. Now this halfpenny worth of _soupe à l’oignon_ bore none of -that character, for all that, as far as nutriment went, it consisted of -naught but bread and water. It had all the attributes of a civilized -meal: it was hot, savoury, immediately comforting. - -As I disposed of it at leisure—for it was scalding, and had, besides, in -an Epicurean way, to be husbanded as a relish to my portion of simple -loaf—I watched the rotund but brisk dame prepare another instalment of -the superior, or penny, brew against the next influx of customers. The -first _clientèle_ ‹it appeared in course of friendly if fitful -conversation› came about six o’clock—journeymen without a _ménagère_ at -home, on their way to their day’s task; or night-workers in the Halles, -on their way to morning sleep. The next one would begin soon—clerks, -workgirls, and small employés who have to be at their post about eight. -Then the demand for the penny bowl would rise afresh about noon. - -To one who was even then tasting the full value of the finished product -the method of production had the interest of actuality, and was -otherwise enlightening. And, _pardi!_ it is worth recording, as an -instance of what could be done with raw material to the value of twelve -sous—less than sixpence—to provide twenty people with a savoury dishful -of broth and leave a distinct turnover of profit. - -These—as far as I could judge—were about a score of medium-sized onions -of the more pungent kind ‹twopence, four sous or four cents›; half a -pound or thereabouts of butter, salt butter it is true, but your -Parisian insists wherever he can upon _cuisine au beurre_ ‹six sous›; a -ladle-full of flour ‹say one farthing, half a cent›; something like two -sous’ worth of stale bread, baker’s shop remnants. Leaving the cost of -firing out of consideration—and in thrifty ingenious French hands it -would be small—the return would be like thirty per cent. on the outlay. - -As for the technique of the brewing, it was simple but elegant. The -sliced onions, fried in the butter at the bottom of the iron pot to a -pleasing sunset colour under the watchful eye of the matron, were at the -right moment powdered with the allowance of flour and stirred until the -suitable appetizing brown was achieved—“The flour is just to thicken the -_bouillon_, you understand, my lad,” the benevolent operator was pleased -to comment, noticing inquisitiveness.—Then, at the precise moment of -alchemic projection, the sliced shreds of bread were precipitated in the -caldron, and gently turned round with a wooden spoon to let them take -unto themselves all the unction of the butter, all the essence of the -succulent bulbs. And presently the whole thing was drowned under a -cataract of scalding hot water ‹some two gallons›. After a bubble or two -of boiling the combination was completed and the savoury caldron was set -aside upon a nest of smouldering ashes, ready against the next breakfast -seeker. - - * * * * * - -And the _escholier_, having absorbed the last crumb and the last -spoonful, hastened, greatly refreshed, by every conceivable short cut to -his heights of Montmartre—_Mons Martyrum_, by the way, some etymologists -insist on dubbing, in opposition to the _Mons Martis_ theory, in regard -that it was the site of the martyrdom of St. Denis, the French “Champion -of Christendom.” - -[Sidenote: VIRGIL ON “DOGGIES”] - -He was a trifle late—no doubt as a result of short cuts—and Mr. -Gilchrist proportionately stern, just at first. But the dear -enthusiastic teacher gradually mellowed under the influence of that -morning’s reading—the “Georgics,” most enchanting of all Garden Talk -volumes. The old scholar’s geniality had completely returned by the time -we reached that “doggy” passage of the Third Book beginning with “_Nec -tibi cura canum fuerit postrema_.” - -I can still see him smiling confidently at me over the line, “Let not -thy dogs be the last of thy cares....” There was something prophetic -about it! - - * * * * * - -Here, two score of years later, as I dream of the past, lies Arabella -stretched by the fire, now and again heaving her great sighs of comfort. -Bettina, curled at my feet, looks up adoringly at the master and wags -her stump of tail whenever she meets his eye. As for Prince Loki, he has -commandeered the best deep armchair, where he lies flat on his back, -with front paws folded upon his bosom, and hind legs stretched out in -abandoned beatific fashion, snoring melodiously.... _Cura canum -postrema_, indeed! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XV - - -The Hyacinths are all out in the Dutch Garden. But alas, the winds of -March!—they grew and gathered and became a gale and laid some twenty of -our silver-blue soldiers prostrate. Their fat juicy stalks snap all too -easily. In the pots on the terrace wall, half have been swept away. -However, thanks to our close planting, only the eye of the initiate -could perceive the gaps. Right under the study windows there are still -twin lakes of exquisite pale sapphire, breathing fragrance. - -[Illustration: outside in garden] - -In the bank below the Dutch Garden, the Narcissus, which have been set -to the tune of two thousand, are swaying long lemon-coloured buds out of -a field of green spikes. There are, in that tongue of land, two Buddleia -trees which have grown to unusual height and girth and are a mass of -orange balls in due season. And there is a band of Iris to which we are -perpetually adding, but which, mysteriously, never seems to increase. -There is also a shrubby bit where you will behold a wild rose tree; two -nondescript flowering evergreens; a darling little Scotch Briar, one -mass of yellow Pompons, entrancing by their wild scent; those -disappointing bushes known as Altheas, so eulogized by garden -chroniclers; and a Rheum. - -We planted the Rheum last year. This March it astonishes us by the leaf -buds it has produced. They are like stormy, sinister, crimson blossoms -with gaping yellow mouths, and look poisonous and tropical: altogether -out of place in a Surrey moorland—especially with the innocence of the -grey Lavender plant that grows beside them. What a thrilling thing a -garden is and how full of surprises!—do Rheums always do this, we -wonder? - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: CARPETS OF BLUE] - -[Illustration: flower pot] - -All the Compton pots along the terrace are filled with blue Hyacinths -and Forget-me-nots; all the beds about the house are stuffed with Tulips -and again Forget-me-nots. Now, some people ‹we read in a garden-book the -other day› eschew this plant, _Myosotis silvestris_, because “it spreads -so rapidly that it may almost be regarded as a weed.” We are the kind of -people who like our flowers to spread like weeds; especially when, as in -the case of this attractive sinner, every bed becomes a delicate cloud -of blue from which on long stems the Darwins rear their cups of -wonderful colour. - -[Illustration: small flower] - -A little later on, we mean to make the same use of Nemophila, which last -year, in spite of ceaseless rain, kept bravely blue in the patch where -it had been sown until quite the end of autumn. - -Every one tells us that Madonna Lilies will not succeed in our soil. We -are making another effort with giant bulbs, which, so far, promise -splendidly. - -[Illustration: flower] - -Fate, in its unexpected way, has provided us with a double row of red -Duc van Thol Tulips on each side of the two little rose beds that run -down the grass slope under the bench yclept “_Schöne Aussicht_.” That -particular slope, by the way, in the pristine days of jungle, was the -worst bit of wilderness. Heather, Gorse, Bramble, Bracken and underwood -made it simply impenetrable. Now, cleared and turfed, it leads the eye -gently on to the Pine Tree Avenue; to the green of the fields beyond; to -the valley and the distant hills. In a triangular bed at the top a clump -of Lilac has been planted and carpeted beneath with “Bachelor’s -Buttons.” Already it is very gay, although the Lilacs are only in bud. -We believe these double Daisies go by another title in gardening -circles, but this is a name associated with youthful memories. They -ought to flourish the whole year round, since bachelors will always be -in season. We shall see. - - * * * * * - -There is nothing that gives one a more intimate sense of the joy of -spring than the renewed song of the birds. It is good to wake at early -dawn and hear the soft sleepy calls and cries with which they first -rouse each other, then the exquisite voice of thrush or blackbird, -singing as it were under its breath the morning hymn which is one of the -most touching things in Nature. - -Just now a small bird was spinning out a monody as delicate and -continuous and attenuated as a spider’s gossamer—some feathered mother, -we fancy, cradling her eggs. We never heard any song quite like it -before. Adam shakes his head and says we are bringing the birds about -the house with our winter largesses; but one might as well be told that -if you want to keep your house tidy you should banish the children! - -Says Victor Hugo: - - “_Préservez moi, Seigneur, préservez ceux que j’aime, - Frères, parents, amis, et mes ennemis mêmes, - Dans le mal triomphants, - De jamais voir, Seigneur, la ruche sans abeilles - La printemps sans oiseau, l’été sans fleurs vermeilles ... - La maison sans enfants!_” - -Substitute “_jardin_” for “_printemps_” and you have our views. We have -no children in this house, worse luck ... except the fur ones. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: CONCERNING CALIBAN] - -Caliban, the garden man, has again broken his “pledge,” a little quicker -than usual this time, and we fear we must be firm and keep to our last -ultimatum—that unless he takes it afresh he will have to go. Caliban -always reminds us of a prehistoric man. Whenever one meets him he looks -exactly as if he had just reared himself upright from running on all -fours, and would drop down again immediately as soon as we are out of -sight. He has an excellent hard-working wife, and works very well -himself—until the last pledge has quite worn away. We are sorry for Mrs. -Caliban, the mother of three prehistoric babies: for we hear that -Caliban, in the philosophic language of the district, “knocks her about -a bit,” when he has had what he calls “his glass of beer.”—“You couldn’t -wish for a nicer husband, when he’s sober,” she vows, poor woman, and is -pathetically hopeful every time the oath of abstinence is administered! -It is dreadful how many bad husbands there are in this small district. -In another family the father is so well known that the mere mention of -his name is enough to stiffen the employer of labour. - - “_Dere Miss, my husband as been very unlucky and strained - hisself again and ad to give up his work._” - -Thus the poor wife starts the usual appeal when the inevitable has -occurred and there is no more bread in the house. We are quite -accustomed to these missives, which indeed might be stereotyped with -space left for the date. Although the brother of a local policeman, this -black sheep is altogether so hopeless, that, in order to keep his poor -little progeny from growing sable in their turn, we have placed a lamb -out here and there in divers charitable folds. Alfie, the last rescued, -is a more original letter-writer than his mother. This was the document -that he sent her from that happy Home for Little Boys where we trust he -will grow up with an unimpeachable fleece. - - “_Dere Mother,—I hope this finds you well. I hope James and - Vilet and Alice are well and nice and good. This is a very nice - place. I hope you will tell me when you are going to call that I - may be in. God bless you._ - - _“Yours trewly_, - - “_ALFRED_.” - -In yet another family, the head of which was in the habit of spending -ten or twelve shillings a week regularly on cigarettes and tipple, until -Nemesis overtook him in the shape of consumption, the pretty, -hard-working, fiery-haired Irish wife declares without a thought of -unkindness, that if she could only get him “out of the way for good” she -could “do all right” for herself and her three small children. - -[Sidenote: THE VILLAGE CURSE] - -If ever woman has a voice in social reform, though with a few glaring -exceptions legal interference with the liberty of the subject is -abhorrent to Loki’s Grandmother, and she has little wish herself for -suffrage or any other rage, she vows that she will vote and vote and -vote for any measure that may tend to eliminate the Public House from -the countryside—curse of the small home that it is! In every one of -these cases there would be comfort and happiness in the family were it -not for the perpetual temptation to the breadwinner. - -The blacker the sheep, sad to say, the larger as a rule the family of -doubtfully hued lambs. Mrs. Mutton—the letter-writer—is “not so well -just now.” She is pathetically anxious that the new babe may be born -alive, having lost the last one. Loki’s Ma-Ma went to see her the other -day, and found her with a knowledgeable neighbour who has promised to -“see her through,” and in a state of profound gloom, not unmixed, -however, with a faint, pleasurable importance. - -“Oh, Miss, we have just heard of such a sad thing in the village. The -nurse, she’s just been up to tell me—a pore young woman, Miss, gone with -her first!” - -“Oh, dear!”—Loki’s Mother is duly impressed, but anxious to distract -Mrs. Mutton’s mind—“That is very sad. I hope you’re feeling pretty well -to-day, Mrs. Mutton?” - -“No, Miss, I’m very poorly these days. Mrs. Tosher here says she’s never -seen any one like me. ‘What can it be,’ she says, ‘that makes you like -this?’ Don’t you, Mrs. Tosher?” - -“Yes, my dear.” - -“I fell agin the water-butt this morning,” goes on Mrs. Mutton, in the -melancholy drone that is habitual to her. “A kind of weakness it was -come over me. I hit my eye—something awful, Miss, as you can see!” - -The signorina had been tactfully averting her gaze from that black orb; -she now blesses the superior tact which enables her to contemplate it -calmly. - -Mrs. Tosher—a large, jovial, untidy female with a shrunken “blue cotton” -inadequately fastened by two safety pins across her capacious -bosom—gives a heavy but non-committal groan. Mr. Mutton’s name is not -mentioned. The water-butt explanation is accepted without demur. - -“Of course, she’s ’ad a shock to-day, Miss, you see,” says the village -matron, and brings the conversation back to the original topic, which is -one of great attraction. - -“Yes, Miss, it ’aving been just as it might be me, Miss.” Mrs. Mutton -sighs, and looks in a detached, if one-sided manner, out of the grimy -window. The visitor perceives there is nothing for it: she must hear the -details. Wisely she resigns herself. - -“What happened?” - -“Well, it was all along of two suet dumplings and some chops, Miss, -which wasn’t as they ought to have been, having been kept in the ’ouse -too long, you see. Wasn’t that it, Mrs. Tosher, my dear?” - -“Yes, my dear, and some ’ard bits of parsnip.” - -“But it was mostly the chops, Miss, they’d been kept, you see. The -doctors, they couldn’t do nothing for her.” Mrs. Mutton sighs and lifts -the fringe of her shawl to the damaged eye. Tragic as the tale is, -Loki’s Mother visibly brightens: - -“But then the poor thing was poisoned,” she cries cheerfully. - -“Yes, Miss, potomaine poison along of her condition, being the same as -mine, Miss.” - -“But, Mrs. Mutton, anyone—” - -“No, Miss.” Mrs. Tosher intervenes: she cannot allow this foolish -attempt at consolation to proceed. “The doctor said it was along of her -condition.” - -“Yes, Miss, it’s the condition as done it—all along of a bit of -chop—kept like—and ’ard parsnips.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XVI - - -A friend of ours once told us that a doubtful sister-in-law had written -describing the weather as “boysterious.” The word pleases us. It looks -so much more graphic, spelt thus, than in the ordinary way. Well, we are -having a “boysterious” time with shifting winds, this end of March. All -the poor Pheasant-eye’s leaves are bruised and drooping, and the little -field of Narcissus under the Buddleia trees is bent and tangled. To-day -Adam has rolled away six tubs filled with last year’s Hyacinths and put -them in the border before the rough wall in the front courtyard, against -which we have last autumn planted Wichuriana Roses in divers shades of -yellow and tawny, chiefly “Jersey Beauties.” A row of Polyanthuses, -“Munstead Strain,” are blooming in front. The Hyacinths are blue. The -effect ought to be pretty in a week or so. When the Hyacinths are over -we shall go back to the old pink climbing Geraniums for the tubs, and -they will, please Heaven, flourish from June onwards between our yellow -roses. We think we will plant pink Geraniums, but we are not quite sure, -for last year we had red “Jacobys” in those tubs, and very well they -looked. We should not at all object to them in contrast to the roses. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: HONEYSUCKLE AND BITTER APPLE] - -Last night Loki’s Grandmother began to plan a new garden extravagance. -She finds it very soothing when sleep abandons her pillow. We have not -half enough Honeysuckle—that’s a fact. She thinks she will order a dozen -pots. She has also a desire to get a dozen Clematis, chiefly Jackmanni, -in the mauve and purple sorts, and plant them in their pots—the only -way, she believes, in which even the commonest sorts will grow in this -ungrateful soil. Honeysuckle, we know, thrives here. One summer we took -a house on a hill near this, a little house buried in a wood, and the -whole place was exquisite with the scent of Honeysuckle. It was grown -all about the house, and over archways in the garden. Horrid archways -made of wire they were: but it didn’t matter, the Honeysuckle was the -thing. We wanted all we could get of it, for there were other odours, -not at all so nice, that lurked about. The owner of the house, thrifty -soul ‹at least we suppose it goes with a thrifty soul›, waged war -against moths with _naphthalene_ and Bitter Apple, which are _anathema -maranatha_ to us. We have had our nights poisoned in a house in Scotland -with the reek of Bitter Apple in the blankets. We don’t know what -people’s noses are made of that they can voluntarily surround themselves -with such a pestilential atmosphere. The owner of the awful blankets -also keeps her furs with the same evil-smelling precaution; and we can -trace her entrance into the most crowded winter tea-party in London if -she has as much as passed up the stairs. - -Besides Bitter Apple inside the honeysuckle-covered house, there was a -pig outside—not on the premises hired by us, but in the adjoining place, -where there was a school for little boys. When the wind blew from the -direction of that school, the garden was odious, Honeysuckle and all. -The first day we hoped it might be accidental. Then Saturday came, and -we suppose the odd man did a turn at the sty, for there was peace till -the next Tuesday, when the wind blew from the south again. Then Loki’s -Grandmother marched into the room of Loki’s Grandfather ‹there was no -Loki then, so he wasn’t a grandfather, but that is immaterial› and -dictated a letter to the schoolmaster. Loki’s Future Grandfather -protested. It is the kind of thing he hates doing. She drove him into -the garden to smell. He tried to say he couldn’t smell it. Then she -changed her tactics and hinted at insalubrity—a case of diphtheria in -the village, and the danger to Loki’s Future Mother. That had him. He -went in and sat down like a lamb. She dictated, as has been said. If -anyone wants to know the kind of letter in which to remonstrate upon a -neighbouring schoolmaster’s pigsty, he cannot do better than copy this -model: - -[Illustration: pigsty] - - “_Dear Sir,—I must apologize for troubling you but I feel sure - that you are unaware of the offensive condition of the pigsty - which adjoins our garden—_” - -“Offensive?” said Loki’s Grandpa doubtfully. - -“Offensive,” said she firmly. “Offensive, you can’t put anything milder. -It’s disgusting, pestilential, a public nuisance.” “_There is so much -sickness in the district_—” she dictated on. - -“Oh, I don’t think I need put that.” Loki’s Grandfather was getting -bored. - -“You must,” said she; “that will fetch him more than anything. Isn’t he -a schoolmaster? If it gets about that he’s got an insanitary pig—” - -Well, the letter was finished with this artful twist. It had the most -brilliant and unexpected results. Not only was the schoolmaster -profoundly grateful for having his attention drawn to the matter—and the -pigsty really was better ever after—but he expressed his gratitude in -the most effusive terms. And he and his whole family called, and we went -to tea in a thunderstorm at the school-house, which apparently had been -built the day before yesterday, for the plaster was so wet the whole -place steamed, and Loki’s Grandmother caught the cold of her life. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: RUMOURS OF THE PIG-FARM] - -It is a very singular thing that in Ireland, the Padrona’s native land, -supposed, and with reason, to be very inferior in the matter of -cleanliness, the pig should be so much better cared for. Never have we -found the sweet airs of that beloved country impregnated with “_bouquet -de pigsty_” as they are in every farm here. Of course most of the pigs -in Ireland—nice, clean, intelligent, active creatures—roam cheerfully -about the roads all day, and share the family domicile by night. But -even on properties which own a separate habitation for the “gintleman -that pays the rint” it is swept and garnished for him in a manner seldom -seen over here. - -In the particular region of Dorsetshire where Loki’s Great Aunt dwells -there is quite a pretty house and grounds nearly always tenantless by -reason of the pig-farm at the back. The farmer who kept the farm was -amazed and indignant when one of the passenger tenants remonstrated with -him and threatened him with the Sanitary Inspector. What if his pigs -were noticeable? “Pigs ain’t pizen,” he said. I dare say, to him, by -reason of associations with his bank account, they were sweeter than -violets. - -Personally we should never keep pigs for choice, no matter how -interested we might be in farming. However we might insist on the -spotless condition of their dwelling-place, however affectionately we -might invite them to the frequent bath and rejoice at the clean pink of -their skins, the horror of the moment of inevitable parting would always -be before us. - -A near relation of ours was the centre of a certain horrid little -anecdote, likewise connected with pigs, that is nevertheless humorous -enough. It happened in Dorset, in a picturesque manor-house, the walled -gardens of which abut on a comely, prosperous farm. One April morning -the air was rent with the agonizing clamours of protesting pigs; and -she, whose tender heart suffered with the pain of every animal, was rent -too with compassion. - -“Oh, what,” she cried to her hostess, who was also her daughter, “what -can Mr. Boyt be doing to the poor, poor pigs? Oh! Polly, I’m afraid he’s -killing them!” - -Polly was not at all sure in her own mind that this was not the case, -but she was stout in asseverations to the contrary. - -“Oh, dear no, darling; nobody ever kills pigs this time of year. They’re -just cleaning out the sties, that’s all. You know what pigs are, -darling.” - -In spite of a fresh and most dismal explosion, her mendacity rose equal -to the occasion; and her final statement, that she knew for a fact that -pigs weren’t half fattened yet, produced the intended effect, and the -dear visitor was convinced. - -[Illustration: woman standing at entrance in wall] - -[Sidenote: TIRING WORK] - -Later in the day when all was stilled once more, and the lovely April -afternoon as full of country peace as it should be, the two went out and -down the lane; the guest in a donkey-chair and her daughter by her side. -To the latter’s discomfiture on their return they met the portly form of -Mrs. Boyt, emerging from the walled garden with an empty egg-basket. -Mrs. Polly was very anxious to skirmish the donkey-chair past with an -ingratiating and nervous giggle; but neither the donkey nor the lady in -the chair would fall in with her strategy. The lady in the chair had a -liking for Mrs. Boyt, and was amused at the thought of a little chat -with her; and the donkey, like all self-respecting donkeys, was bound in -honour to stop dead when it was most wanted to advance. Perhaps, too, -Mrs. Polly’s artfulness had aroused lingering suspicions, for the lady -in the chair was very firm: - -“Good evening, Mrs. Boyt. ‹No, Polly, it’s not cold at all. No, I’m not -going in yet.› How is Mr. Boyt?” - -“Mr. Boyt he be fairly, thanking you kindly, ’m. Of course he be a bit -tired this evening.” - -Mrs. Polly, with a wild eye, intervened. - -“I’m afraid it’s tea-time, darling. H’m—H’m—A beautiful evening—Mrs. -Boyt, my Mother was admiring the little calves—Come on, Bathsheba!” - -In vain she clucked, in vain she pulled the reins; Bathsheba merely -twitched an ear. The clear voice from the bath-chair put all efforts to -turn the conversation on one side with a decision which swept her into -silence. - -“Tired? Did you say your husband was tired, Mrs. Boyt?” - -“Yes’m. Pigs be very tiring.” - -“Pigs, Mrs. Boyt?—Oh! what was he doing with the poor pigs this morning? -He wasn’t—he wasn’t killing them?” - -“Oh, ’ess ’m.” And, blind to the horror and disgust on her listener’s -face, Mrs. Boyt proceeded with unction: - -“Beautiful pigs they was, six of them.” - -“Oh, but he didn’t do it himself?” - -“Oh, ’ess ’m.” Mrs. Boyt was much shocked. “We allus do it ourselves, I -do hold en, and Boyt he do stick en—very tiring it do be for us both!” - -It was only Mrs. Polly who saw the humour of the situation in after -days. The beloved lady in the bath-chair remained overwhelmed with the -tragedy. It was not a subject that could be referred to again in her -presence. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XVII - - -[Illustration: house with smoke coming out of chimney] - -How delightful it is to come back to our moors after London! Loki’s -Grandmother’s heart always sinks when the bricks and mortar begin to -spring up about the road, and the houses close in around her. Sometimes -she thinks that what weighs upon it is the sense of all those miles of -squalor; of all those hives of human misery; of all the sin and -suffering. Perhaps, however, she is influenced by mere distaste of the -crowd; displeasure in living one of a herd in a jostle of houses; the -ignominy of being a number in a row with undesired neighbours on either -side! Who would prefer to look on pavements, area railings and -lamp-posts; to listen to the roar and turmoil of a life one has no -ambition to share—a life vexing the peace of night and day, rather than -feast the eyes on cool green loveliness, on rolling moorland; the ear on -vast delicious silence or the choiring of windswept woods? How, in fact, -can anyone who has the choice live in town, instead of in the fair, -quiet, spacious country? One cannot feel one’s soul one’s own in London: -bits of it are perpetually escaping to join the giddy midge dance. The -individuality evaporates. But then—there are concerts, and Wagner’s -operas; and one’s own select friends and the interest of the great -intellectual movements! The splendid activities of life seem to pass one -by in the country. Well, we suppose, like everything else in existence, -one must take the see-saw as it comes, and accept the bumps for the sake -of the soaring. But we are always glad to come back to Villino Loki. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: A SCHEME OF AZURE AND TAWNY] - -The discoveries one makes in the garden after ten days’ absence are -thrilling. The three rows of Thomas More Tulips under the dining-room -window are colouring to a glorious orange, and the Forget-me-nots -planted between them are showing little sparks of blue. The tawny -Wallflowers at the back are not all we could wish; but, even pinched as -they are, the effect of their many velvet hues is satisfactory. There is -a single row of double Tulips ‹Prince of Orange› at the edge of the bed, -between the Forget-me-nots. In a week or so, looking up the terrace, -there will be five lines of flame running gloriously out of the blue; a -sight to delight the eye, against the curious bronze purple the moor -wears just now. - -The Scillas, which we thought were going to fail us, have been a -tremendous success, and still form pools of glowing blue round the -almond trees. Next year we intend to make a feature of Scillas. They are -such tiny bulbs that they can scarcely interfere with anything; and we -shall slip them in among the perennials in every corner, besides putting -more in the grass terraces. We are also going to run riot with -“Steeple-Jacks,” especially the light turquoise kind. They last an -immense time and are of a delicious tint. The long border of Campanelle -Jonquils that we have planted in what we call the “Bowling Green” are -drawn up as for a review, stiff and straight like little soldiers in -bright gold helmets. Next year we shall invest in three or four thousand -Daffodils for the rough places under the trees, and we mean to star the -banks with Primroses and Wild Violets. - - * * * * * - -We have made a vast improvement these days by turfing most of the walks, -and we now look out on a delicious sweep of green. The Lily Border and -its opposite neighbour, the tongue of land with the Buddleia trees and -shrubs, look infinitely more attractive thus set into the verdure. Great -clumps of yellow Polyanthuses and self-sown Forget-me-nots make it gay -while we are waiting for the Narcissus Poeticus, the Poppies, the Lilies -and other joys to break upon us. The field of mixed Narcissus under the -trees is going to be one sheet of blossom in a few days, blown about, -though they be, poor darlings, by these fierce and cruel winds. The -papers are full of exclamations over “winter in April”: so far our -high-pitched garden has stood it well. This is the advantage, we -suppose, of its natural backwardness. - -We are now fired with the desire to turf the Dutch Garden; the path -under the second terrace, _i.e._ Blue Border, and also the path leading -from the Bowling Green, so that we shall look down on a succession of -green levels, each with its wealth of flowers. We want to make the whole -little place shine like a jewel out of the rough setting of the moor. - -[Sidenote: TEMPTATION] - -Talk of the zest of gambling! ’Tis impossible that it could more possess -the soul in defiance of purse and prudence than the garden mania. If -Loki’s Grandmother had hold of a cheque book ‹which she hasn’t› she is -afraid the family substance would flow away from month to month into -bulbs and blossoms, tubers and saxifrages, clumps and climbers; not to -speak of such prosaic but necessary accompaniments as loam, manures, -lawn-mixtures and “vaporisers.” She would build at least two new -greenhouses and double her garden staff. And perhaps after all she -wouldn’t be half as happy as she is. For she might be led into “named -novelties,” and garden rivalries, and splendours of artificial rockeries -where in the centre of vast beds of slag some microscopic curiosity no -larger than a spider would spread a fairy claw in the shadow of a -monstrous label. Perhaps she might be bitten with an unwholesome passion -for Orchids, and spend the portion of her only child, and all the fur -grandchildren, on the devilish attractions of those plants which are, we -are convinced, flowers of evil. - -Just now her last extravagance has been to order three and six worth of -White Honesty at ninepence a dozen, to plant in among the new -Rhododendrons; and she is suffused with satisfaction at the prospect of -anything so cheap and charming. We recommend the effect, discovered -quite accidentally. - - * * * * * - -We have really abominable weather. It is very unusual. - - “Oh, to be in England, - Now that April’s there!” - -is an aspiration justified as a rule by a tender interlude between the -tantrums of March and the asperities of May. Last year April came in -skipping like a kid on the Campagna, even its freakishness full of -attraction. Is anything more charming than to see the kids playing among -the flocks, as one drives along those roads of haunting and mysterious -beauty—under that sky incomparable in its gem-like purity; to see the -shepherd in his sheepskin seated on a fence with his legs -cross-bandaged, the shrill pipe to his lips; to hear his wild strain and -know that it was all just the same a thousand years ago and more? The -kids, as they leap out of the scattered flocks, are cut against the blue -as on some classic frieze; the tawny, melancholy plain falls and rises -and falls again till the hills amethystine, snow-capped, close the field -of vision in the far distance! The broken line of an aqueduct gleams as -if golden. - - “To be in Italy, - Now that April’s there!” - -Loki’s Grandmother believes she would give up her country and Villino -Loki, and expatriate herself for ever gladly. But Italy is not -expatriation, it is the home of the soul. ‹Loki’s Grandpa says he quite -admits all that—but that for a permanency he prefers his Surrey hills.› - -The fires on the Campagna are rose-carmine as the pointed flames pulsate -upwards. Our fires here are only just the usual yellows. Where is it -that Italy holds the secret? Is it in the translucence of the -atmosphere? How the sunlight there lies on a common plaster wall! How -the stone flushes! Just a little white Villino on a hill-side stands in -a radiance of its own, and is not white at all but topaz coloured! - - * * * * * - -To-day, the fifteenth of April, has been as grey and bleaching a day -here as we never wish to meet again. Even the spears of the Narcissus -are bruised and drooping. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XVIII - - -Mrs. Mutton, poor soul, has had a dead infant. It is perhaps scarcely to -be wondered at, as she had another encounter with the water-butt shortly -before the event; but she is as much “taken-to” as if she had been -hoping to bring an heir-apparent into a realm of splendour. The doctor, -to console her, asked her hadn’t she plenty already. - -“I did think it unkind of him, Miss! It does seem ’ard! I did so seem to -long for this one to live!” - -We had a confidential conversation with the experienced matron who was -ministering to her, and we mentioned the water-butt with some severity. -But Mrs. Tosher would have none of this. Hers is a large mind -philosophy: - -“Ho! well, you see, Miss, it’s just as it takes them. I don’t say as -Mutton isn’t a bit fond of his glass; but after all, Miss,” she smiled -indulgently, “you must remember he was a bit upset-like. It isn’t as if -there ’adn’t been a reason. When ’e ’eard there was going to be another, -it turned ’im against ’er. Of course, poor feller! That was only to be -expected like—” - -“Good Heavens!” - -Mrs. Tosher smiled more broadly than ever at our innocence. - -“Some men do take it very ’ard!” - -Words failed us. We could not reason upon such a point of view. - -At the bottom of the garden the “little cot,” as Mrs. Adam calls it, -which she and her husband have made so pretty, has been the scene of a -similar domestic event which makes the contrast still more poignant. A -little Eve, in fact, has been born into our small garden of Eden. She -has received a joyful welcome. That most attractive child, black-eyed -Adam Junior, with the mysterious intuition of childhood had recently -been bombarding heaven for a little sister. He is now thrilled and -triumphant at the success of his prayers. We personally are quite -pleased with the addition to the _famiglia_. - -[Illustration: view of house from garden] - -We wonder whether it is because of the Italian atmosphere that has so -unaccountably descended on Villino Loki that we and our establishment -are really falling into relations not unlike those which so happily -subsist between master and servant in Italy. The Master is not master, -but Father-in-chief; the servant are not servants, but members of his -family—the _famiglia_. - -We were afraid our last winter in Rome had spoilt us for English ways. -We had a delightful famiglia there. Fioravanti di Rienzo, the pearl of -cooks; Camillo Lanti, the clever, busy, and quite reasonably peculating -butler; and Aristide ‹surname unknown›, the superb coachman, all begged -with tears to come back to England with us. - -“Take but a postcard,” cried Camillo, “and write upon it ‘Camillo, -come,’ and instantly I start.” - -[Illustration: man in trees] - -“Will ever anyone drive the Excellencies as I drive them?” Aristide -demanded. “I would learn the ways of Londra in a day—two days. To learn -the ways of Londra, that would be nothing; but to drive another family, -that I feel I cannot ever again!” - -[Sidenote: A FEARFUL DREAM] - -It was Fioravanti whom we loved the most, and whom we did really try to -get over to us later. But it was a case of binding engagements on one -side and the other. He had given his word, as a man of honour, to remain -a year with his new family, and we were pledged to some new cook at the -moment when he was free. So it all came to nothing—which was perhaps -just as well. He was a choleric little man. Loki’s Mamma dreamt he -stabbed the kitchen-maid and buried her in the garden, which was not at -all an unlikely thing to happen, for, like Vatel, his dishes were his -glory, his honour was bound up in them, and the race of Cinderellas in -this land would inflame the blood of such an enthusiast. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: ROMAN MEMORIES] - -This is not to say that all Italian servants are like those three. We -had some very thrilling experiences in the shape of Roman rascality -during our first weeks of housekeeping there. After the odd custom we -had one woman servant to three men; and, as the genus housemaid does not -exist at all in many parts of the Continent, we had extreme difficulty -in procuring a _donna di faccenda_. We had a whole large house in the -Via Gregoriana, and it was imperative we should have something female to -scrub its bedrooms and bathrooms.—Scrub? It is not a word you could get -any Roman to understand the meaning of, much less put into application; -but still we had to get somebody to sweep the dust into the corner or -under the rug, and pass an occasional wet rag languidly round the rim of -a bath. Loki’s Ma-Ma, being the Italian scholar of the family, engaged -the staff. She was enchanted with the appearance of a splendid young -girl from the Campagna, with cheeks like ripe nectarines, and a -coroneted black head. Alert and brisk as a mountain kid, she seemed to -us. Alas! who could have thought it? The creature was a bacchante! She -ordered in a cask of wine all for herself, and then ran out the second -evening and never came in till the next morning. Having danced with -Bacchus all night, she was altogether unfit for any Christian habitation -in the morning. It may be all very well to sleep off the red fumes on a -thymy bank in a pagan world; but it’s not at all poetical or attractive -at close quarters within four walls! A sordid, pitiful, revolting -business! And the happy mountain kid, who proved after all to be only a -bad little gutter goat, had to be driven forth when the legs that had -caracoled so much were able to crawl again. - -Aristide had a profile like the head of a philosopher on a Roman coin. -He was a magnificent driver. We had a pair of powerful, fiery Russian -horses, and they wanted all his skill. Whenever they took to -plunging—and when they did so they struck sparks out of the stones and -filled the street with the thunder of their hoofs—Aristide’s method of -reassuring “his family” was invariably to gather the reins in one hand -and blow his nose with great _désinvolture_ with the other. He always -turned sideways to do this, flourishing an immense pocket-handkerchief, -as one who would say: “Behold! how calm I am!... Have no fear!” - -Only on the occasions when we discarded our carriage for the use of a -motor was the harmony disturbed between Aristide and ourselves. He would -droop on his box for days afterwards and take the characteristic Roman -revenge of declining to shave. - -Loki’s Grandmother developed a sudden and violent attack of influenza on -one of these motor expeditions, and had to be conveyed home in a -collapsed condition. - -“Ah,” said Aristide, “if Mamma had been with me, this would not have -happened! Autos are nasty feverish things.” - - * * * * * - -We were very sorry to leave our Roman house, with its delicious -proximity to the Pincio. It was a very old house, with a round marble -staircase, deep-grilled windows, and a delightful tiled inner courtyard -filled with green, where a fountain splashed day and night—a courtyard -into which the sunshine literally poured. A great many of the objects -which now give us pleasure at Villino Loki we placed originally in that -double drawing-room which the owners of the house had left in somewhat -denuded condition. - -[Sidenote: ORANGES AND ALMOND BLOSSOM] - -[Illustration: orange tree in pot] - -The gardener of the Barberini Palace kept us supplied with hired plants. -Never have we seen Azaleas or Orange trees grown like those, with such -exquisite artistic freedom. We had a Tangerine tree that was a complete -joy. This arrangement worked beautifully for the first month. But -unfortunately the gardeners, father and son, were professed anarchists -and, when they were in their cups, their ethical principles overcame -their business sense. Loki’s Grandmother had one day to stand by -helplessly while Loki’s Ma-Ma was cursed and vituperated in a foam of -vulgar Italian for innocently requesting to have a faded Azalea -replaced. Not being able to speak Italian herself, she could not come to -the assistance of her more talented daughter.... And both felt -ignominiously inclined to cry!... Alas! that any spot so beauty-haunted -should have been desecrated by such coarse and stupid passions! Those -gardens of the Barberini, with their Lemon groves and Orange groves; the -lush grass filled with Narcissus and Violets, and, in the Roman way, -with water dripping from every corner; with the bits of columned wall -and the statues and the three great stone pines against the blue sky! It -is all Italy in one small enclosure. - -We moved from the Pincian Hill to much less interesting quarters; but, -with the luck that followed us all through that happy time, quite close -to the Borghese gardens. There we had a black-and-white tiled -dining-room and a long drawing-room all hung with pearl grey satin and a -wonderful Aubusson carpet. And when the room was filled with almond -blossom there were compensations for the exiguity of our accommodation. -The lady who was obliging enough to accept us as her tenants ‹for a rent -that filled our Roman friends with horror at our profligate -extravagance›, although bearing a noble Austrian name, it was darkly -whispered, had a commercial origin. Her businesslike spirit certainly -showed itself in her transactions with us; for neither blankets, nor -cooking utensils, nor the necessary glass and china were forthcoming, in -spite of magnificent assurances. - -“What will you?” said Fiori, our beloved little chef, shrugging his -shoulders, “_Sono Polacchi!_” “The Countess,” he informed the young -housekeeper, “sent in her maid, and I showed her the few poor pans, the -miserable couple of pots she expected me to do with. ‘Is it not enough?’ -she cried. ‘Enough?’ I answered. ‘Enough perhaps for your lady, for a -service that is content with an egg on a plate, or one solitary cutlet! -But my noble family must be nobly served.’” - -[Illustration: man with apron] - -Excellent Fiori, he used to trot upstairs every night to receive his -orders, clad in the most spotless white garments and a new white paper -cap, which he doffed with a superb gesture on entering the room. Upon -receiving a well-deserved compliment, he would spread out his small fat -hands and bow profoundly, exclaiming, “My duty, Excellency, only my -duty!” - -In one single instance was his entire content in our establishment -clouded; that was when, in a moment of abstraction, he forgot to send up -a dish of young peas—the first in the market—which he had prepared with -his own superlative skill, and adorned with a pat of fresh butter -whipped to a cream at the top: “_All’Inglese_,” he called it. We believe -he spent the evening in tears, and he could not speak of it next day -without emotion. - -“Useless, useless, to try and console me, Excellency,” he exclaimed. “I -am profoundly humiliated, I shall never get over it!” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XIX - - -[Illustration: _The Blue Border._] - -The warm weather has come with a burst in this last week of April. We -have torn ourselves away from Villino Loki to London pavements. The -Floribunda trees are covered with red buds. We expect a glory when we -return. Loki’s Great Aunt has presented his family with twenty-five -shillings worth of purple Aubretia, with which ‹much to Adam’s -annoyance› we have decided to carpet the blue border. The Blue Border, -we think, is under some evil bewitchment. Our late gardener assured us -that no “human gardener” could find room for another plant. Yet it was -the only border in the garden that “came up bald,” if one can use such -an expression. Perhaps we had too much initiative and he too little; a -combination bound to result in failure sometimes, if it is accompanied -on one side by plunging ignorance, and on the other by “slowness of -intellect, Birdie, my dear.” - - * * * * * - -To come back to one’s garden in April after ten days of strenuous London -is a wonderful little experience for people who care for the pure joys -of the young green and the spring flowers.—There is an indescribable -panorama of woodland beauty on the hills opposite Villino Loki. A great -marching regiment of pines, straggling upwards, emphasize the tints of -birch and larch—tints which no pen, hardly any brush, could portray. The -very sunlight seems caught and sent forth again from the pale yet vivid -sheen. The White Broom is pearled with bud; in a few days it will burst -into bloom and toss plumes as of some fantastic, fairy knighthood above -the yew hedges that enclose the Dutch Garden. - - * * * * * - -The dogs’ welcome to their lost masters and to Loki ‹who, of course, -always accompanies his family wherever it goes› is very genuine, and -rather obstreperous. Bettine runs in and out of the room, up and down -the furniture, as if in joyful pursuit of imaginary rats. Arabella, fond -and foolish as ever, tries to crawl into everybody’s lap. Being about -the size of a young calf, these blandishments are not encouraged. Loki, -little Fur-man, as we call him, has a different way of expressing his -feelings. True, he runs about and yelps rapture to the other dogs; but -he sobs and cries like a child on reunion with any of his own, and half -swoons with rapture in our arms. Sometimes it seems as if the love in -his heart were too big for his little flame-coloured body, and must -burst it in the endeavour to express his joy! - -[Sidenote: MISUNDERSTOOD CANDOUR] - -Loki is always very bumptious and pleased with himself in London—being -Only-dog there—but he cannot bear visitors beyond a certain limit. -Friends who come to tea are very much touched and charmed at the sight -of the “dear little dog” going from one to the other, sitting up and -waving his paws with frantically imploring gesture. - -[Illustration: dog waving paws at seated visitor] - -“Sweet little fellow—what can he want?” they say, and vainly offer -tit-bits from the tea-table. Loki’s Grandparents of course cannot -answer, “He begs you to go away”—but such unfortunately is the true -explanation. He sneezes with rapture when the door is closed on the last -departing guest: he then is able to lead his Grandmother upstairs for -the evening romp. His Grandmamma has weak health, which is no doubt the -reason why he has fixed on her as the only person who understands the -true inwardness of his games. They are very exhausting to mere humans, -and he has a great deal of cat perversity in his composition. He spent -the whole time of a recent dinner-party sitting upon a chair in full -view of the company, ceaselessly begging with prayerful paws; “Oh do, do -go away!” As usual he evoked a great deal of undeserved -sympathy—meanwhile his tactful family held their peace. - -Bettine is growing into the hobbledehoy stage. A few weeks ago it was an -entrancing spectacle to see her playing with a butterfly on the moor. It -was a yellow butterfly, and we think it must have understood the rules -of catch-who-catch-can, for it fluttered along just ahead of the white -puppy’s nose. It was a little vision of youth and spring to snapshot for -the gallery of mental memories. Loki’s female relations, who are given -to transcendental discussions, sometimes wonder whether in the next -world they will be vouchsafed these dear small pleasures which make up -the best of life down here. Unless we find our animals there, there will -certainly be something missing. Surely there are flowers in Heaven, and -birds—why not those faithful creatures in which a soul seems so often -struggling into birth? - -[Sidenote: HEAVEN, AND OUR BEASTS] - -“My little god, my little god!” Maeterlinck makes the dog say to his -master. It is certain that man, in making the dog his companion, has in -some sort endowed him with spiritual faculties. And it is this piteously -loving, confiding, blindly adoring, dumb creature that has been selected -by the “master minds” of the day as the chief victim for the horrors of -scientific research! - -Indeed, that humanity should thus use its God-given dominion over the -helpless lower order of creation is an idea so hideous that it can only -have emanated from the Powers of Darkness. All the glib arguments that -this animal torture benefits suffering man seem to us as much beside the -mark as they are immoral. Almost every crime can be justified by some -such theory, from the century-old customs of child exposure in China to -the modern Suffragette outrages. And already the boundaries on this -speculative field have been extended so as to include members of the -community whose defencelessness or unimportance preclude unpleasant -reprisals. How many unfortunate patients, for instance, are quite -unnecessarily operated upon in our great hospitals? Within our narrow -personal experience we have known cases where life has been absolutely -sacrificed to the “knife mania.” - -Loki’s Grandmother, who feels very strongly on this subject, has always -wanted to write an article giving chapter and verse of the facts. She -would have headed her instructive pages with the title “Killing no -Murder;” but she knows no magazine would publish them because of the -storm it would raise. - -During a recent severe illness of hers, one of her nurses, whom she used -to call her “ministering devil,” was very fond of entertaining her—at -moments when the patient was too weak for speech—with the hopes which -many eminent men of science now entertain of being able, some day, to -get a bill passed permitting vivisection on the condemned criminal! - -Why speak of such abominations in these pages dedicated to kind, happy -days and sweet garden thoughts? Only for this reason—that it is the -policy of ignoring, of cowardly turning away from unpleasant subjects, -on the part of the great majority of the world that makes the thing -possible at all. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: bird flying outside house] - -One of the first orders we give a new gardener is that nothing is to be -slain at Villino Loki except the Green Fly and the Rose-Beetle. The -birds may devour all our buds, strip up our crocuses, and denude our -raspberry canes ‹if they get a chance›. The mole may tunnel and burrow -and raise his convulsive mounds in our most cherished lawn—and that is -certainly a test of garden endurance—we will have no traps! As for the -squirrels, we are afraid we have cleared too much in our wilderness to -tempt them now. But one of the family actually bought little green -tables in order to spread repasts for them near their favourite haunt. - -In certain wild corners of Dorsetshire squirrels become almost familiars -in such households as are kindly enough to set forth a dainty, now and -again, for the frolicsome company. One understanding person of our -acquaintance was given to spreading nuts on a certain window-sill, where -every day the squirrels used to come and fetch them. One morning she was -a little later than usual in this attention; on coming into the room, -she was startled by a knocking on the window, and there on the sill sat -a thing, all fur and bright eyes, knocking with its fairy paw! We think -Loki has a good deal of the squirrel in him. There are no end of nice -little beasts that Loki resembles. Sometimes we declare that he is least -of all dog. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THE WILD PATCH] - -[Illustration: flowering plant] - -It is a wonder that people do not make more use of Broom in their Wild -Gardens. We have seen a woodland path where great bushes of alternate -white and yellow Plantagenista made riot in the sunshine; but it was too -regular an arrangement to harmonize with scene. A wild garden, however -cultivated secret, should grow as naturally as possible. It is a rather -interesting experiment to fling the contents of a packet of wild flower -seeds about one’s banks and unkept spaces. One forgets all about it; -and, behold! after the second year, there are all kinds of engaging -discoveries to be made: patches of grey-blue Campanulas, bold Foxgloves, -Loose-strife, white Campions, all the more delightful because forgotten -and unexpected and fitting into their surroundings as no amount of -planting in can make them do. A giant Mullein has just made itself a -home under the fir-trees and stands as if it had always been there, -boldly and defiantly established in its proper place and determined to -maintain it. - -We caress the project of planting tall Ericas and Mediterranean Heaths -on the borders of a certain rough path; and in between the Heather we -shall make drifts of Colchicum, so that it may look lovely in all -seasons. We do not consider that Colchicum is properly placed in the -garden. Its summer leaf is too coarse, and it is hideous when it dies -off. Mrs. Earle has made the same remark in one of her delightful books. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: VISCOUNTESS, AND OTHERS] - -It will be very interesting to see how the new Roses turn out. A good -many were ordered on the strength of the catalogue description, from -three different rose growers. Hybrid Perpetuals do not do with us; -neither do pure Teas stand our cold, otherwise we should riot in “Lady -Hillingdon.” - -“You never can go wrong with a Viscountess,” said his gardener to a -friend of ours. - -He was a man of lightning wit—as all lovers of “Savoy” operas know. - -“That is a very interesting statement of yours,” he said in that brief, -unsmiling manner that added zest to his quaintness. “I have been given -to understand the contrary.” - -We can go wrong with a Viscountess, unfortunately, and do. As we have -said, Hybrid Perpetuals do not behave well with us, except, perhaps, -that model of excellence, Ulrich Brunner.—Morals are a question of -climate even with roses. - -Loki’s Ma-Ma ‹to be discursive—and we are afraid that this chronicle is -nothing if not discursive› was a great favourite with this genius of -mirth above mentioned, who made the world ring with honest laughter and -whose heroic death brought many tears, at least to Villino Loki. He used -to call her “his little Lemur” because she had a way of clinging to her -mother, in her first debutante days. - -Never was there a man so tender-hearted. On his estate no wild thing was -to be robbed of its life: not even a rabbit. Loki’s Grandmother used to -be a little timid in his company, because of this gift of swift humour. -She never felt able to meet him on his own ground—except once when in a -windy June he told her that he had begun to take his daily swim in the -lake, and she shuddered at the thought. - -“Cold!” he cried, “not a bit of it! Delightful! You shall take a dip -with me when next you come to us.” - -“No,” she retorted—and it was the only time in all their pleasant -intercourse that she was ever brave enough to make a pass with him—“No, -I had rather get into hot water with you.” - -Alas, alas! That lake! We felt the menace of it even then. It was there, -trying to save another, he found his death. - -It has often been said that real wit is a thing of the past. Certainly -the younger generation’s idea of pleasantry is a kind of -rough-and-tumble fight as compared to the neat, delicate thrust-play of -an older world. But this friend of ours had a gift quite apart, a -mixture of humour, wit and satire, something dry, comic, quaint, -peculiarly his own. - -“It reminds me,” said a clever relation of his once in our hearing, “of -an old wood carving.” - -We understood what he meant; the odd angles, the sharp turns, the -simplicity, the brusque sincerity—and withal how richly genial! - -In a single instance one of us beheld him almost meet his match, and -that in a most unexpected manner. The pretty fairy lady, his wife, -happened to comment with surprise upon the fact that a woman who had -been very rude to her should have attempted to greet her upon a recent -occasion as if nothing had happened. - -“She actually held out her hand!” she concluded. - -“Well, my dear,” observed her lord, in his serious way, “that is the -member most usually extended.” - -To the surprise of the whole table, a shy lady on his left, who had not -yet uttered a word, said in a small meek voice: “She might have put out -her tongue!” - -We never met that shy woman again. We should like to. “Please will you -keep your Pickle out of my preserves,” he wrote to a neighbour whose dog -was given to roving. The neighbour bore a name well known in grocers’ -lists. - - * * * * * - -For two days the wind has been blowing over the moors from the east. The -sound of it through the trees on the hill-side is like the roar of a -torrent; and now and again it is like the wash of waves upon the beach. -A very unseasonable wind, but it makes a grave and beautiful music. -Fortunately the Dutch Garden with its wealth of Tulips is sheltered, or -there would scarce be left an unbruised petal. - -People are very much struck by our beds of Myosotis, surmounted by the -swaying chalices of the Darwins. The simple plan of the blue carpet for -these slender May Queens seems to them very wonderful and new. - -[Sidenote: OAKS AND BLUE GLADES] - -“Oh, look! What’s happened? Is it real? It’s like fairyland!” cried a -visitor yesterday to a sympathetic sister.—Such kind people to walk -about the garden with! They have themselves a mysterious Oak wood, -falling away beneath their lawns, that is now carpeted with Bluebells: a -place to sit and dream in. Oaks are trees full of romance, we think. -They tell long stories out of the past, and speak of Shakespeare and the -glories of England, and their glades are for ever peopled with brave -figures of history or fiction. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: THE BEECH] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XX - - -Beeches, on the other hand, have a kind of fairy glory about them that -does not seem to belong to our land. We drove through a beech forest the -other day; the road went up zigzagging to the top of a steep hill, and -one looked down upon the Beech glades, all golden green in a fierce -sunburst between two showers. And they were still dripping with the -rain. It was wonderful, but not English, distinctively English, like -that Oak wood. It was a _Märchen-Wald_. Siegfried might have strode -through it, blowing his horn: youth incarnate, leaping out of Mime’s -cave to conquer the world. On the inspiration of such a haunt was the -_Wald-Musick_ conceived. - -[Sidenote: MAY AND SEPTEMBER MOODS] - -If we had a dwelling for every different mood, a log-house at the top of -that Beech ravine would suit us very well in a sunny month of May. -Between the great smooth boles of the trees we would want to peep out at -the flat wide land, with the rich far woods below, misty in the -sunshine; and the distant moors as with the bloom of the grape upon -them. We would not want flowers; nothing but that heavenly green of the -young leaves against the blue; and the whispering and the swaying of the -boughs to cradle our souls; and the thrushes and blackbirds to sing the -dawn in and the twilight out! How holy and innocent and loving would -one’s mind become after a week in that log hut—a week alone, or with -one’s best beloved! - -[Illustration: landscape with clouds] - -After we came out from that Beech wood we took a wrong turning, and -landed ourselves far out on the downs instead of back to our moors. Now, -for another mood—say, a warm, still, serene September mood—why not a -small stone house in a high hollow of those downs, miles removed from -any other human habitation? Just a stone house dumped in the hollow—pale -grey, so as not to offend the eye in that stretch of bleached vastness, -with a group of Thorns at the back and nothing else, not even a path; -only a long way off, the vision of a white ribbon of road, looping and -twisting, running to the sea. No flowers but the little wild, stiff, -aromatic things that push up through the short turf. Overhead, one or -two quite round, white clouds, sailing along the blue, caught by some -high current that hardly touches us below—the kind of cloud that you see -in an old German print. And all about, as far as the gaze can encompass, -nothing but the dip and rise, the scoop and billow of the downs; and the -hollows, blue on that wonderful sun-steeped, warm, yet bleached expanse. -And the shadows of the clouds, running along across it; and perhaps a -lark’s song, somewhere not too close, beaten back to earth from an -unseen height of joy; and far, far away, the tinkle of a sheep-bell! -Would not one’s soul expand with the grand silence and the glorious wide -spaces? One would not want to hear or behold the sea, only to taste the -salt of it in every breath. Now does it not seem that up there, sitting -outside that stone house, you would touch the prehistoric past? Or, -rather, that the great eternity, the never-dying essences of things, -would sink into your little passing bit of humanity? Your soul would -mirror all infinity.—A place to turn Buddhist in! - -[Sidenote: A TUSCAN VILLINO] - -[Illustration: house on hill] - -There was a pink Villino on the unusual side of Rome. You looked in upon -it through high gates into a tangle of garden, where everything seemed -to riot. It had an odd, incongruous tower from which you could surely -have a vast prospect of the plains of the Campagna and the Alban -mountains beyond. There was an archway in one side of it through which -one certainly drove into some inner courtyard of delight. That little -habitation you might covet with a covetousness that gave you a pain in -your heart. We did. - -And outside Florence, too, there was another small house. It had been -once a farm. A certain great lady had her spring quarters there, liking -the contrast, we suppose, between that and the old Scotch castle where -Fate had planted her. We drove to tea with her there ‹early May it was› -through the hot, wind-swept, noisy Florentine streets. It was just the -time of year when the Iris was flooding the land with its penetrating -and yet not sickly sweetness. There never was any scent so perfect. And -the small pink roses were flinging themselves over the tops of tall -garden walls, as if the prodigal Italian springtide had been at its full -and left a foam of bloom behind it. Up, up the mountain road, between -uncompromising walls and out into the freer country—and there was the -farmhouse! Its garden has left an odd blurred impression on our minds: -vaguely—a path bordered by lush grass and gay with Apple trees—there was -a storm brewing, and all was black overhead; under the weird sky the -delicate blossoms took a curious vividness like minute paintings. - -One had to go across a red-brick kitchen to get to the stairs that led -to the two long, quaint, cool rooms, in the farther of which the hostess -sat. - -[Sidenote: LANDSCAPE ECSTASY] - -She had kept the charm of simplicity there. Plain white walls and rather -empty spaces, with bits of Italian black oak, and a painting or two; a -vase of lilac, a dim missal warmth of colour in the Persian carpets that -lay on the bricks—that was the picture. A very pleasant impression those -rooms made, with the old great lady in her high-backed chair, clad in -flowing black satin and with a white lace that framed a face as fresh as -the apple blossom without. The storm broke as we sat there. She was -nervous, and so were some of her visitors; therefore she had the wooden -shutters closed. Perhaps she was not really frightened, for she was as -sturdy a Scotchwoman as ever we beheld, and her bright blue eye was -stern in spite of her affability. Perhaps she only compassionated the -nerves of her guests. Be it as it may, we sat an hour while the thunder -rolled bars of sound over our heads and the wind whistled and the rain -hissed and roared down the valley, and the lightning kept a perpetual -play between the chinks of the shutters. And though Loki’s Grandma -generally gibbers during a thunderstorm, she never enjoyed an hour more, -so delightful was her hostess and so fascinating the sense of isolation -and strangeness, being thus shut away amid the fury of the elements in a -little Italian farmhouse! And when the tempest was grumbling itself off -in the distance, the shutters were all thrown back and the doors on the -square wooden balcony opened. The air rushed in, vivifying, full of the -scent of the earth and charged with ozone and perfumes. We went out on -the dripping balcony, and never, oh! never can any of us forget the -vision! For below the _casa_ the land dropped away, and it was all -vineyards; and they rose and dipped and rose again, a sight no one has -ever beheld out of Italy. And beyond were the mountains; and the whole -wide valley was filled with mist and all of it was stained rose and -crimson from the sunset. - -You may not believe it, you who read it, but it is a fact that the -valley was carmine up to the balcony, indescribably shot with the fires -of the West—a steaming cauldron of glory! That is the kind of vision one -carries gratefully to one’s grave. - -For a long time we vowed that our old age would see us, like the Scotch -Dowager, steeping our being in the joys of Spring in a farmhouse outside -Florence.—But now we don’t know. Villino Loki has laid hold of us; it is -our real home, the rest are but dreams. - -The Master of the House saw this morning a tiny Golden-crested Wren -fluttering from stem to stem of the tall Darwin Tulips to pick at the -Forget-me-nots below; and every time it pecked it twittered with joy, so -light a thing that it scarcely swayed the slender stalks—a fairy vision. - -[Illustration: path through garden to house] - - * * * * * - -The Hemicycle, where the grass must be allowed to grow lush, because of -the bulbs, until the leaves “ripen off,” is none the less attractive on -that account. There are eight little square beds, each containing a -weeping standard—“Dorothy Perkins” or “Stella”—thickly planted below -with Forget-me-nots and Bybloemen Tulips. Between the beds there is a -large red pot also filled with Forget-me-nots and Bybloemen. The Tulips -have a kind of wild grace, coming out of the long grass; and Myosotis, -darling little creature, accommodates herself in every surrounding. -There is a pretty, stemmed fountain, or rather bird-bath; in its centre, -where, in a basin shaped like a spreading lotus flower, a sturdy _putto_ -astride a dolphin blows soundless blasts. This half-circle of vivid -beauty, with the young green grass, the swaying Tulips, the blue of the -Forget-me-nots against the moor is good to look upon. - -Beyond the Hemicycle, the Azalea Glade runs down now in lines of -orange-rose and creamy-salmon, bordered too with Forget-me-nots. Up -against it the cool silver of a great Service-tree comes just where it -makes a perfect background; and beyond that again the rivulets of blue -in the Reserve Garden lie deep below. - -[Sidenote: TRANSIENT COLOUR GLORIES] - -This is the hour of our garden’s glory. No Delphinium muster, no -spreading garlands of Roses, can equal the exquisite freshness, the -fulness of life of this May world. With the Brooms, white and yellow; -with the pink foam of the Floribunda trees, the incomparable gold and -green of the Beech and Birch, one wants to put one’s arms round the -little place and kiss it. - -“So much work, so long and great a travail of nature,” said a friend to -us to-day; “ever since November, preparing for this wonderful revelation -of bloom ... and all for so short a span! All this beauty scarce reaches -its climax but it is already on the wane!” - -Perhaps it is to give us an idea of the permanence of what “eye hath not -seen” beyond, that its glories are described in terms of jewels; and yet -so perversely is one made that it is the very fragility that endears -here below—a sense of the fleeting moment that gives ecstasy its finest -edge. No, this limited humanity of ours cannot conceive the infinitude. -It is only with those perceptions which transcend the senses that one -gets a gleam, a hint, a possibility of once understanding. The restless -mind of man for ever demands and creates change, but the soul aspires to -immutability. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: SUMMER] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXI - - -[Sidenote: END OF SPRING, SUMMER PLANS] - -The last day of May. After the usual “contrariness” of life we have -spent the hot span in London, and returned here to find that ungenial -nor’west wind blowing in upon us apparently over the same icebergs as a -month ago. We think with wails of regret of the long, golden, balmy -garden-days we missed; of the full glory of the Azaleas; of those -splendours of Rose Tulips which we should have enjoyed, radiant in the -sunshine, instead of seeing them yawn their lives away in a hot town -drawing-room. And the Florentina Alba Irises, those delicate, fragrant, -stately things that look as if they were compounded of cobweb and spun -crystal and moonlit snow—it takes but a day to show them in their beauty -and another to wilt them—we have missed their lovely hour too, of -course. On long, long stems, the Iris Siberica are congregating a little -grove of buds in the Blue Border; only two curving purple darlings -having outrun the rest. We shall miss them, for the fates have decreed -that we are to leave the Earthly Paradise in a day or two once more, and -that for the flat horizons of Lancashire. Well, the best of the Spring, -early and late, is over, and we do not grudge these intermediary days so -much, though we wonder how the bedding out will get on without our -stimulating presence. We shall not even have a finger in the -“Cherry-Pie.” Lengthy plans will have to be made. The “Miss Wilmott” -Verbena must replace, by their delicate rose, the blue of the Myosotis -carpet as well as the wonders of the many-hued Darwins, in the two -centre beds of the Dutch Garden. And in the border beds we project a -fine gathering of Antirrhinums shading from crimson, through Firefly and -Rose-Dorée, to palest pink. - -The terrace immediately under the house runs, according to our -invariable summer programme, to cool colours and sweet scents. Under the -dining-room and drawing-room windows, besides the transient prospect of -the White Lilies, there are to bloom ‹until the frost lays waste› -Heliotrope and Nicotiana, with pale pink Ivy-leaf Geranium to contrast -with the mauve and purple, and blue Lobelia to rim the outer border of -White Pinks. Against the terrace wall, between the tall Madonna Lilies, -which show good promise, and the Polyantha Roses, red and white, with -the thick edging of “Mrs. Sinkins,” Lobelia and Petunia shall spread. -The pots will bear their customary summer burthen of rose Ivy-leaf -Geraniums, with Lobelia too, and the Zonals. We like them to flaunt -against the moor. - -Below, in the Blue Border, the Delphiniums and the Anchusas, the great -old-established White Rose bushes, the steel blue Thistle, must make -what show they can over the annuals—Nigella, Gypsophila and -Nemophila—not forgetting the kind Campanulas, so dear, so faithful, so -hardy! In fine contrast, on the other side of the grass walk, the -Dorothy Perkins hedge will spread its vivid masses, and fling out its -irrepressible garlands over the border of bright blue Nemophila we have -had the audacity to sow. - -[Illustration: trees] - -And below, in the Hemicycle, the colours are to grow cool again, with -Heliotrope between the Lilies, the Lavenders, and the Monthly Roses, and -Fortune’s Yellow and Rêve d’Or running up the supporting wall. - -The beauty of the ancient woods in that Lancashire home from which we -have just returned lingers in our memory. Outside the park walls, the -flat fields lie that would have a charm of their own if the encroachment -of the peculiarly unlovely brick and mortar prosperity of the district -did not catch the eye on almost every side; but within there is a sense -of wonderful peace and mystery, in the old, old woods with their -Rhododendron glades. The astonishing height of the trees seems to keep -modernity at bay, and tells stories still of the simple, proud, -God-fearing race which has become so associated with the very spot of -earth that has borne and nurtured them for many centuries, that, like -one or two other families in England, their name in absolute legality is -not complete without the territorial appendage. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THE DISAPPEARING SQUIRE] - -We hear every day that “the Squire” is a being of the past. We know that -every effort of present-day legislation is to abolish what was once the -strength of England; what might still be its strength, if the restless -and destructive spirit of the age would permit it. - -The young owner of those old lands ‹who has just been our host› is one -who will, we hope, keep up the traditions—so fast dying out, or being -stamped out—a little longer. He is, as his grandfather was, the centre -of his own people, the shepherd of his flock. Not quite to the same -extent, perhaps: we do not suppose, for instance, that he is both maker -and depository of their wills, or that he is summoned to every tenant’s -deathbed as was that kindly, sturdy old Lancastrian his grandsire. - -“Hurry, Jimmy, hurry!” the afflicted wife and mother would say. “Run oop -to the Hall and tell Squoire to coom along quick, for feyther’s at his -last!” - -Neither would he undertake to mend the broken leg; or patch up the -conjugal quarrel. But the young Squire will still hear such a phrase as -this at election time: “What _we_ wants to know is which way Squoire’s -voting? Squoire’s man is the man for we!” - -He will let his cottages at eighteen pence a week; and the larger the -family is the smaller will be the rent. And the claims of the tenant -will be attended to before his own. He seems as much part of them as -they are part of him. Has anyone ever heard of a labourer on a large -estate being in destitution? We never have. Our great landowners do more -to provide for their own dependents and keep down pauperism than any -frantic legislator or wholesale philanthropist. But the system is to go; -we have the best authority for it, the authority of those in power. God -help England and England’s poor peasants, say we, when they have their -way! - -[Illustration: woman in front of landscape] - -We can speak with examples under our eyes. Every time a bit of an estate -is sold, hereabouts, the cottages thereon are purchased by the local -grocer or butcher: and up goes the rent that had been three and six or -four shillings a week to seven and six and ten shillings. Here, where we -live, there are practically no important landowners, and what is the -result? Not the most miserable cottage to be had under seven and six a -week, a rent liable to be raised at a moment’s notice. The butcher, the -baker, these are the “landlords,” and the rent they exact is exactly -what they know they can extract out of the unfortunate tenant, in the -present state of cottage scarcity. We ourselves have spent weeks in -striving to secure a roof for a wretched woman with three little -children, whose husband had attempted to murder her and after her escape -had danced upon all her furniture, and burnt the remnants. We had to -engage a cottage three months in advance, and then the rent was eight -and six a week! She was a stupid poor goose of a woman, who couldn’t do -anything for her living except an occasional day’s charing or rough -washing. Of course we ought to have let her go to the workhouse; but we -didn’t. We guaranteed the rent instead and took in the eldest boy as an -unneeded garden assistant. ‹He is rather like a garden slug, so we -thought he ought to be at home in the borders›! The other day a local -tradesman raised the rent of a cottage sixpence a week upon the -hard-working mother of a large family, who occasionally comes in “to -oblige” at Villino Loki; and when she remonstrated he humorously -remarked that Mr. Lloyd George was “driving him to it!” - -[Sidenote: THE REFRESHING FRUIT] - -There is a proverb that “good wine needs no bush.” The Chancellor’s -efforts to convince his victims of the comfort of the plaster which is -blistering them are almost pathetic. But surely it is another proof, if -one were needed, of the weakness of his cause. A local laundry owner has -been receiving six pounds a week, lecturing, in Devonshire of all -places, on the blessedness of the Act as experienced by himself and -staff. One of our district nurses, a delightful sturdy North Country -woman, was “approached” as to whether she would undertake, for a -consideration, to use her persuasiveness with her patients and make them -see how much they were benefited by the stamp tax. She declined with a -heat that may have astonished the emissary. - -It must indeed be a little difficult to make, say, a struggling -greengrocer understand the debt of gratitude he owes to the law which -constrains him to pay fourpence a week for the assistant he can so ill -afford as it is and mulct that discontented youth of threepence! More -especially when baker and grocer charge him more to cover their own -losses. - -The obvious remedy, says Mr. Lloyd George, is for the greengrocer to -raise the prices in his town! He does; and somehow it doesn’t work. -Being in a poor district and all his patrons being poor, they buy less -from him, and he buys less from them. - -“But look at the comfort in sickness!” It is tiresome, it almost seems -like putting bad will into it, that the greengrocer’s wife should -develop consumption before the first stone of any sanatorium is ready! - - * * * * * - -Now, that prosperous, contented class, the labourer on the great estate, -a man who lives on his lord’s lands, if not rent free, very nearly so, -with wood and garden produce, potatoes, milk and what not, and steady -employment all the year round, he is to be benefited—save the mark! A -“minimum wage,” cheap housing, the fixed hours, the sacred half-holiday, -it sounds so plausible! The propagandist is volubly at work. “No -wonder,” as the young Squire we have recently visited once ruefully said -to us, “my decent, contented, God-fearing villagers were turned in a -couple of hours into shrieking, blaspheming lunatics by such a gospel, -preached with forcible arguments in the public-house.” - -Of course they will get their demands. Striking, with “peaceful -picketing,” generally gets its way, even if not backed up by Government -emissaries and the glorious visions flash-lighted by the Chancellor of -the Exchequer. But what will be the result? Half the amount of -employment on the estates of those who can still afford to keep them, -and no all-the-year-round engagements. When the work is slack the -over-paid and inimical labourer will naturally be discharged. We say -inimical, for how can friendly relations be maintained if the old -solidarity is destroyed? This, of course, is what is aimed at; and the -quack remedy, the patent pill alluringly held aloft, is—State ownership -of land! The land is to be managed like the Workhouse, the Prison, and -the Reformatory, of which, we are all aware, the British State makes -such a brilliant success. We know how the poor love the Workhouse, and -how happy they are in it; yet one can scarcely take up a police report -without finding some desperate pauper sentenced for revolt. Oh, no doubt -it will be a Merry England when these disinterested and dashing tinkers -get their way. - -[Sidenote: A HAVEN OF REST] - -We have known, in parenthesis, a pauper establishment, run by voluntary -effort, in which a hundred and fifty old men and ninety old women were -kept happy and contented by a handful of soft-voiced nuns. No need to -call in the policeman, in Portobello Road; for there old age is -reverenced at once and pitied, and the double aspect of the most natural -of all the commandments is put into every-day practice, so unobtrusively -and simply that no one can guess how heroically. - -But the religious question will soon be treated in the same way as the -land question; so no invidious comparisons need be drawn. Little boys -and little girls are to be taught that the State is henceforth to take -the place of God in their infant minds. How comfortable and warm a -creed! How it will strengthen their character for living, and ease the -thoughts of the dying. There is no God: but there is a Chancellor of the -Exchequer and a dashing gentleman at the Home Office. You have not been -created or redeemed, little boy! We have no prayers to teach you. There -are no divine commandments which you need obey—naturally, since there is -no Divine Father. There are no sacraments to sustain and elevate your -soul—for little boys and girls have no souls! But cheer ye: you were -evolved by a natural process, and the State is here to cradle and -instruct you and to make life beautiful for you. Behold, dear children, -the Book of the Laws. These laws which you are bound to keep—unless, of -course, you go on strike, become a Suffragette, or organize political -vote catching. And this is a picture of a Jail for people who are so -blind as to refuse Insurance blessings; behold that inspired -countenance. That is the head of the Government! And for Sunday -amusements there is the Cinema—the Crippen case, dear children; the -Houndsditch Burglary and the Train Smash.... And when the new theories -have developed and matured, there will be no such thing as private -property in anything to constrain the free mind of emancipated man—A -house of your own, a wife to yourself!—fie! - -“Surely, surely,” said a young Liberal M.P., “no sanely thinking person -would continue to advise religious education in the schools. What is the -inevitable result—see the case in your own Church” ‹he was speaking to a -Catholic› “the law commands one thing, and the Church another! Take -divorce, for instance. Surely, surely—” - -“Dear me,” said the Catholic. “We had not looked at it in that light. -The laws man made are, then, above the laws God made?” - -“Surely, surely you would not teach little children to disobey a law of -the land made for their benefit?” - -We ventured to say that the ten commandments had forestalled— - -His pitying smile arrested us; so infinitely was he above the ten -commandments. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXII - - -Yesterday Loki’s family motored energetically some fifty miles and back -to a garden party near London. - -A wonderful house with wonderful lawns and gardens—one feels that the -hideous tide of brick and mortar must inevitably sweep over and destroy -it before another generation comes and goes, so that there is a kind of -pathos in its very beauty. - -[Illustration: flower] - -Out of the unlovely mean streets along which the tram-line runs its -abominable way, one turns off into the cool country road. The long -avenue is bordered by wide fields where, as we passed yesterday, the -new-mown grass was lying in silver furrows. The country is quite flat; -but the richness of the green, the incidents of lake and timber, give it -a placid English fairness of its own. - -The Lady of Villino Loki went with a keen eye to garden hints, and her -first thrill was a Honeysuckle screen in the little garden of the second -lodge. Such a Honeysuckle screen! It had once, she supposes, been an -arch, for it rose to a kind of gable peak in the centre, but it was -filled in either by design or natural luxuriance till it was a complete -mass of bloom, a solid wall of blossom. Never had she beheld such a -thing before. She wants Honeysuckle at the Villino, as she said already, -and she is fired with fresh enthusiasm. Why should she not have a hedge -of Honeysuckle, not too far from the house itself? It is settled. She -will buy fifty in November and try. - -The weather, which had been misty, thundery and unpromising, cleared -just upon our arrival at the great “Adam” house. The lawns were in their -perfection, the shade of the Cedars was cut out on the sun-golden turf, -the massed flowers were vivid against their cunningly devised -backgrounds. Naturally Villino Loki, even in its wildest dreams, cannot -emulate this great and carefully cherished place; but one can find -practical suggestions here and there. We cannot mass rare and -golden-hued Maples over a broad band of yellow Calceolarias anywhere on -our terraced lawns; but it is very instructive to see the management of -certain herbaceous borders, where three or four large pillars of Rambler -Roses alternate with mauve and silver-leaved Japanese Maples at the -back; the foreground being of the usual herbaceous order. - -We had no idea that the dwarf bright yellow Evening Primroses would look -so well grouped together. And Nemesia, “Heavenly Blue,” has become the -one annual our souls long for: blue flowers are all too rare. - -Everything was most kindly labelled. We do not know if it is possible to -obtain any seedlings this time of year; but certainly, next year, this -adorable little plant, Nemesia, with its most exquisite turquoise blue -colourings and its splendid efflorescence, shall enter largely into our -schemes. In between the Nemesia, bushes of Campanula Persicifolia rose -with cool restrained tones; the contrast was one to be copied also. - -Another not impossible example was a Rose screen, starting with a -background of close growing Ramblers, some ten or twelve feet high, -supplemented midway by some of the larger Bush Roses and running down to -the edge of the turf in front with pegged-down Teas; so that, to the -very top, it was one mass of varied bloom. We do not see any reason why -such an effect should not be copied, even in a small garden. - -The _standard_ Scarlet Geraniums we must admire from a respectful -distance. They are as much beyond our humble resources as the _standard_ -Heliotrope we so much admired a year ago in a millionaire’s huge grounds -not very far from us. These last rose out of a bed of mauve Violas. The -ambitious soul of the mistress of the Villino hungered to copy it; but -she knew that hunger would never be assuaged. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: PICKING UP WRINKLES] - -We have had a frightful disappointment in the “Miss Wilmott” Verbenas. -For two summers it has been the same story. Last year they came up “all -colours,” though purchased from a well-known firm! This year, to make -quite sure, we ordered seedlings to be specially grown for us from a -local nursery. The wretch has sent a collection of measly little -starveling things which cannot be expected to do anything for weeks and -weeks. Of course they should not have been accepted; but the deed was -done in our absence. We are much inclined to have the beds cleared, and -Heliotrope or rose-coloured Ivy-leaf Geraniums put in instead. It is too -late for anything else. Gardeners are so tiresome! They are as bad as -cooks, who will accept with perfect equanimity, fish ready to illustrate -the proverb and game prepared to walk to its own funeral, and then say -that “they thought it was ‘a bit high’ perhaps, but they weren’t quite -sure!” - -[Illustration: flowers] - -We have forced for the house several plants of Canterbury Bells, -glorious purple and white, which have grown to an extraordinary size and -fill the Compton pots on the landing in very decorative fashion. - -The front landing and stairs are wondrous pretty in the Villino: and the -colour scheme—Tangerine yellow for the curtains and grey for the -carpet—somehow suits the little place, with its Roman air. In the round -bow window there is a large copy of the Samothraki Nike on a white -stand; and in front of her we place flower-pots all the year -round—generally Orange trees in the winter, with which we are -successful. - -Alas! we leave the little Paradise to-morrow! However, we are still in -such an intermediary stage that we mind less than when we lost all the -glories of the Azaleas. For anyone of an impatient disposition, this -time of the first setting out of the bedding plants is a trying ordeal. -We are going this afternoon on a surreptitious round with “plantoids” to -which Adam objects, but in the virtues of which we are believers. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: PITFALLS OF AMBITION] - -The longer we labour at garden experiences, the more it is borne in upon -us that ambitiousness is to be avoided. No amateurs—however splendid -their visions may be—should attempt “Wild Gardens,” or “Bog Gardens” on -their own unaided efforts. This does not refer to the flinging of -wild-flower seeds in woodland glades, but to the digging up of harmless -and unobtrusive patches of field and bank for the insertion of -seedlings, which apparently will never be at home in that particular -aspect and soil. The worst of it is that the energetic workers are so -ensnared by the mental vision that they very often fail to perceive the -paltriness of the material result. - -“We had to have the meadow mown and to dig it up, just along there,” -said an energetic gardening neighbour to us the other day, pointing out -with pride a dreadful stretch of raw and muddy earth that lay -meaninglessly along the lush field. “And we _think_ the things will do -now.” - -The things—poor little sprigs of white Violas, and other most -unadaptable garden children—were looking very ill and faint at long -distances from each other. And in any case, even if they were eventually -to flourish, the meadow was quite beautiful enough in itself and needed -no such adornment. But we had not the heart to tell her so. We said, -“How nice that will be,” but took the lesson to ourselves. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: TANTALISING NOVELTIES] - -A visit to the Horticultural Show at Holland House—even the humblest -gardener can take away lessons from these displays of lavish beauty. We -wonder whether it would be possible for us to have a pool anywhere upon -our sandy height. And, if so, why should we not build rough rock-work -round it on one side; fill it with the cool misty mauve of the Nipeta, -the cool pale yellow spires of the Dwarf Mulleins, and the faint pinks -of Spiræa; and against this background, walled about by a bank of the -mysterious Iris “Morning Mist,” let a little slender lead statue rise -out of the water? Coolness and mystery! Shall we ever encompass that -delightful effect?... The flat flagged paths on the other side of the -water should be bordered by Iris; and they should dip down into the pool -itself, where just two or three Water Lilies should rock their -gold-centred cups. Oh, dear! If we had sufficient money how beautiful we -could make our corner of the earth! - -Oh, and the Clematis!—It was a shock to find that we had to pay seven -and sixpence each to go in, but it was worth it, for we have plunged to -the extent of a dozen adorable Clematis from the very fountain head—if -one can so strain the poor English language—of Clematis culture itself. - -And the Roses! “Coronation,” a new bright scarlet climbing Wichuriana; -Tausendschön and Blush Rambler, old favourites, but so beautiful! There -were two or three pillars of unnamed seedlings, exquisite apple-blossom -beauties, which we longed to purchase, but which were not yet in the -market. A firmer, richer apple-blossom best describes the bloom of the -new discovery. - -Quite beyond our pockets, but most attractive, were the standard Ivies, -golden and variegated, fifteen years old ... at the modest charge of six -guineas each! Could we ever wait fifteen years to see such developments? -After all, why not? The grower assured us they were perfectly hardy, and -more they were cut the better. They would look charming on the terrace. -Such balls of gold! - -Lilies at the top of a rock-garden or at the top of a rough wall have a -most charming effect. - -We have invested in three and sixpence worth of new fertiliser -guaranteed to “produce an appearance like dark green Utrecht velvet in -ten days on the roughest lawn.” - -“Would you like your lawn to look like that, Madam?” asked the red -headed youth in charge of squares that didn’t look in the least like -real grass, but a kind of artificial compound as above mentioned. - -“Very much!” said one of us, who was struck by the unnatural hue and -smoothness of the exhibit.—“Do mind the sun on your head!” she added -parenthetically to the delicate member of our party, who is always on -her mind. “Oh, pray Madam, do not trouble to shade me,” said the -red-haired youth modestly. “I am quite all right, I assure you.” - -We had a vision of Loki’s Ma-Ma in her quaint Directoire dress, all -striped black-and-cream chiffon and dim orange, with her absurd little -Directoire tulle hat and its one coquettish rose ‹absurd but not -unbecoming› spending the rest of the afternoon in sudden philanthropic -frenzy, shading the red-haired youth from the July sunshine, while he -volubly touted for orders for patent fertilisers! Innately polite, we -explained. He was not in the least abashed. - -“I do feel it very hot,” he remarked simply. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXIII - - -Loki is once more Only-dog in London. He is unspeakably grimy, as none -of the _famiglia_ except Juvenal are ever able or willing to tub him -when he most wants it. Juvenal, his special friend, has been away on his -holiday—poor little Loki could not understand his absence. He was -perpetually rushing out of the rooms and downstairs to see if he had -arrived. At last, worn out with suspense, he dashed up to his butler’s -bedroom and would not be satisfied till he was admitted; when, jumping -on the bed, he began to tear up the clothes, believing, we suppose, that -Juvenal shared his propensity for curling under the quilt. Odd little -dog! He has as many moods as a fine lady, and when really annoyed lies -in a strained attitude with his hind paws stuck outward like the embryo -legs of a little crocodile. This is the sign that he wants “a powder”: -what we call in our playful dog-language, “a pow-pow.” - -[Sidenote: FREEMASONRY OF DOG-LOVERS] - -What a freemasonry the love of dogs creates! Loki’s Grandfather, -travelling up from our moors the other day, met a family likewise going -to London; and these had with them a small Pekinese, who sat very sadly -with drooping head and tail. The owner of Loki watched him -sympathetically for some time in silence, then unable to repress his -feelings, he leant forward and said very solemnly to the Pekinese’s -lady: - -“This little dog wants a pow-wow!” - -“Oh! we know,” eagerly cried the lady in charge, “we know he does! He -should have had it this morning, only we were travelling.” - -We were pleased with the anecdote when Loki’s Grandfather told us. No -introductions, no explanations needed: even our own special doggy -dialect instantly apprehended! One touch of Peky makes the whole world -kin. - - * * * * * - -A divine discontent seems an unavoidable accompaniment of garden -ambition. The Lady of Villino Loki is always furiously disappointed -every time she returns home—except in the Spring. She had, this time, -wonderful visions of her Madonna Lilies, proudly straight against the -upper terrace wall; of her Blue Border foaming blue; of her new turf -settling down into greenness. And, behold, the Lilies have got the lily -disease, drat them! the Blue Border never will be blue, whatever she -does; the Anchusas have gone back to the wild; and not one drop of water -has the infant turf received through three weeks of drought since her -departure—with the results that can be imagined! - -[Illustration: man working in garden] - -Not one of our precious packets of seed have come up! We once knew a -pretty American whose daughter married a rather impoverished young -Englishman of very good connexions. He was, however, scarcely important -enough himself to attract much attention: and the day before the wedding -he was nonplussed by his future mother-in-law, hitherto the most silky -and smiling of beings, taking him by the arm and marching him round the -displayed wedding presents, pausing at every step to remark: “I do not -see the present of your uncle, Lord A.! I do not see the present of your -cousin, Lady B.! I do not see the present of your great aunt, the -Duchess of C.!”... - -We want to take the seedsman in similar fashion round the greenhouse -shelves: - -“Where are the pots of Mignonette?” we will say. “Where the serried -ranks of Scarlet Verbena? Where are the potted Nicotianas?”... - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXIV - - -The Master of the House—he has admitted it himself somewhere in these -pages—understands little if anything of gardener’s art: that is, of the -art of rearing flowers in their proper seasons, in suitable ground and -so forth. But he complacently believes that he has an aptitude for what, -on a larger theatre of operations than the few acres of Villino Loki, -would be called Landscape Gardening! He imagines that, had fate provided -him with an “estate,” he would have been great at devising vistas, -grouping trees, laying out pleasing curves of approach, and all that -sort of thing. - -[Illustration: men in garden] - -At the Villino this imaginary special competency could only find an -opening in clearance work. And when we first bought this strip of -hill-side, clearance was indeed no small matter. - -With the exception of the terraces immediately round the House and of -the kitchen yards about the Cottage, the whole place was a congeries of -almost impenetrable thickets, interspersed with patches of heather and -furze. There were but two paths, running down, in purely utilitarian -lines, from the higher level to that of the cottage _potager_. - -‹What has been achieved since then in the matter of path-cutting can be -made patent by a glance at Mr. Robinson’s perspective map of the Villino -grounds.› - -So thick and strenuous was the growth of underwood—self-sown infant -Hollies, adolescent Larches and Pines, young Ashes, Oaks and Chestnuts -in their nonage, all interlocked, entwined in Brambles and Honeysuckle, -that hardly anywhere could the trunks of the full-grown trees be -distinguished. - -Now it is obvious that the beauty of wooded grounds depends essentially -upon light effects under the foliage and between the boles; upon distant -peeps. In no direction ought the view ever to be solidly stopped—unless, -of course, where it is desired to hide some unpleasing prospect. It may -therefore be erected into a maxim that, if trees are to be enjoyed, -underwoods must be sacrificed wholesale. - - * * * * * - -At first, with that reverence for things which, if they may be laid low -at one blow or two of the billhook, require many years for their growth, -one feels inclined to hesitate. One’s heart rebels at the thought of -cutting off in the flower of its youth the sapling that in the spring is -of so tender green, the bush of name unknown but engaging enough—if -there were not “so many of him.” But it soon becomes evident that you -must harden your heart and ruthlessly slash away the bulk of -undergrowths, for good and all. - -And this has been the province of the _padrone_. And although on many an -occasion at first the _padrona_ bewailed bitterly, almost tearfully, -that he was making the place “simply scald,” it is now generally -admitted that the result has proved a matter for congratulation. - -[Illustration: man working in garden] - -[Sidenote: THE PROBLEM OF HOLLY] - -There have been a few mistakes, no doubt. It was not easy, for instance, -in the case of Holly, and perhaps also of Rowan, for the beginner to -distinguish which clump was likely to bear the decorative winter coral -and which not. Seeing what some of our Hollies in a good season can be -‹that which closes the prospect at the north end of our Hemicycle, for -example, what a glory of pure scarlet it displays when all bright -colours have disappeared from the garden!› we regret not to have spared -a few more. Nevertheless, it is a wise decision, in grounds overgrown by -underwood, that _delendum est Ilex Aquifolium_—that Common Holly must -go. - -In the first place, nothing will grow under the shade of its dark -leathery, spinous leaves, which, even when shed, are more indestructible -and noxious to grass than pine needles themselves. And, secondly, Holly -is a very bully and brigand among growing trees. Its vitality and -pushfulness over-masters everything. Your young Holly will thrust aside -the sturdiest neighbouring branches; will conquer its “place under the -sun” to the detriment of the equally fair claims of Oak, or Ash, or -anything that strives upward. - -No—the right place of Holly is in the close-set hedge, for which its -forbidding, never-failing foliage and its vigorous growth pre-eminently -fit it. Or, again, in a dignified isolation where it can, without -truculent self-assertion, develop on all sides its regular, shapely -growth, look beautiful at all times in its evergreen sheen; and, if of -the fruit-bearing sex, relieve with its scarlet the browns of autumn and -the white of a winter landscape. - - * * * * * - -The first spot to be assailed was the area now called the Blue-bell -Glade, the interior of which was then _terra incognita_. It had to be -tackled like a fortress—by regular sap. Nothing was spared but the -full-grown trees. Terrible was the destruction, and gigantic the -accumulation of small firewood for future use. But great was the -landscape result: it gave us our first far-reaching perspective along -our own ground. We had, of course, fine and wide views over the -tree-tops from the highest terrace. But now we obtained, in one -direction at least, a middle-distance prospect of green fields between -the boles under overhanging branches. And the effect was singularly -satisfying. - -And so the war on undergrowth was carried-on, with system, until the -present pleasing condition was reached, when in every direction the eye -is able to find, up hill or down, either some far view of moor or -valley, or some corner of the grounds themselves, now grass-grown or -bright with flower-beds. - -Grass—that was what Villino Loki most wanted! And the extirpation of the -greatest enemies to grass—Brushwood, Heather, Gorse, and Bracken—has -been the hardest achievement of all: one which Grandpa is fond of -letting every one know is more especially his own. - -[Sidenote: THE GREAT CLEARANCE] - -The Great Clearance took place in what may be called the pre-Adamite age -of this little Earthly Paradise. Adam ‹in a kind of fateful way› only -appeared upon the scene after the rougher work had been dealt with of -letting in the air and light of heaven wherever it had hitherto failed. -He arrived, of his own initiative, to offer his services in the matter -of _gardening_, on the very day when his predecessor—one Grinder, whom -on benevolence intent we had allowed to assume the duties of “gardener,” -save the mark!—had had at last to be dismissed. - -The late Grinder, whatever his disqualifications for the honourable -title thrust upon him may have been, was undoubtedly a lusty worker. But -the Great Clearance was too great a task for one man. It was thus, by -the way, that Caliban ‹likewise now “the late”› was introduced as -labouring assistant, and, from the nature of his labours, known as the -Woodman. - -The elimination of underwoods, however, was by no means the most arduous -task. Let once the good light of day and the free airs penetrate to the -ground hitherto obscured and choked, and in a given time grass will make -its appearance. And it will spread healthily if the lower branches of -all standing trees are lopped, up to a suitable height. But we wanted -grass not only in the glades, but, if possible, upon every stretch of -soil not devoted to flowering beds or ornamental bush. And, to that end, -the Heather and the Gorse had likewise to be banished in perpetuity. -With miles of Heather and Gorse-clad moors about one, Ericas of any -kind, and certainly Ulex, however delightful in themselves and in their -native habitat, are distinctly _de trop_ in the garden. - -[Illustration: leafy branches] - -Seen in wide masses, and whether in the brown, green, or purple stage, -Heather, as we know, is an ever beautiful cloak to the earth. But except -at the height of its flowering richness, when it occurs in scattered -patches, its effect is apt to be rusty and unkempt. As for the -Gorse—gorgeous as it undoubtedly be at its full golden time when seen in -clumps on down or roadside—it has, at close quarters, a ragged, dusty, -almost leprous appearance which quite unfits it for cultivation. It -would seem as though all its vital beauty were driven out to the -flowering tops: its inner and lower portions are always dried up, and -scabby as from some withering sickness. Such, at least, is always the -case with the full-grown plant; though, when very young, or when -springing anew from a shorn stump, it remains for some time pleasingly -green all over. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THE PROBLEM OF GRASS] - -To the uninitiated it may appear simple enough to pluck up the Heather; -but how soon will he be brought face to face with the dismal fact that, -for grass-growing purposes, this superficial treatment is of no avail -whatsoever! The peaty soil, product of untold generations of Heather, -spongy to a depth of many inches, matted with the fibrils of roots, is -absolutely antagonistic to grass of any description. The roots of the -Furze, on their side, deep-reaching, far-spreading and tenacious, are -simply rejuvenated and rejoiced by the lopping of the plant above -ground. You may think you have done with it: behold! within a very few -weeks saucy spriglets of brightest green Gorse will merrily make their -appearance and claim the land again as their own! - -[Illustration: men working in field] - -Any seed sown on such a bed is merely so much food offered to the fowls -of the air. The Master of the House had to learn that lesson -practically, and lost a couple of seasons in so doing. ‹As may plainly -be seen, he was a thoroughgoing ignoramus in that quarter; and he was -not likely to be set right by Mr. Grinder!› It was only when Adam -supervened and pointed out the necessity of trenching the ground, -ridding it of its centuries-old tangle of fibre, overturning and -pressing it, that the desired green result could at length be obtained. -But the overturning demanded the combined work of pickaxe, fork, and -cutting spade. It produced an incredible amount of underground wood, -tough, sappy, and seemingly incombustible; and it kept Caliban occupied -for many a long week. - - * * * * * - -We have now many promising verdant roods, destined in time to be -improved into lawns, where hitherto Heath and Whin held their sway. But -the spaces lately freed from underwoods, which we so fondly hoped would -turn of themselves into grassy glades and dells, provided us with new -Heraclean labours. - -[Sidenote: WAR ON BRACKEN] - -Have I named Bracken?—Bracken! an everlasting problem on such a piece of -land as ours, which less than a century back was undoubtedly part of the -wild moorland itself. Nothing, it seems, but thorough overturning will -really and finally rid the soil of the unconscionable Bracken—the -ubiquitous, the imperishable, the exasperating Pteris Aquilina! - - * * * * * - -This knowledge has been impressed on us by the experience of successive -years. Our first inkling of it was when, returning to the Villino after -a few months’ absence and fondly anticipating to find our precious -glades ‹which, after the Great Clearance, had been generously sown with -grass› covered with a tender-green, thickly-piled carpet, we were -confronted with waving fields of lusty Brake already breast high. - -In itself the sight was not displeasing; the young verdure was cool to -the eye and did not greatly impede the view. But what we wanted was -Grass. Grass which, in course of time and at their proper seasons, -Crocus Vernus, Primrose, Blue-bell and Daffodil, Foxglove, and Colchicum -Autumnale would star and illumine with colour. - -Now, where the Brake thrives, it takes unto itself the whole bounty of -the sun, and stifles all plant-life of lesser height than itself. - -We disconsolately took advice from presumably competent persons. - -“Oh,” said Everybody, with confidence, “you can get rid of Bracken if -you cut it twice in the same year.” - -“Can you?”—and here the Master of Villino Loki, in a state of inveteracy -and resentment foreign to his usually placid character, feels he must -again speak in the first person—“Can you?” ‹this is sarcastic› “I tell -you, sir, that for the last three years I have cut that infernal -Bracken, not twice in the twelvemonth, but four times and more—and look -at it!” - -You may imagine me pointing, with an indignation difficult to repress, -to some corner of the cleared ground that does not happen to have been -visited _quite_ lately by the spud or the furze-cutter. - -“This,” I say with emphasis, “I myself purged of all visible Bracken -only last month!” - -Now, as a matter of fact, the space in question, if not actually covered -with the pertinacious fronds, is dotted with scores, nay hundreds, of -forceful shoots; some still cosily curled up in their “crosier” stage, -others impudently stretching themselves under the sun and persisting, in -spite of all edicts, in screening its rays from the hard-struggling -grass. What chance has humble grass against a thing that will sprout -three inches in one night? And, if you look closer, you perceive a host -of baby offshoots cheerfully pushing from some deep-burrowing ancient -subterranean body, its innumerable little bald heads between the sorely -tried, recently established grass settlements. - -Twice cut, forsooth!—Why, to this day, in the very middle of paths made -three years ago ‹“Three—years-ago—sir!”›, you will discover here, there, -and there again, a healthy shoot, sappy and erect, balancing its bright -green plume right in the way, as if in defiance of all extermination. - -No—the most that can be claimed as a result of the war which is still -being waged upon the Brake is that, perhaps, this pertinacious growth is -beginning to betray some signs of discouragement. The ranks of the -legions, as they make their periodical reappearance with an obstinacy -worthy of a better cause, grow a trifle thinner year by year. - -“If you only cut them young,” says Adam, consolingly but with cruel -imagery, “they say the roots will bleed to death.” - -This—Corporal Nym would hint—is as may be. As in the case of our -wonderful forbears, bloodletting in the Spring, if not really conducive -to better health, seems to interfere little with their thriving. -Meanwhile, happily, as no scion of Pteris Aquilina ‹if it cannot really -be prevented from cropping up where it chooses› is now allowed ever to -reach its baleful maturity, the desired and much-petted grass is -gradually establishing itself. And, with that eager optimism in -gardening matters which is a characteristic of the family at Villino -Loki, we look forward, in a few years, to the prospect of a succession -of grassy carpets from crest to foot on our hillside. - -But this consummation, much desired, can, we are aware, only be secured -by unremitting labour. Sometimes the Master of the House ‹who, having -rashly vowed to achieve the task, considers himself bound to see it -through himself› is assailed by something very like misdoubt as he rests -awhile upon his spud, blunted by some two hours’ punching at sporadic -croziers, and computes the remaining roods, nay, the acres, still to be -dealt with ... - - If seven men, with seven spuds - Should punch for half a year ... - ...? - -Rock of Sisyphus!—Cask of the Danaides!—Hydra of Argolis, with the -unquenchable heads!—these and others are similes that fatally drift into -his meditations. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: HAUNTING RHYMES] - -When engaged upon work of protracted and futile iteration—such as -“Bracken-chivvying”—tags of inane rhymes are apt to invade the -hypnotized brain: of the kind that sometimes rise in accompaniment to -the steady bumping of railway wheels on certain slow journeys. A -particularly haunting one—to be conjured off if possible—is the -“Nightmare” jingle, Mark Twain’s, I believe: - - Punch/, conduc/tor, punch/with care, - A green/trip-slip/for a two/cent fare, - A pink/trip-slip/for a three/cent fare, - Punch/, punch/, punch with care ... - -and so on relentlessly. - -If these are not the exact horrid words, this is the way they come back -to me, giving a lilt to vindictive spud work. - -At another time, the apparent futility of all efforts to come even with -the task at hand will evoke some such iterative lines as Cyrano’s dying -vision of eternally resurging enemies: - - _Je sais/bien qu’à/la fin/vous me/mettrez/à bas - N’impor/te, je/me bats/, je me/bats, je/me bats!_ - -[Illustration: stairs in garden] - -This sort of absolutely incongruous haunting is an instance of what -Hoffmann would have fondly called the _Zusammeverhängniss der Dinge_ or -“fatally-concatenated-mutual-interdependency” of things! Mythological -images rising vaguely from the clouds of school memories; the lilt of -that Walrus and Carpenter verse parodied a thousand times; an American -jingle never recalled since it was first casually read and dismissed on -a railway journey; and the magniloquent _panache_ lines of Rostand—all -dropping in irrelevantly from some distant and forgotten corner of the -past into this garden, all à propos of spud work and linking itself with -it! - -For instance, to-day ‹one of the three longest in the year, for, in the -coming morn, about five o’clock, our summer solstice will have taken -place›, as I spudded away at the fern, thirstily and perspiringly, my -haunting iteration was alternately of images wide as the poles asunder. -One was of those puzzling lines, in Boileau’s heroicomic poem _Le -Lutrin_, anent the barber who - - ... _d’une main legère - Tient un verre de vin qui rit dans la fougère._ - -[Sidenote: FERN SEED] - -The other was of Gadshill boast: “We steal as in a castle, cock-sure: we -have the receipt of fern-seed”—which irresistibly, by concatenation, -brought in the image of my dear if disreputable old friend Falstaff and -how he would have “larded the lean earth” as he spudded along. Now it -occurs to me that if the receipt of fern-seed as handed down by -tradition is in any way correct, this is the last day when this fern -massacre can be of any use, as far as Villino Loki is concerned, to -prevent its propagation for this year. Is not to-morrow St. John’s Eve; -and is not that the date upon which the invisible seed—which once -successfully gathered will confer upon the gatherer the power of -invisibility—drops upon the soil? - -The harvest, it seems, must be made “in the dark of the moon,” at the -exact turning of midnight, and received in a pewter plate; without -regard to the beguiling pranks of fairy or goblin, who, naturally -enough, are jealous of the acquisition by mere mortals of this essential -attribute of their order. The receipt does not state how the -pewter-harvested seed, being invisible, is to be bottled up or otherwise -preserved for use when required. - -This, by the way, is a fairly typical instance of the manner in which -our mediæval superstitions were shrouded in cryptic conditions, the -failure of any one of which in the smallest particular would plausibly -explain away the failure of the whole charm.—We can easily understand -the paucity of invisible mortals at all times. - -Well, I for one have no desire for such a charm. The temptation to use -it would be distracting. And conceive the endless trouble, picture to -yourself the misconceptions, you would raise into your own mind if you -possessed the power at any moment of prying, invisible, into the -innermost life of your best friends, or your enemies ... and of hearing -what they might happen to say about you! - -No. Yet I would some power gave me the gift to gather all the invisible -seed at Villino Loki: I would burn it once and for all. - -[Sidenote: _CROSSES DE FOUGERE, A LA JAPONAISE_] - -One cannot help wondering that so little use should be made of all this -vegetable wealth. There it is, covering square leagues of common land, -to be harvested by whosoever list. In former days, indeed, it was -gathered in and burnt for “potashes”—chiefly for glass-making. And -therein lies the explanation of the wine “laughing in the _fougère_”; -ash of _fougère_, or Bracken, had in the “grand Roy’s” days become -synonymous with glass itself. Again, in its dry condition, Brake was -once extensively used for thatching and for litter; in some parts of the -country the young plant was given as fodder to cattle and horses. Now, -however, county councils forbid the building of thatch, our up-to-date -cattle and horses are too fastidious as to litter and fodder, and we -import our potashes. Meanwhile, Bracken threatens everywhere to stifle -the Heather on our moors. - -If I remember right, in some parts of France the poorer people make use -of young Brake as food. And this reminds me that, some years ago, I -heard the last Japanese Ambassador remark at dinner—à propos of the -Asparagus that was just going round—that he wondered we should not make -use in the kitchen of the Bracken he had noticed growing in such -enormous and neglected quantities in England. In his country, he assured -us, they eat the young shoots, when still in their folded “crozier” -stage, precisely as we over here eat Asparagus, and consider them not -only as delicacies, but as particularly wholesome and nutritious. - -The recipe for cooking them is simple. The croziers, cut just short of -the roots, are to be parboiled in strongly salted water; the first -water, which extracts some unpleasantly bitter principle, is to be -quickly poured off; then the shoots, thoroughly drained of this first -water, are boiled in a large quantity of fresh water, drained again -carefully and served with oil or butter, very much like our Sprue. - -I must some day make the experiment. I wonder if the joy, now, of eating -tender young Bracken would be like that of the savage devouring his -declared enemy? - -Meanwhile, for the sake of the desired grass, the hecatomb must be -repeated daily. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXV - - -[Illustration: dog looking outside at rain] - -[Sidenote: MORE BLACK SHEEP] - -This July, not remarkable for anything but rain and dark skies, has -produced a perfect outbreak of wickedness in the village. Our black -sheep have turned into tigers without even the excuse of torrid weather -to inflame their passions. But, indeed, the public house is always ready -to supply the stimulant necessary for driving average humanity into -brutal and insane crime. - -Caliban, whom the reader may remember as having once worked in our -Fortunate Island, and always looking as if he had just risen from -all-fours, has, in our recent absence, thrown away all pretence at -humanity once and for all. Though, indeed, why should the poor beasts, -who generally make excellent fathers and husbands, be compared to the -type of man that deliberately ruins his home? To batter your wife, -terrorize your children, to squander your substance for an indulgence -which ultimately destroys your health, is a mystery of perversity -reserved for the superior being. - -Anyway, Caliban, having drifted from place to place, and lost his last -chance of employment in this district by killing a whole hot-house full -of Tomatoes through drunken neglect “on” the local market gardener, as -we should say in Ireland, finally locked his wife and children out of -the little cottage, and shut himself in with his drunkenness in company -with his aged but not less drunken parent. The power of thought having -returned in the morning, the precious pair put their boosy heads -together and sold the furniture, possessed themselves of every available -valuable, even of Mrs. Caliban’s solitary trinket, and decamped together -from the district! - -Mrs. Caliban, with an infant in arms and two little girls at her skirts, -has now set to work to earn enough for all. She is a valiant woman; and -no doubt when she has succeeded fairly well, Caliban will return to -repeat the process. She is very anxious for a separation, but cannot -accomplish this, as the whereabouts of her lord and master are unknown. - - * * * * * - -She is less fortunate than the wife of Black Sheep No. 2. Last Saturday -we were peacefully entertaining a couple of week-end visitors, when poor -Mrs. Mutton crawled into our garden to “see the young lady.” The -water-butt myth was cast to the winds. She had a black eye and a -dislocated thumb, and informed us that Mutton had threatened to “do for -her,” and that she was going in fear of her life. “When not drunk,” she -remarked with the apathy of despair, “I think he’s mad!” - -Mutton is well known in the district for his playful ways, and no one -would consent to house his wife but an enterprising barber: on the -condition, however, that Mutton did not come after her. The poor thing -shivered and shook, and avowed that she could not return and pass -another hour in such terrors. When she heard his step, she told us, a -trembling would seize her. - -“You ladies,” she said, rolling her hopeless eyes from one sympathetic -listener to another, “can have no idea of the kind of life poor women -like us lead!” - -[Sidenote: COUNTY POLICE METHODS] - -Little Jimmy Mutton and she had spent the previous night out under fear -of a gun, which Black Sheep _père_ had taken to bed with him, with -threats of instant use. The first idea of the owners of Villino Loki was -that the woman should have protection; and here the drama took a -Gilbertian form with a dash of nightmare. Her cottage being on the -borders of another county, no policeman nearer than nine miles off had -the right to intervene. In vain did “the young lady,” attended by the -two week-end visitors, start off for the nearest magistrate and lay the -case before him. Mrs. Mutton must betake herself to that far county -town, by what means she best might; and if she and her poor lambs were -“done for” between this and then, it would all be within the strict -limits of the law as far as the magistrate was concerned. With fruitless -eloquence were the perils of the situation painted in their blackest -colours. Mutton, as we have said, was famous, and like Habacuc in -Voltaire’s estimation, might be _capable de tout_. - -Could not the local policeman take possession of the gun? - -Impossible. No policeman nearer than Paddockstown could lay a finger on -it. - -Could not at least the village Bobby keep an eye on the house where the -enterprising barber had taken in the refugees? - -The Magistrate smiled at such ignorance of the law. All orders must come -from Paddockstown. - -“That,” remarked one of the week-end visitors as the discomfited party -shook the Magistrate’s dust off their feet, “that seems a futile old -gentleman!” - -This week-end visitor had an emphatic manner of speech, which afforded -the only relief in the exasperation of the atmosphere. - -However, the affair managed to straighten itself out on, again, true -Gilbertian lines. Mrs. Mutton duly found a motor-bus to convey her to -Paddockstown; and there, with all the proper formality, interviewed the -Magistrate and a lawyer, with the help of whom she was separated from -her obstreperous Mutton. Little Jimmy gave evidence, Mutton was advised -by his lawyer not to defend the case. She has now appropriately joined -forces with Mrs. Caliban and is enjoying a time of peace which we trust -may not be merely an interlude. - -“Oh, Miss!” she cried, describing these unwonted sensations, “I’m that -overjoiced, I’m afraid it’s hardly right!” - -As the husband is hovering about the roads, waylaying all concerned with -alarming politeness, we are a little anxious. We know that he is still -_mouton enragé_ at heart; and we do not know if in spite of the mandate -from Paddockstown the local police would be allowed to interfere were -gun or table knife to be put into requisition. - -The Dorothy Perkins are coming out, showing a most glorious kind of fire -rose, which hitherto they only displayed in the autumn after a touch of -frost. Combined with the delicate sprays of the Ceanothus Gloire de -Versailles, they make in a tall glass vase as pretty a harmony as we -know. - -[Illustration: rose garden] - -[Sidenote: THE NEW ROSARY] - -The new Rose Garden promises complete success. Caroline Testout is -coming out, fat and pink and smiling in her usual good-humoured -profusion. We have a great bed in the shape of a Maltese cross in the -middle of a stretch of turf in this new Rose Garden, and the other three -beds are filled respectively with Madame Abel Châtenay; mixed yellow -roses, among which are Betty, Lady Hillingdon, and Juliet, are specially -successful; and another deep pink charmer named Madame Jules Groles. She -has not yet come out. The centre bed is devoted to General MacArthur, -with a Crimson Rambler pillar. - -The Climbing Roses against the arches that bound this rose-lawn north -and south are growing bravely; and we have lost our hearts to May Queen -with its mass of bright pink flowers, which, combined with the fainter, -creamier pinks of Paul Transon, make such a delicious bouquet of bloom, -all on the same pillar. - -The hedge of Penzance Briars, though only a couple of feet above the -ground as yet, has thrown out long lines of starry blossoms, shading -from faint primrose to deepest crimson, with intermediate constellations -of pinks and carmines that out-do both Dorothy Perkins and Zephyrine -Drouhin. - -The new Rose Garden is shut off on the west by a fir-tree avenue, and we -are trying to coax white and red Wichurianas up the stems, in spite of -all expert pessimism. Marquise de Sinety is a delicate, warmly tinted, -pinky cream Rose. Catalogues, no doubt, would call her “salmon”; but it -is such a horrid word that we prefer to present the picture under -another aspect. - - * * * * * - -Do not let anyone subject to the watery caprices of an English climate -place their trust in Maman Cochet! Her heavy bud becomes hopelessly -sodden after anything like a shower. One can conceive that this dowager -would be a handsome enough object in a southern garden, or that she -would be a good greenhouse rose; but, like many another, she does not -bear adversity. - -Handsome, bland Caroline Testout keeps up her self-contained smile -unimpaired in fair and foul weather; “fat-faced Puss” that she is, a -very Gioconda among roses, even to the close folding of her plump -leaves, which remind one of that overrated charmer’s compact hands. It -would take a good deal to shake her equanimity; scentless, soulless -beauty! - -The Lyons Rose has burst on us this year in all its splendour, a most -successful combination of pink and gold. The sunset glow seems to shine -through the petals. - -These efforts at producing new effects are not always successful, some -having a very patchy appearance, to our mind. As for the Austrian Briar, -Soleil d’Or, it is more like a blood-orange cut in two than anything -else, in colour, shape, and pulpy texture. From a distance the bright -circles look attractive, but we should recommend it to no one who values -delicacy in their blooms. - -A great success are the Weeping Standards Stella. Though it is their -first year, the branches are covered with lovely tinted blossoms; and -what is more, these are lasting. Single carmine stars are they, with -golden centres and a scent of musk. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: FLOWERING TIMES AND PLANS] - -The mistress of the Villino, a foolish and impetuous person, has three -times made the same mistake and omitted to ascertain the blooming season -of plants which she wished to be in beauty together. So the four Weeping -Standards Stella, are considerably in advance of the four Dorothys which -alternate with them; and the standards Soleil d’Or were quite over -before the Conrad Meyers appeared in the Lily Walk; and the contrast of -pink and yellow was what had been aimed at! - -In the same manner she had intended the Garland Roses to foam up in two -splendid white pillars at each end of the long length of Dorothy Perkins -at the opposite side of the Blue Border terrace. Of course the Garland -is becoming unsightly before the fire-pink of the Dorothy begins to show -in any profusion. - - * * * * * - -The garden—except on the upper terrace, which with Heliotrope, Lobelia, -and the climbing Ceanothus keeps to the faint cool blues, untroubled by -the efflorescence of the White Pet ‹which, by the way, has completely -eaten out Perle des Rouges› and the very faint pink of the Ivy-Leaf -Geraniums—except for the upper terrace, the garden, we say, is growing -pink. What with the Verbenas and the Red Roses and the cheery coloured -Ivy-Leaf Geranium called Jersey Beauty, in the Dutch garden, and the -general ramp of Dorothy everywhere, it is a mass of pink. - -Another year we must have more Penstemons. They are charming things, and -as good as they are beautiful. In a garden nothing is beautiful that is -not good, which is another facet of its likeness to Paradise. - -We caress the idea of a border where perennial Gypsophila, large bushes -of Monarda, Penstemons and Lavender should group and contrast and -delight and rest the eye. - - * * * * * - -There is a walk in a wonderful garden not far from here—a garden which -brings a kind of fainting, despairing envy to the soul of Loki’s -Grandmother—where Lavender and Penstemons make the happiest possible -effect. The walk itself is a thing of beauty; through woodland on one -side, the border in question runs quite a long way against a low parapet -on the other. Below this parapet the ground slopes down, and at the end -of the walk there is so abrupt a fall that it seems almost to end in -mid-air with a vast panorama far beneath. And on the side of the flowery -border a shelving precipice falls away out of which giant stone pines -hang against the distant horizon. The Lavender has grown to a hedge, and -the varying soft pinks of the Penstemons run vividly against its -mistiness. - -Would that walk, and that border, and that view, were ours! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXVI - - -We nearly had a garden tragedy yesterday afternoon. The sounds of a -little dog in great distress broke the peace of the drowsy day. Loki’s -Ma-Ma dashed out of the house thinking it was Loki—caught in a trap! -Certainly the little dog—whichever it was—was in desperate straits. - -“That’s the voice of my Betty,” cried Juvenal, galloping to the rescue -in his shirt-sleeves. “My treasure, my little girl! I’m coming!” - -It was well indeed that he did hurry, for Betty had fallen into the deep -water-butt in the Rose Garden; and if she had not had the sense to -scream for help, and to hold on to the rim of the barrel with all her -little claws, she would have been a drowned Betty, and nobody the wiser, -perhaps, for days and days. - -We think it would have broken Juvenal’s heart. - -Both Arabella and Loki were standing staring stiffly instead of doing -what was expected of dogs of such intellect: which was running to fetch -human help. - -[Sidenote: PERSIANS AND A WICKED WORLD] - -On a former occasion however, when Kitty-Wee had a fit, poor little -darling, Loki acted up to our opinion of him. We had gone for a walk on -the moor, and the Persian Princess, still half in her kittenhood, had -accompanied us, with that touching display of pleasure at being in our -company which makes the Fur Children so endearing. She had to roll on -the grass in front of us, sharpen her claws on every tree, and rub her -pretty head against our skirts in the endeavour to show her feelings. We -suppose these feelings were too much for her. We had halted in the -greenhouse when Loki dashed in upon us, whimpering in a frightful state -of agitation. He drew his Grandmother out of the greenhouse, and rushed -up to stand over his little fur sister, crying out loud in sympathy and -distress. - -She was a small convulsed heap upon the ground. Fortunately the tap, -which ran into one of those delectable barrels of odoriferous water so -precious to the garden, was quite close, and we were able to administer -first aid with promptitude. - -For all who do not know it: cold water to the head gives immediate -relief to any little creature in such a seizure. - - * * * * * - -She quite grew out of them. But, alas! our thistledown Princess, our -dear pretty silver lady! We have delayed to write her sad fate into the -pages of the chronicle of the happy Fur Family. She was stolen! We often -lie awake thinking of her. Pampered as she was; so accustomed to be -thought of, and cherished, and made much of; to have her pearly robe -brushed and combed to the last point of perfection, her dainty appetite -catered for; to find a caress and a cuddle whenever she was in the mood -for it! A lurid mystery ‹accompanied by a great deal of hard swearing› -envelops her loss. She was lost on a half-hour’s motor-trip which her -family, struck with momentary idiocy, was allowing her to undertake -alone. She was, in fact, about to contract another matrimonial alliance -with a prince of her own race, and was so securely packed in her -luxurious travelling basket, so unmistakably labelled, so solemnly -handed over to the care of the conductor of the motor ’bus, that it did -not seem as if she could come to harm. - -But Blue Persians, as well as pink pearls, are over-precious chattels to -confide to a dishonest world! The conductor of the next ’bus to that by -which she was expected, handed an empty basket to the envoy from the -other side; and when this was refused, declared the cat had escaped on -the way. As the basket was hermetically closed, this lie had not even -the merit of being plausible. But puzzle succeeded puzzle when the -waiter from the Golf Club House, a reliable witness, deposed having -picked up the same basket still securely fastened at every corner—but -minus the cat—on the first round of the ’bus. “It could have gone to -Siberia in that basket,” he declared, “it was that strong and solid!” - -The local police, a most intelligent and valuable body of men, declared -that nothing could be done, “as no man could be taken up for telling a -lie.” And the railway company, after punching a large hole in the -basket, announced that as the cat was not insured, we might sue them for -five shillings! We advertised and beat the countryside in vain—Kitty-Wee -has gone out of our lives. If we only knew that she was happy, the ache -at our hearts would be less. - -We must fill the gap, and are deliberating whether a pair of Blue -Persians, or an orange couple, would afford us the greater joy. We think -to decide on the latter would be less callous to the memory of -Kitty-Wee, and provide perhaps a better match in the little Villino that -runs so much to orange and yellow. - - * * * * * - -Never could there be anything more beautiful than the St. John’s Wort -along the moorland roads. It has been a day of golden heat, the distant -woods have shimmering purple vapours in their hollows, and the hills are -misty blue. There had been a fire last year in a great flat stretch of -pinewood that runs into heather and moor, high above where the road -begins to fall into the first of the little country towns between us and -London. The wood had been cleared of the dead trees and we suppose it is -this which has given encouragement to the great yellow weed. However it -may be, it is a field of cloth of gold now. Pines rise up at intervals -in their dark solemnity. Royal purple of the heather runs into the gold. -It is a meeting of colour that ought to be immortalized. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXVII - - -[Illustration: path down garden] - -Time has run away with us, and the garden chronicle has been silent. The -Ramblers have blazed in the garden, more especially the indefatigable -“Dorothy,” till one has grown almost tired of such a repetition of vivid -pink. - -The Mistress of the Villino has been planning “toning-down effects” for -next year and means to run a border of Catmint or Dwarf Lavender against -the “Dorothy” hedge. - -The Lily Walk, which we shall have to call by another name, since, with -a few exceptions, the Lilies decline to have anything to say to it, is, -should the scheme contemplated be successful, to show a cool vista of -greys, lavender blues, and “rose mourante” behind the arch where the -same irrepressible Perkins flaunts herself in such splendour. The -Delphiniums, which have done so well there, will have spent their hour -of glorious life before the arch enters upon its triumph. - -What a mausoleum that Lily Walk has proved itself! It has been one of -our tragedies! Adam is quite dispassionate, and says “it’s the Lily -disease; and there’s a deal of it about.” - -By one of those freakish accidents that will occur in the best regulated -gardens, a batch of Fairy Lilies was planted _behind_ the ramping -Alstrumerias. This was discovered too late, when these bold Peruvians -were succumbing. - -[Illustration: landscape by path - two pages wide] - -[Sidenote: TONING DOWN EFFECTS] - -But besides the amount of sickly, straggling “Candidums,” “Auratums,” -and “Tigers” that have disgraced the border, there is the unaccountable -number of bulbs that have been swallowed up in it! The whole thing must -be dug out this autumn. And the scheme is now to grow Ceanothus “Gloire -de Versailles” up the wooden trellis at the back between the Roses the -foliage of which is always blighted, and to have a pillar of Blush -Rambler at the end, by the side of the Wellingtonia which closes the -border. Bushes of Ceanothus Azureas, as well as the successful “Gloire -de Versailles”; a drift of Achillea, shading from the palest pink to -deep carmine; bushes of Catmint; the new pale pink Spirea, perennial -Gypsophila; mauve Galiga ‹Salvia, Miss Jekyll recommends›; Sea Lavender -and a couple of clumps of Eringium will complete the effect. Perhaps -there shall be Moon Daisies, pale pink and mauve Penstemons, and one or -two groups of “Cottage Maid” Antirrhinums to fill up the gaps. But what -we feel is needed is the grey, mauve, silver, and lavender-blue tinting -against which Dorothy Perkins may be as flaming as she likes. - - * * * * * - -It is rare to find Rose Achilleas anywhere. Yet they are as pretty a -thing as we have ever seen in a border; the blossoms seeming to drift on -their slender stems, one above the other like little sunset clouds. - -What has been for once a complete pleasure is the wide bed under the -drawing-room window. The Ceanothus—which loves us—has been a treasure of -delicate bloom; and, against it, the great old bushes of lavender have -thrust their spikes in profusion. Just the right tone to harmonize. Then -the Longiflorum Lilies—excellent, sturdy, conscientious darlings!—have -lifted their satin shining trumpets above the Heliotrope that loves us -too; and Lobelia, the one vivid line of colour, has rimmed the thick -cushion of “Mrs. Sinkins’” foliage most artistically. The grey-green -gives the finishing touch to a really reposeful combination. There are -also two or three clumps of Nicotiana Affinis, softly mauve, and faded -purple crimson. To gaze at that corner against the amethyst of the moor -is a never-ending delight. - -[Sidenote: A CHAPTER OF DISASTERS] - -But another garden disaster has been the annihilation of all the -seedlings which we sowed in the open border! It is laughable now, but -sad too, to turn back the pages and read the vainglorious project of -running a dazzling ribbon of Nemophila against the Dorothy Perkins -hedge. ‹It might have been frightful; so perhaps Providence kindly -intervened!› But that Nigella “Miss Jekyll” should have refused her -mysterious and pretty presence in the Blue Border is a deep -disappointment. - -We are again gnashing our teeth over the Blue Border. The fact is, we -suppose, it is too much to expect beauty all the year round, no matter -how boastfully garden writers inform you of their artifices in that -direction: how cleverly, for instance, the annual Gypsophila will bury -the unsightly decay of the Iris leaves, or how you can pull branches of -“Miss Mellish” down over the Delphiniums. - -Why do not our Delphiniums bloom twice? Every garden book and every -catalogue cheers your heart by promising a handsome second bloom to the -industrious clipper-off of seed-pods. But never a Delphinium has -responded to our kind attentions in that direction. Perhaps our soil -does not give them strength enough for such exertion. But it is idle -speculating. One must learn what one’s garden will do and what it won’t -do—and make the best of it. - - * * * * * - -The greatest of all the tragedies that have befallen us lately is -indubitably the passing away of poor old Tom. We are now catless! - -Poor little friend! Where has that quaint, faithful, dutiful identity -gone to? Juvenal says Heaven would not be Heaven to him if he were not -to meet his own dogs there—a sentiment which we have, we believe, -ourselves set down elsewhere. St. Francis the Poverello saw God in all -His lesser creatures. It is not possible to think that we shall lose -anything in a completer world. - -Tom was the most conscientious of cats. He now lies beside Susan. We are -going to get two little tombstones made for us by the Watts Settlement -at Compton. Susan’s epitaph has already been mentioned. Nothing more to -the point could be imagined: - -“Here lies Susan, a good dog.” “Here lies Thomas, for eighteen years our -faithful cat-comrade.” - -So shall it stand recorded over the new grave. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXVIII - - -Mid-August and the lists beginning to come in! Mr. Eden Phillpotts, in -his delightful garden book, says that no one is a true garden lover who -is not instantly lost in every nurseryman’s list, who does not -immediately draw out orders far beyond his means, and spend his time in -plans and combinations that shall transcend Kew as well as Babylon. What -garden lovers are we in this respect! It is only when the orders are -written out and the prices totted up that sober reason obtrudes its -forbidding countenance—and then the painful process of “knocking off” -begins. Nevertheless we are becoming adepts in combining lavishness with -economy. There are delightful firms whose plants are literally to be had -at a quarter of the price of others, with results quite as happy. - -There is the Dutchman who sends us our bulbs. He has grown to be a -friend, and his English letters are charming, “Dear Mrs.,” he wrote when -Gladioli, “The Bride,” arrived in a state no Bride should be in, really -without a wedding garment—“Dear Mrs., She is a flower the most agreeable -in the garden, but she is very unpleasant to travel.” - -His catalogue makes equally fascinating reading. The quaint spelling and -phraseology are more than attractive. Who, for instance, would not wish -to invest in Narcissus, thus described: - -“Astrardente, white and apricot orange, edged fiery scarlet magnificent -and nice flowers.” - -“Nothing,” says another grower, “can equal, much less excel, early -single Tulips.” - -“Pottebakke White,” cries a third, “is a very large pure white flower, -and not to surpass better.” - -“Of snow-like variety and delicious fragrance a most beloved flower,” -thus our special Hollander labels Lilium Longiflorum Takesima, in words -that have a certain charm of poetic simplicity which would not have -misbecome the artistic Japanese himself. - -[Sidenote: DUTCH BULBS] - -However tempted by other nationalities, we choose to be Dutch in our -bulbs. This is the list we have just dispatched to Haarlem: - - “600 China blue single Hyacinths. - 1 dozen Cavaignac pink Hyacinths. - 1 dozen Fabiola blush Hyacinths. - 50 Roman Hyacinths. - 100 Scarlet Duc van Thol Tulips. - 50 Rose Duc van Thol Tulips. - 300 Thomas Moore Tulips. - 1000 Darwin Tulips, best mixed. - 500 Parrot Tulips, in the finest mixture, bright colours. - 100 Gladiolus Brenchlyensis. - 100 Gladiolus Hollandia. - 1000 mixed striped Crocus. - 1000 Scilla Siberica praecox. - 1000 blue Grape Hyacinths. - 1000 Snowdrops Elweseii. - 1000 Poeticus recurvus Narcissus. - 100 Hyacinthus Candicans. - 1000 Single Trumpet Daffodils mixed. - 500 Double Daffodils mixed.” - -Of these some of the scarlet and rose “Duc van Thol” Tulips, and all the -“Cavaignac” and “Fabiola” Hyacinths are for forcing; and, of course, the -Roman Hyacinths also. The other bulbs are destined for the open ground. - -Gladiolus Hollandia is described as the “Pink Brenchlyensis,” and is -much recommended. We have never grown her yet, but her scarlet cousin is -a great success in our garden. We find our Gladioli do so much better -when planted in the spring, that we are asking the firm not to send them -to us for another seven months. But they are included in the autumn list -so that he may reserve us good sound tubers. - -It is evidently against garden decorum to mention the name of a -horticulturist, for some garden writers make a point of assuring the -reader that they will never be guilty of such an indiscretion; but we -see no harm at all in paying, by the way of this discursive pen, a -tribute to the perfect satisfaction hitherto afforded us by our chosen -bulb grower, Mr. Thoolen, of Haarlem. His Tulips, Hyacinths, and -Narcissi have stood the test for three years. Of course, in our soil we -cannot expect more than one good season out of anything except Crocus, -Scilla, and Narcissi. - -Daffodils, which up till now have been unaccountably absent from our -garden plans, are to be heavily indulged in this year. Besides what -appears in the above list we are venturing on another thousand from a -certain Mr. Telkamp, likewise in the land of windmills. - -[Sidenote: MORE DUTCH BULBS] - -The following is the order which we have just dispatched to him: - - “1000 Daffodils for naturalization. - 100 Retroflexa Tulips, soft yellow. - 100 Bouton d’Or Tulips, deep golden yellow. - 100 Caledonia Tulips, orange, dark stems. - 100 Golden Eagle Tulips, fine yellow. - 200 Count of Leicester, yellow orange tinted.” - -He advertises a thousand Daffodils for ten shillings—two and a half -dollars! Miraculous, if true! It is worth the plunge. - - * * * * * - -We have decided to take a slice off the kitchen garden to be kept -entirely for bulbs and tubers for cutting. There a hundred “Madonna” -Lilies, three dozen Auratum, a hundred Tigrinum, and a few hundreds of -other kinds shall be given all the chances that completely fresh soil -and good exposure can afford. Five hundred Parrot Tulips, three hundred -“Thomas Moore,” and a hundred “Bizarres” are to make a field of glory -for the harvest. The hundred Gladiolus Brenchlyensis and the hundred -Hollandia will rear their scarlet and pink spears; and Iris shall stand -in ranks. - -The Mistress of the Villino has still an hour of bliss before her in -picking out Iris for her list. The “Florentina” shall certainly be -largely of the company, and preference is to be given generally to the -misty blue and purple kinds. Then the speculation in cheap bulbs -provides a thousand mixed May flowering Tulips.... Adam’s face will be a -study when he finds how much of his cherished potato and cabbage land -will be required. But what a span of beauty it will make; and what -sheaves of delight for ourselves and our friends! - -[Sidenote: FOND DREAMS, AND MISDOUBTS] - -Every year the extravagant woman above mentioned, who has got the vice -of garden-gambling into her very system, extends her ambitions. But how -much is there not still to be accomplished before she is satisfied, if -ever a garden-lover is satisfied! - -For a long time she has dreamt of a shady pool—somewhere. And, after -beholding the adorable vision before described in Messrs. Wallace’s -exhibit at Holland House this summer, she had been quite sure that it -would be difficult to exist another year without a nook with Irises -about it and a sunk basin, and a little statue mysteriously contrived in -the green. Coming across an advertisement in _Country Life_, where an -artistic firm of garden-decorators offers just what she wants, a small -round stone pond with a Faun sitting cross-legged on the brim of it, it -becomes quite clear to her that there are cravings which must be -satisfied. She is willing to give up the vision of a new Azalea dell -‹for this year only, of course› and of a paved walk with Cypresses on -each side, ending in a _rondpoint_ hedged about with more Cypresses, -with a stone bench in the middle, for the more immediately alluring -claim. But, O, ye gods and little fishes, how insatiable are still the -needs of the Villino on the hill! - -There is the orchard for the slope above the sunk tennis court; to be a -glory some Spring with Apple and Pear blossom, while Daffodils, Narcissi -and Scilla riot underneath. And there is the round Autumn Garden to be -dug out and levelled in the wood, where Sunflowers, Michaelmas Daisies, -“Fire King” Antirrhinums, Nasturtiums and flaunting orange and saffron -Dahlias are to make a rim of splendour against a cropped green hedge. -The centre of this blazing circle is to be flagged and consecrated to -“Herbs.” That will be something to live for; to see accomplished some -golden autumn of the future! - -So much has already been done in what was, most of it, a mere sodden -tangle, impenetrable not only to human beings but even to the light of -heaven, that it gives one heart for what may be achieved in the future. -Yet never does the Grandmother of Loki feel the uncertainty of life more -keenly than when she is in the midst of her garden dreams. Every winter -indeed, when the bulbs are planted, she wonders, with a pang, if she -will see them come up in the Spring; how much more does she now ask -herself whether the hidden Autumn Garden, or the Italian walk, or the -Bowery Orchard, or even the Sunk Fountain, are ever destined to rejoice -her. - -Well, after all, she gets an extraordinary amount of pleasure out of the -mere mental picture, and who can say if the very uncertainty of all -things here below does not add to their zest? - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: THE MOOR] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXIX - - -[Sidenote: DAWN OVER THE MOOR] - -This morning, waking at dawn, the Padrona was impelled to roll out of -bed, and look out of both her windows. The one over her balcony gives -down the valley and the one opposite her bed affords her vision of the -moor rolling away beyond the Dutch Garden and the terrace corner. If she -had been but a woman of moderate vigour, she would not have gone to bed -again till the whole pageant of mysterious glory had fulfilled itself -before her eyes. For what a sight it was! First of all, the whole -garden, woodland and heather hills were steeped in a translucence for -which there is no name. It is a virgin hour, and its purity no words can -describe. The Ling, in full bloom, was silver and amethyst on the rise, -misty purple and blue in the hollows. Behind the shouldering hills a -rift of sky was a radiant lemon-yellow, a kind of honey sea of light. -And above that, again, little drifts of cloud had caught a wonderful -orange-rose glow like the wings of cherubim about the Throne. Down the -valley there were silver mists against the most tender, clear horizon; -and all along the Lily Walk the clumps of Tiger Lilies seemed to be like -little Fra Angelico angels, holding their breath in adoration! - -[Illustration: landscape - two pages wide] - -Everything lies, after all, in the point of view. The dawn was decidedly -too pink for safety, and the clumps of Lilies that looked so pious and -recollected have got “the disease” badly in their stalks. Yet realism -can never blight that exquisite hour of breaking day in her thoughts! - -The only time we degenerates ever really see the dawn is coming home -from some London ball; or again, travelling. The dawn in London often -gives an impression of extraordinary blue in atmosphere and heaven, we -suppose because it is seen contrasted with artificial illuminations. But -that sapphire blue, when it permeates park and streets, when the sky -seems to hold unplumbed depths beyond depths of the same wonderful -colour, is a thing to dwell in the memory likewise, though travellers -have the better part. Dawn in the Alps! A night not to be depicted! Such -vastness of tinted heights; such black chasms where the pines hang; -spume of waterfalls all golden crimson, and deep rivers, green and -terrible and beautiful with a glint on them as they rush! - -One of us ‹the fourth in the lucky clover leaf at Villino Loki; one who -is poet and musician besides many other things, and sometimes poet and -musician together› has defined the indefinable. It is not the dawn of -the day she hymns, but the dawn of the young Spring. - -Though the poem is printed in a recently published volume, it seems to -fit naturally into this page. - - _THE ST. GOTHARD_ - - _April and I— - Each with each greeting amid tumbled ice, - Travel these wastes of frozen purity. - Here the wild air above the precipice - E’en tasteth sweet, and hath a delicate scent - As of faint flowers unseen—the flower of snows - Massed peak on peak in slumber yet unspent, - But dreaming of the Rose._ - - _Here the great hills wear silence as a seal— - April and I, - Listening can hear the loosened snowflake steal - Down from the burdened bough that slips awry; - Here the long cry of water-nymphs at play - Freezes upon the iced lips of fountains, - And their sweet limbs’ arrested holiday - In crystal carved engarlandeth the mountains._ - - _Through such vast fields of sleep how dare we roam, - April and I, - And from its eyrie bid the torrent foam, - And virgin meads grow starrier than the sky - With scattered cowslip and with drifted bell? - Or where austerely looms an Alpine giant - Set a young almond rosily defiant - To be our sentinel?_ - - _Whence are we victors, chanting as we go, - April and I. - “Be free, ye tumbling streams, awake O snow— - Ye silver blooms increase and multiply?” - What is our spell?—The singing heart we bring, - And lo! that song that is the core of earth - Leaps in reply, and children of the Spring - Into the light come forth._ - -[Sidenote: THE DAWN OF YOUNG SPRING] - -Then there was a dawn over the Campagna, seen from the train that was -speeding us towards Rome. A ball of red fire hung over the horizon. The -sea lay silver and grey; and misty silver the Campagna.... “God made -himself an awful rose of dawn,” as Tennyson sings. He did that morning: -awful, yet full of a glorious comfort. The sea just caught the great -reflection on its bosom. - -A little later, when we came to the first ruins that precede the -aqueducts, there were the white cattle, stepping about among the broken -pillars, with their huge spreading horns all gilded. These had not -changed since the days when the sun gleamed on the grandeurs of classic -Rome. Only then yonder building—temple, or tomb, or villa—fronted the -morning with a forgotten stateliness, a lost grace. - -Is anything comparable to the scene that meets the traveller on his -entry into Rome? Alas! St. John Lateran no longer stands like some -titanic splendid ship about to slip her moorings and sail away into the -wild, lonely sea of the Campagna. New walls have sprung up without the -noble ancient walls; sordid disjointed lengths of streets, mean houses -with blistered, leprous plaster; and evil-looking little wine-shops. -Nevertheless, nothing can spoil the moment when the Lateran Church first -gathers shape against the sky. All those statues with tossing gesture -against the faint blue of the new day, heroic figures with outstretched -arms seeming to gather pilgrims into the city; and in the midst of them -the Saviour uplifting the Cross of Salvation! To the believer what a -welcome! And it is Rome herself at a glance, too; for if the Church -stands here beckoning between earth and sky, she is jostled below and -round about by the still speaking wonders of old Pagan Rome. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXX - - -One of the advantages of being “little people in a little place” is the -pleasure small things can give one. The Duke of Devonshire has seventy -men in his garden. Is it possible to imagine taking an interest in -anything conducted on so enormous a scale? It is not gardening, it is -horticultural government! There can be no individual knowledge of any -“beloved flower,” as our Dutch friend has it. Outside a millionaire’s -greenhouse we once beheld regiment after regiment of Begonia pots. It -made one’s brain reel. How insupportable anything so repeated would -become! - -Even in small gardens there is too much of a tendency nowadays to overdo -garden effects. The flagged-path effect can certainly be overdone. We -were tempted to visit a farmhouse the other day, adorably placed on a -high Sussex down just where a stretch of table-land dominates an immense -panorama of undulating country, and a vast half-circle of horizon. With -a few more trees no situation could have been more beautiful. - -“It was a party of the name of Mosensohn” who had taken the old -farmhouse, we are told, and they were transmogrifying it according to -the most modern principles of how the plutocrat’s farmhouse should look. - -In some ways it was very well done. The fine old lines of wall and roof -were carefully preserved; the high brick wall with its arched doorway -and door with the grille in it, were quite in keeping, and gave one a -sense of comfortable seclusion as one stepped in off the high road. - -But the square court, once the farmyard, divided by two different -levels, was completely flagged. Only a few beds against the wall, and a -strip of turf on the lower level under the house, afforded any relief to -the eye. There was a sunk garden beyond which was turfed, and the sense -of rest it instantly afforded made one realize what the incoming family -will suffer on a scorching August day from the glare and refractions of -the flags in a space so hemmed in. In the right spirit of garden mania, -we were not above taking what hints we could. And some were very good. -All the beds on that first level were planted with cool-looking blue and -purple flowers—a happy thought where there was so much hot stone. And -the old cow stables had been very cleverly converted into a most -Italian-looking brick pergola which ran the length of the sunk Rose -Garden, and ended in a round summer-house with a window. From there, as -well as from the Rose Garden, the wide view over the Downs met the gaze. -Vividly coloured herbaceous borders ran along the side nearest to the -sudden slope of the hill. There is something very pleasing to the senses -when the glance passes from such an ordered kaleidoscope of colour to -the misty vastness of a far-reaching view. - -In the middle of the Rose Garden was a sunk fountain in a long narrow -basin. - -A batch of pinewood, dark and shady, would have saved the situation; one -sought everywhere for the comfort of real shadows. - -We went into the house, which was in the act of being papered and -painted for the millionaires. Delightful in theory as such old buildings -are, we were seized with doubt from the moment of crossing the threshold -whether any sense of quaint antiquity would compensate one for beams on -top of one’s head, for bedrooms the size of a bath-towel, and a general -feeling of having one foot on the hearth and another in the passage. We -thought the newcomers had shown more taste outside, and came to the -conclusion that some one else’s taste ruled in the garden, but that they -had allowed their own ideas free scope indoors. These ideas were -monotonous. The parlour that gave on the little orchard had a paper all -over green parrots; the best bedroom upstairs had a paper all over blue -parrots; and the second best bedroom was adorned with terra-cotta -parrots. The only chance for a conglomeration of rooms so hopelessly low -and contracted, would have been a plain distemper of no tint deeper than -cream, or at the outside butter colour. Then the old beams would have -had a chance, and one might have felt able to draw one’s breath. - -‹Fancy waking in the morning to the dance of all the little parrots on -top of one’s eyelids!› - -Then, out of a small space, the shapes of trees and flower-beds beyond -come upon the vision with no sense of effect if the space within is -tormented. Neither can anyone have any proper appreciation of the joy of -a bunch of flowers, or a vase of spreading boughs, who has not set them -against plain walls where their shadows have play. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: CONVERTING A COTTAGE] - -Another little house near here—set down in the valley this, on the edge -of a hamlet, overlooking a wide pond—has been to our thinking more -successfully dealt with. Three very old cottages have been knocked into -one, and the whole little rambling up-and-down dwelling-place thus -produced has been boldly distempered white within from roof to kitchen. -The round black oak beams are delightful in these little white rooms, -and the pretty, blue-eyed, still youthful spinster who owns them has -been content with a short pair of clear white muslin curtains in every -window; not, be it understood, the London bedroom kind that cuts across -the pane ‹an abomination difficult to avoid in towns›, but proper -curtains hanging over the recess. Nothing more suitable could be -devised, and it took a “real lady,” in the sense of Hans Andersen’s -“Real Princess,” to be content with such fresh simplicity. But -attractive as her furnishing is, and full of genuinely beautiful things, -there our tastes slightly diverged. - -[Sidenote: COTTAGE FURNITURE] - -[Illustration: landscape] - -The largest sitting-room has a set of black lacquer furniture inlaid -with vivid mother-of-pearl; it is deliciously gay in this gay cottage -parlour, and certainly no one who possessed these early Victorian -treasures could bear to put them on one side. We think if we had been -the lucky owner, however, we would have eschewed coupling them with -velvet—or, indeed, brought velvet at all under those weather beaten -tiles. The mistress of the Villino had a vision—a daring vision—of -printed linen with scarlet cherries and impossible birds pecking at -them; something with a true Jacobean angularity in it, to link the -centuries together, and an uncompromising vividness of tint. That for -cushions and sofa-covers. On the floor then, no bright carpet would be -admitted. We should have enamelled that floor white, and cast a few rugs -down on it, with no more colours in them than faint lemons and greys or -creams. - -To complete this discursion on cottages, some of us visited the other -day a tiny house, where all the downstairs rooms, except the kitchen, -had been thrown together, making a charming, long, low living-room with -one great black beam across the ceiling. On the walls was a perfect -cottage paper, with isolated pink rose-buds well-distanced from each -other: a pink rosebud chintz and black carpet dotted with faint stiff -roses, made quaint and unusual but very satisfying arrangement. The -windows looked out on a pine wood across a hedge of rampant pink Dorothy -Roses. Gazing out on the dim, dark green grey aisles of the fir trees -one would want the gay note within; and the little Rose-strewn paper was -perfection. - - * * * * * - -Yesterday the Grandfather of Loki dragged the Grandmother in her -bath-chair out into the heart of the moors. It’s a sporting bath-chair -this. It has been over as much rough ground as a horse artillery -gun-carriage, and nothing in the matter of obstacles stops it unless it -is barbed wire; it was chosen as light in make as possible, and now it -has a rakish, weather-beaten appearance, like an old mountain mule. - -The rare strangers we meet on our wild career regard us with varied -sentiments. Some are obviously filled with compassion over the joggling -the occupant of the bath-chair must be enduring. “What can that fool of -a man be about to expose that wretchedly delicate woman to such -suffering?” their expression says to us as they pass. Others, on the -other hand, are horror-stricken at the spectacle of the wifely brutality -that condemns this weakly, good-natured man to the task of lugging her -about. There is a good deal of uphill work, of course, about us, and he -goes a good pace. “You ought to get a donkey, Madam,” is their -conclusion. - -On two or three occasions good Samaritans have rushed to assist him, -with glances of scathing rebuke at this new embodiment of woman’s -tyranny. - -But they are some of our best days, in spite of outside disapproval. -And, to go back to yesterday, we started off with all the dogs in a -state of “high cockalorum”—Arabella in her most obsequious mood ‹having -been scolded the day before for running away›; Loki, the Chinaman, -trotting on in determined and splendid isolation as usual, it being -quite against Chinese etiquette to speak to any fur-brother _outside_ -the garden gates; Betty, and her father Laddie, secretly determined to -go hunting, no matter what execrations should be hurled after them. -Laddie comes from a neighbouring house, and insists on adopting us as -his family. It is very hard to be brutal and say that we won’t be -adopted when a pair of the most beautiful cairngorm eyes in all the -world are looking up at us out of the dear long, wise, pathetic dog -face. In fact, we are not brutal; and Laddie comes and goes as he likes. -Only he is occasionally carried back to his cook ‹who, it seems, duly -loves him› by Juvenal the tender-hearted. - -It is very difficult to reach the moors, with this discursiveness! But, -in a sunshine as blazing as that which ever fell from any Italian sky, -we did get into the hollow of the heather hills, and there spend an -afternoon of perfect dreaminess and pleasure. - -[Sidenote: BATH CHAIR AND HEATHER] - -Loki’s Grandfather took off his coat and marched up the slippery paths, -the bath-chair bumping merrily after him. It is one of his male -prerogatives to scorn the idea of sunstroke, and Loki’s Grandmother is -filled with apprehensions half the time. But when she saw him stretched -on a rug over the heather, smoking his pipe, and the four dogs cast -themselves down in attitudes expressive of their different natures, the -mental horizon became cloudless. The material skies—if such an adjective -can be used in such connexion—the unplumbed dome of mystery above us, -were by no means cloudless, and that was part of their wonderful beauty. -Huge lazy white clouds, so luminous as to be dazzling, sailed over the -rim of the moor and cast shadows of indescribable mauve and purple into -the hollows. A day of such intense light it was that every tree in the -thick of the woods flung its patch of shadow, purple-dark against the -vivid green. And, oh, the colour of the Ling, mixed with Hill Heather, -set with islands of Bracken—Bracken in its proper place—silver under the -sun rays, against the blue! And the scent of the Heath and the Whin! - -One doesn’t know if it is exactly one’s soul that the beauty touches, -the appeal is so strongly to the senses. But the soul is of it; for no -mere physical joy can give such a serenity, such an airiness as of wings -to the spirit. Mr. A. C. Benson says, in some early book of his, that -one of the great proofs to him of the existence of God is the feeling -which comes at the sight of a very beautiful prospect. We want to give -ourselves to it—he says—to be absorbed into it; and that is a movement -of the soul, for everything earthly is possessive. - - * * * * * - -Arabella, who is a very affectionate dog, flung herself down beside her -master, taking up a large share of the rug, and pensively chewed gorse -half the time, the other half being absorbed in extracting its prickles -from her chest. Laddie, of course, slipped off to the chase. The two -little dogs, russet brother and little white sister, whiled away a -period of inaction: Betty, by circling round the bath-chair, jumping in -to assure its occupant that she loved her very much and out again to -show that she was a dog of tact; and Loki, panting in his great fur coat -‹in which condition he grins like a Chinese dragon with his roseleaf -tongue bent back in the oddest little loop between his white teeth› by -seeking cool spots wherein to repose—preferably under the very wheel of -the chair, to his Grandmother’s distraction. - -An afternoon to remember, when nothing happened but the greatest -happenings of all: God’s good gifts of sun and wild moor and balmy air! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXI - - -[Illustration: flower] - -The really artistic member of the _famiglia_ is Juvenal. He settles all -the flowers; and for that alone—for the pleasure he gets from it and the -pleasure he gives—he is worth his weight in gold. The little gold and -mother-of-pearl tinted Italian drawing-room is always a bower. -Yesterday, on the silver table which stands beneath a silver and gold -Ikon, he set a vase of white and yellow Roses. It was a touch of genius! -We are quite sick of reading how beautiful Primroses look in Benares -brass bowls. Personally, we dislike brass bowls for flowers. Glass! -Glass! There is nothing as good as glass, especially when you have the -luck to possess, as we did, a case of old Dutch moulded bottles. They -were made in all kinds of delicious angles—three-cornered, square, -hexagonal—with Tulips stamped in the glass: in such as these a couple of -long-stemmed Roses or Irises, and especially Tulips and Daffodils, are -at their very best. - -We have said “they were.” Alas for those Dutch bottles, and for our -folly, improvident wretches as we are, in setting them about for our own -pleasure, instead of shutting them up in a cabinet! Of what were once -eleven perfect irreplaceable treasures ‹the twelfth had a large chip off -its neck from the beginning›, there are only five left! Tittums, the -splendid savage “smoke Persian,” swept the biggest and best off a -chimney-piece with taps of a deliberately evil paw.... And the rest have -gone the way of vases! - -“Very sorry, Miss” ‹it’s generally to the Signorina they come: she takes -the edge off the Padrona’s fury›. “I don’t know how it happened, I’m -sure. It came to pieces——” - -‹Oh, let us stay our pen! Every owner of precious bric-à-brac knows the -awful sound of those words, and the futility of resentment.› - -The Master of the Villino had a teapot. Of yellow Cantagalli pottery it -was, with quaint adornments like caterpillars all over it; it had a -snake handle and a long curving spout. He loved it. He never wanted to -have his tea out of any other vessel. One morning a stranger sat in its -place. He rang the bell severely. One of the nomad footmen, who appear, -and camp, and go away, answered it. - -“My teapot.” - -‹Yes, it was broken.› - -“It came to pieces in your hand, I suppose?” said the master -sarcastically. - -The injured expression of the misjudged became painted on John’s face: - -“No, sir,” he said with much dignity, “it shut itself in the door!” - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: MORE PEKINESE WAYS] - -[Illustration: dog lying down] - -Loki has had a bath, out of due season, because his own artist has come -down from London to limn his imperial splendours for his own book. We -tried to make him understand that it is only smug _nouveaux riches_ who -imagine they can patronize art; that, on the contrary, it is Art which -condescends to us. He put on his most Chinese face and became a -crocodile on the spot. On such occasions his Grandpa calls him a -“Crocowog.” ‹This page is only for the pet dog-lover: superior people, -please pass on!› He is very nice to kiss after his bath, a process -attended on his side by subterranean growls of protest and an alarming -curling of the lip. But—dear little gentle creature as he is at heart—it -is not in him to bite even the most persistent tormentor. - -When his Grandfather amuses himself by what he calls “Squeezing the -growls out” every morning, Loki tries vainly to keep up a show of -displeasure, but always ends on his back with a windmill waving of -pretty prayerful paws. - -[Illustration: dog facing away] - -Loki has his own very marked ideas on the subject of jokes; at least he -has one—in fact, an only joke! It took his Grandfather some time to -apprehend it; but constant repetition of the incident ‹after the -consecrated fashion of the British farce› is beginning to make him see -the point of it. The joke is this: at the top, or the bottom, of the -garden, as the case may be, coming in from, or going out for, a walk, -Loki stands stock still, generally unperceived till you are midway. No -coaxing, whistling, or screaming will budge him. He will stand there a -quarter of an hour, it may be. And the point of the joke is that you -must get behind him and stamp your feet, and say “Naughty Dog!” Then -Loki careers up or down in paroxysms of merriment. This may not appeal -to some people’s special bump of hilarity; and as it is useless to try -to explain a jest, we will leave those to enjoy the spinach story. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXII - - -England is so seldom visited by hot weather such as we now have, that, -especially in our little place with its foreign stamp within and -without, one keeps thinking of other lands. There was the one hot summer -we went visiting in country houses in Italy—two country houses, to be -precise, and both of them were “_castelli_.” - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: A CASTELLO IN PIEDMONT] - -The first ‹which we preferred vastly› was on a high plateau in the -middle of the Piedmontese plain, not far from Turin. From that -entrancing spot the view lay over wide undulating stretches of maize -fields and vineyards; and the eye could not turn North, West, East or -South without resting on a distant panorama of Alps or Apennines. - -That was a hot summer with a vengeance! We were met in the dusk of the -evening—the soft warm dusk of such days in Italy, when the caress of the -air is like the touch of velvet—by a gay little equipage drawn by three -mountain horses abreast, each with a collar of bells and a red hussar -plume erect on its forehead. It was the most merry vehicle we have ever -driven in. How those horses went! How they tossed their heads and how -their bells jangled! - -A beautiful old French style castello it was, by no means spoilt in our -eyes by having been left with rough brick. Now we hear that its -ambitious owners have faced it with stone and are themselves charmed -with the result. No doubt its original picturesqueness had its -disadvantages, for innumerable birds built under the eaves amid those -rough bricks. At the approach of any vehicle the air was full of flying -wings. The flutter and the sound of them! We thought the place all -delightful and characteristic; wonderfully more attractive than the -pompous banality of the now renewed mansion, photographs of which we -have since had mendaciously to admire. - -Inside it was cool and charming; full of old French furniture and -irreplaceable family relics. Some of these have recently been sold, to -defray, no doubt, part of the cost of the new exterior. - -The sedan chair of _Madame la Maréchale_ in pre-Revolution days remains -in my memory as a regret; it was a wonder of old Vernis-Martin. We hope -they have kept the great flags that used to hang in the hall. The -reigning châtelaine did not really care for any of these old things. Her -heart was set on the joys of a Roman _appartement_, and its concomitant -social gaieties. - -[Sidenote: GRANDCHILDREN] - -There was a spacious white hall with impossible paintings of a boar hunt -on its walls, opening upon an endless series of reception rooms. And -through these lofty chambers three little children were running about in -little white linen tunics, and nothing on underneath, because of the -heat of the weather. Their hair was cut in mediæval fashion, straight -across the forehead and straight again across the shoulders. There was -also a most adorable baby of eleven months carried about by a soft-eyed -_Balia_. Out of the mountains she had come, this creature, to cherish -another’s child! And a series of misfortunes had fallen upon her little -home since her departure: the death of her own nursling followed by the -death of the cow! “_Cara moglie_,” her husband wrote on each occasion, -“do not grieve. It is the will of God!” - -There were no doubt other very simple reasons for these catastrophes: -the pitiable poverty of the family which had made it necessary for the -poor woman to sell her mother-rights, and possibly the tainted milk of -the sick cow which had poisoned the little mountaineer. But call it -fate, or the intolerable economic system of modern Italy, it came round -in the end to the same thing. “Do not grieve, _cara moglie_. It is the -will of God!” - -She had done her best to help her own, and this was her comfort in her -sorrow. It was not such a bad comfort; and the most advanced thinker -cannot prove after all that it was not the will of God. - -It was difficult, too, for the foster-mother to weep long when Baby -Maddalena danced on the stone of the terrace with little bare brown -feet. She had the bluest eyes and the brownest face that ever we beheld, -and laughed and gurgled as she danced, with very high action, upheld by -the ends of her sash by the adoring _Balia_, whose own face and neck -above her string of gold beads were the colour of a ripe apricot. - -It would be difficult to have devised a fortnight of greater interest, -amusement, and quaintness than that of this Piedmontese visit. It was a -thoroughly foreign household. The handsome white-bearded athletic father -of the Chatelaine, tied to his chair by an attack of gout, had his -apartments downstairs. And on an upper floor the mother of the Marchese -had her own complete establishment, including a wonderful library, all -tawny gold. There was a baroque Chapel; and one of our most vivid -recollections was our pulling the children down by their sashes as they -swung themselves over the tops of the benches, doubled up like golden -fleeces till their curly heads and their little shoes touched. - -One thing never to be omitted was to watch Monte Rosa at sunset. The -night before our departure there was a thunderstorm far, far away in -those Alps where Monte Rosa rises in beauty. At every flash, peak beyond -peak shone out in distances hitherto wrapped away even from the -imagination. - -“Why does the sky do like that?” asked the second boy, vigorously -blinking his great eyes. With straight black hair and an odd, serious -little countenance, square-jawed and long upper-lipped like a Medici out -of Benozzo Gozzoli’s frescoes, he was the most mediæval-looking of all -the children. We loved that four-year-old.... He has grown up, we hear, -“impossible” and a burden to his family. We cannot help feeling it must -be the family’s fault. The elder boy, much handsomer though he was, did -not then promise so well. A terribly nervous child; the cry “_Ho -paura_,” was always on his lips. It hurt his grandfather’s pride that -any son of his race should show such degenerate timidity. - -One typical scene we were witness of. The little fellow, in great awe of -the peremptory, loud-voiced old sportsman, approached him to say -good-night; and, hanging his head after the manner of the frightened -child, stammered the requisite “_Bonsoir, Bonpapa_,” almost inaudibly. - -Instantly wrath broke out over him. ‹Bonpapa’s temper had not improved -with the gout.› “That was not the manner in which to say good-night.”—“A -man was to look up: to speak straight.” “What does one say?” he ended, -shouting. - -“_Pardon!_” cried the poor, terrified imp, with a wail. - -This child, over whom were so many head-shakings, doubts and laments, -has grown up so brave and fine a boy that it would have rejoiced the -heart of the old Vicomte to see him now. His was a stormy heart that -wanted much of life, and therefore, of course, knew much bitterness. It -is stilled now, alas! this many a year. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: A CASTELLO IN LOMBARDY] - -From this comparatively modern mansion in the Piedmont we went to an -old, old castle in the plains of Lombardy. The chronicles have it that -Barbarossa besieged it. It was approached through a considerable -village—one of great antiquity, and still retaining the lines of the -Roman _castrum_, with all its streets parallel or at right-angles. At -the top of the main of these the great machicolated entrance of the -Castello, with its faded frescoes across the arch, was very impressive -in mediæval strength. The church shouldered one corner of the immense -pile of outer wall; and each side of the moat, between the towers, -inside and out, peasant houses had crept. - -The Castello itself, of extreme antiquity, as has been said, formed two -sides of a square, round, and flagged courtyard. The garden ran sheer up -the hill, within the tower-flanked walls of the outer bailey. There were -vineyards inside; and outside, where the ground fell away, the whole -land was likewise covered with vines. They ran up and down long ridges, -like petrified waves, as far as the eye could see. And in the far, far -distance, almost lost in the horizon, were the Alps. - -What a view that was from the loopholes of those half-ruined -towers—especially at sunset, when there gathered a rosy mist over that -curious, wild-tossing expanse! - -Could we go back now to that unique spot, what a vast amount of æsthetic -pleasure should we not draw from it? But it must be admitted that we -were gross-minded enough at the time to allow material discomfort to -overcome all other impressions. - -[Illustration: castle tower] - -To lodge in a genuine old Lombard Castle, with stone floors and stairs -hewn in the immense thickness of the stone; to look out upon one side -into the moat, and to see the peasant houses clinging to the massive -foundations far below like barnacles to a rock; to look out on the other -side upon the odd rise of sunburnt garden up to the vineyard and the -towers; to imagine oneself back into the very heart of the Middle Ages -may be very inspiring, in theory. But mediæval sensibilities were -undoubtedly more blunted than ours. The smell of that moat running with -the refuse of the crowded Italian village!... For additional pungency, -all the water in the place came from sulphur springs! The reek of it was -in one’s nostrils all day from merely washing in it. - -The household was composed of peasant women out of the village. The wife -of the barber, the mother of the shoemaker, and others, clattered about -the stone passages in their _mules_—a style of foot-gear which leaves -the foot free from the instep. It was perhaps as well that the heels -were high, for their idea of housemaiding ‹a method which appertains in -most Italian households to this day› was first to walk about with a pail -and to slop water out of it over the flags of the floor; then to sweep -the resulting wet mess into a puddle where the stone was worn most -hollow or under the carpet! - -Some attempts at a housemaid’s sink had been excavated in the stone at -the head of the stairs outside our set of rooms; but there was generally -a small cataract of soapy water dripping down the steps, for the simple -practice of the _donna_ that attended on our apartment was to stand on -the landing outside our doors and to shy the contents of her bucket -upwards. - - * * * * * - -The delightful friend with whom we stayed, though not born of the -country, had fallen quite resignedly into its ways. And, indeed, the -castle was chiefly ruled by the _Princesse Mère_, a châtelaine of the -old school, who used to arise in the grey dawn and pull the iron chain -of the great bell that hung outside her windows, to call the vassals to -their daily work. - -“Come, come!” she was frequently heard addressing some dependent or -other whose movements were more indolent than she approved of. “Are you -here for your comfort or for mine?” - - * * * * * - -The table was served, copiously, with singular Italian dishes. There was -a favourite soup with stewed quails in it: the whole animal, bones and -beak and all! It is an unspeakable dish to have set before you on a hot -day. Patties filled with cocks’ combs might follow. Even the _Risotto_ -was intermingled with such strange mincings of liver and cutlet -trimmings that one hesitated before venturing. The _Fritura_, needless -to say, was in full force. A lucky dip, that! You may come across -yesterday’s cauliflower, a bit of forgotten sweetbread, a slice of -sausage, a frizzled artichoke, and half the quail you couldn’t eat the -night before—all in one spoonful! - -Besides the fierce matutinal summons of the domestic bell, one’s sleep -was constantly disturbed by a jangle of chimes from the church: a -perfect frenzy of joy-bells it was, so prolonged and insistent that -sleep was beaten out of one’s brain as with hammers. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THE ANGELS’ MASS] - -“What,” we asked our younger hostess, the third day of this infliction, -“what are these carillons, morning after morning?” - -“Oh, that?—That is for the Angels’ Mass,” she answered us indifferently. - -“The Angels’ Mass?” - -“Yes. A child dead in the village.” - -“But every morning?” - -“There have been several deaths lately. It is the fever from the rice -fields.” - -Pleasant hearing for a woman with an only little daughter just -recovering from a rather serious illness! Every smell that greeted her -nostrils afterwards—and they were of a diversified and poignant -description—seemed laden with the germs of death. But the young -_Principessa_ had absorbed a good deal of the indolent indifference of -her adopted country towards hygiene. - -“You, with your English notions!” was all the comfort her visitor got, -offered in tones of good-humour not unmixed with contempt. Or else: -“What you smell, my dear, is only carbolic; and that is very healthy.” - -A few dabs of disinfectant had indeed been distributed about the moat, -on much the same principle, and with the same effect, as the red pepper -which is served with wild duck, just to heighten the flavour of the -dish. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: ENTOMOLOGICAL MYSTERIES] - -Perhaps the most lasting impression of that Lombardy sojourn was the -morning discovery in a glass of drinking-water which had been placed -beside the bed the previous night, of the most extraordinary creature -any of us had ever seen. It was like a very large shrimp, perfectly -transparent, with such gigantic antennæ and legs that they protruded -over the top of the tumbler! - -No one else in the castle had ever beheld anything like it either, it -appeared; except one old woman, who described it vaguely as “_una bestia -del acqua_.” But as it most certainly had not been in the tumbler when -the water was put into it, its origin remains for ever a mystery. - -A few nights later the little girl of the party of travellers found one -of these zoological mysteries in a quite empty tumbler! We might have -thought it a practical joke played on the _forestieri_, only that no one -could have come into the room without the knowledge of its occupants. - -This, and the sudden departure of the “chef” who had been responsible -for the little quails in the soup, did upset the equanimity of the -pretty hostess. - -“To think,” she cried, “that I should invite my best friend here, to -starve or poison her!... And that unknown beasts should get into her -drinking-water! I—I have been here every summer for eleven years and I -have never seen a beast like that!” - -She thought we had dreamt the first monster. The second was carried in -to her, with its horrible transparent legs bristling over the tumbler. -She surveyed it hopelessly. - -“_Il ne manquait plus que cela!_” - - * * * * * - -Yet one looks back on it all with a kind of tenderness. It was all so -picturesque! What a dwelling might have been made of that antique castle -by anyone who had the money and the art to spend it! - -But, alas!... In the great stone bedchambers where we lodged there were -blinds with Swiss scenes depicted in the most vivid colours: a mountain -maiden and a Mont Blanc, and a torrent upon each.... Incongruity could -go no farther—except perhaps in the billiard-room, which had been done -up by the _Principe_ and was always shown off with great pomp. It was a -splendid vaulted apartment, dating from the Barbarossa period; there -were four deep niches hewn out of the stone: well, in two of these were -placed large Chinese Mandarins, with heads that nodded if anyone could -reach high enough to set them going; and, in the other two were plaster -statues of the worst garden description: Flora with a basket, Ceres with -a lumpy sheaf! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: AUTUMN] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -[Illustration: landscape with man and pets] - - - - -XXXIII - - -[Sidenote: SOME GARDEN GHOSTS] - -There is no ghost in the garden of the Villino. Neither the meek spirit -of Susan nor Tom’s saturnine spectre haunts the peaceful glade where -they lie. ‹Juvenal has planted a “Tree of Heaven” at the head of his -ever-mourned darling and covered the grave with Forget-me-nots!› - - * * * * * - -My youth ‹these reminiscences are contributed by Loki’s grandmother› was -spent in a large country place in Ireland, and to us children—we were -six then—certain walks, certain dells in the woods, were assuredly -haunted. - -The property had long ago belonged to one Lady Tidd, who so adored it -that she had herself buried on a hill overlooking it, her coffin upright -in its tall square tomb. It was Lady Tidd who was popularly supposed to -haunt the fair wooded lands that had come to us. This Dysart Hill, on -the top of which the ruined chapel and the deserted graveyard lay, was a -favourite walk of our childish days. When our short legs had mastered -the difficulties of the slope—and a very stony slope it was, covered -towards the summit with a fine mountain grass, than which no footing is -more slippery—we never failed to wander round to that singular monument, -through the massive granite door of which she who stood in the upright -coffin was supposed to be gazing down upon the distant prospect of our -own home. It was never without an awful sense of horror and mystery that -I pictured those dead eyes, endowed with miraculous vision, piercing -through wood and stone to stare out upon what she still loved. Some -apprehension of the horror and tragedy of bodily death and of the dread -power of the spirit seized hold of my small soul as I contemplated that -grave of human folly and of poor human aspiration. There it was, -perhaps, that an overpowering dislike of graveyards began in me. - - * * * * * - -Lady Tidd was seen by a gardener of ours, between two Yew trees, in a -dark corner outside the garden wall. - -“She riz up out of the ground at me,” he told my mother. And he added, -as a convincing detail, that his hat stood up on his equally rising -hair. “Sure, wasn’t me hat lifted an inch off me head, ma’m?” - -My mother, strong-souled creature as she was, laughed with a fine -scepticism. Another kind of spirit had done the mischief, she declared. -But we who heard could not so easily dismiss the agonizingly fascinating -tale. We knew that spot outside the garden wall, in the shadow of the -black Yew trees; and the fear and the darkness that always fell upon us -when we passed it. - - * * * * * - -Another dreaded place was a certain Primrose dell, beautifully starred -with blossoms, beautifully green, beautifully shaded; the very place for -happy children, it would seem, and for long hours of flower-picking -gipsy teas and endless games. It was quite lost in the woods that banded -the property, away from intrusions of nurse or governess—and yet, how -haunted! Never shall I forget—I feel it now as I write—the profound -misery that would seize upon me at the very entrance to the laughing -glade. - -I am not sure, however, that there was not a tangible reason for this -depression, connected with the disappearance of a fondly-loved -four-footed playfellow. A darling dog he was: one of the jocose, -high-spirited kind; his open mouth and hanging tongue seemed to show him -a partaker in human mirth, with a waggish humour all his own. ‹No pun is -intended!› He had a rough tangled coat, black and white, a flag of a -tail, flopping ears. He was the swiftest, gayest, most romping creature -that has ever shared the play of children. We adored him. His name was -Carlo. I don’t know of what breed he was, if of any.... Alas! he hunted -the sheep! He disappeared! No one knew what had become of him. We -children never ascertained anything, but there was a rumour—a dark, -untraceable, yet most convincing rumour—that somebody had seen the -small, rough corpse hanging from a tree-trunk, not far from the Primrose -dell. Was it not that, perhaps, which haunted the dell for me? - -[Sidenote: THE LOATHELY HERD] - -We suspected the herd. A large, fat, round-faced, smiling man, this; -with an unctuous, creeping voice that seemed to gurgle up like a slow -oil-bubble from inner recesses of obesity. A man who at intervals would -remark, seeing us grouped about our mother, “You’ve a lovely lot of -ladies, ma’m, God bless them!”—as if we were little pigs or calves. - -He had a sinister reputation with us already on account of his -periodical dealings with sheep, which we, tender-hearted and -impressionable children, scarcely as much as hinted to each other; and -certainly never really associated with the roast mutton that appeared -twice a week. - -No, we did not like Green, the herd; and I, the smallest of the “lovely -lot,” would cling to my mother’s skirts when his little twinkling eye -turned in my direction. - - * * * * * - -For a long time he was associated in my mind with the horror of a -conversation which passed between him and my mother. How well I remember -that day! We were walking through one of the upper fields towards a -village called Hop Hall, which also belonged to the estate. It was a -lovely meadow with a curious little wood in the middle of it, ringed -like a moat by a streamlet in which the cattle drank. This wood was full -of wild Crab-apples; the blossom of it hung over the water and was -mirrored therein. The field caught the sweep of wind that blew from the -top of the hill with the breath of the Pine-trees. It was a carpet of -Cowslips in the right season. - -Well, as we walked, my mother and four little girls and one little boy, -the herd stumping along with a stick—he had a lame leg—his ragged dog -behind him, there came the following interchange of remarks, which set a -seal of terror on my young mind. My mother mentioned her intention of -visiting Hop Hall, and then inquired how a certain old woman might be -who dwelt there. She had been long bedridden. - -“Troth, and she’s the same as ever!” - -“My goodness,” exclaimed my mother, “why, she must be nearly a hundred!” - -“She must be that, me lady.—Begorra, she’ll have to be shot!” - -My mother laughed, and so did the herd. The anguish of the small -listener passes description; and there ensued a veritable haunting. The -herd she could understand, she knew him to be a criminal of the deepest -dye. But her mother!... - -It was months before a benevolent governess discovered the hidden sore, -and explained and consoled. It was only a joke! It left a rankling -tenderness. I could see no humour in it. - - * * * * * - -It is no wonder that Irish children should be fanciful, surrounded as -they are, or were in my day, with the quaint, superstitious beliefs of -servants and peasantry. Our chief nursery comfort and most beloved -companion was the old housekeeper, who had begun her life in the service -of our mother’s grandmother. That takes one back! Whenever we had a free -moment we trotted into her sitting-room for pleasant conversation and, -maybe, a biscuit, a bit of chocolate or candy. She had the key of the -stores. - -“I declare if I was made of sugar, you’d have me eaten!” she would say; -a cannibalistic possibility I made it a point of earnestly disclaiming. - -[Sidenote: THE THREE KINGS AND THE STAR] - -The linen room was where she sat, in a quaint, painted, high-backed -armchair by the window. She gazed straight out across a yard to a -shrubbery dominated by three large Fir trees over which the evening star -would peep, a tremulous yellow. She called those Fir trees her Three -Kings, and never failed to lift her hands in wonder and gratitude over -the beauty of the star. Poetry goes deep into the hearts of the Irish. - - * * * * * - -I can see that room now. The whole of one side was filled with -cupboards—presses, we called them—where, behind buff wire gratings and -beautifully fluted bright pink calico, the linen was stored. A few -nursery groceries, biscuit and dessert oddments were kept in a cupboard -just at the entrance; and there was always a faint fragrance of raisins -and spice in the atmosphere. I can see the dear occupant of the room -too; the picture of beautiful old age, with banded silver hair beneath -the snow-white cap which was tied with muslin strings under her chin. I -can see her apple-blossom cheeks and her blue eyes, clear and innocent -as a child’s, yet so wise! She had a white starched kerchief folded -across her black bodice, and her black skirt was gathered with a great -many pleats round the comfortable rotundity of her figure. We used to -find her sitting by the casement in the twilight, gazing out. If the -mood took me, I would sit on her knee and stare out too. Every few -minutes or so she would sigh, not with sadness, but gently, as the woods -sigh, with scarcely perceptible movement on a still night. But though I -knew it to be no sigh of distress, it nevertheless troubled me. I would -ask anxiously: - -“Why do you sigh, Mobie?” - -Her answer was always the same: - -“Old age, Alanna!” - -Her name was Mrs. O’Brien, which was interpreted Mobie by our baby lips. - -In same fashion the first nurse, whom I only vaguely remember, erect, -small, severe, and kind, had degenerated from Mrs. Hughes into Shuzzie; -and the queer, tiny head housemaid, baptized Bridget, was Dadgie. A -unique personage this, minute as she was active, with bobbing bunches of -grey curls on each side of her grey net cap with purple ribbons which -were tied under her chin. Upon the rare occasions when some damage -occurred to the china or glass under her hands, she would trot into my -mother with the announcement: - -“Oh, ma’am, I’ve made a ‘_foo pas_!’” - -No one knew where she had picked up this inappropriate bit of French. - -Dear, quaint, pathetic, busy little creature, buzzing about the house -with a flapping duster! I have a vision of her too, as I write: her huge -poke bonnet overshadowing the small, important face; her bobbing curls -as she fluttered in to confession in the oratory on those monthly -occasions when the old parish priest—another figure out of long past -times, he too, with his white head, his black stockings and buckle -shoes, his full-skirted coat—came out from the little country town to -“hear” the household. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THE FAIRIES] - -My mother used to call the three old women servants her three duchesses. -Alas! two of these dignitaries passed away very early in my -recollection. Fortunately, Mobie, the best beloved, was left to us till -later years. It is to her that my thoughts most readily return. - -[Illustration: profile of old woman] - -She was a store-house of anecdotes and legends. Never would she speak, -nor allow anyone to speak before her, of the fairies otherwise than as -“the good people”; and then it was with bated breath. It was established -as a fact among us that in her girlhood she had had communication with -them. Certainly, we believed, she had seen them one evening dancing in a -ring; but never could she be got to tell us in detail anything about -these experiences. The very mystery of her silence confirmed our theory. - -What a delightful volume one could have made out of the tales that fell -from her lips upon our small listening ears by the nursery fire; or in -the linen room with its uncurtained window and its vision of the Three -Kings and the Star. - -From many memories one floats back to me. It made a great impression: - -“... And when Tim Brenahan was on his way home that evening, wasn’t it -round by the wall he went, and didn’t he see two great cats sitting on -the top of it with their tails hanging over? And didn’t one cat say to -the other, as plain as can be, and didn’t he hear it, just as you do be -hearing me: - -“Says one, ‘And what’s the news this evening?’ And says the other, ‘No -news at all,’ says he. ‘Only that the widdie Moloney’s old tabby’s gone -at last,’ says he, ‘and it’s the great funeral will be to-night,’ says -he. - -“And when Tim Brenahan came home to his wife, says she to him, ‘And -what’s the news this evening, Tim, asthore?’ - -[Illustration: two cats sitting on a wall] - -“And says he to her, ‘Faith, no news at all,’ says he, ‘save as I was -coming home by the long wall beyont, there was two great fellers of cats -sitting on the top of it. And says one to the other, “The widdie -Moloney’s tabb’s goney at last,” says he, “and it’s the grand burying on -her there’ll be to-night.”’ - -“And no sooner were the words out of his mouth when his own tom-cat ups -with him and shakes himself where he was sittin’ starin’ at the turf, -and says he ‘Then it’s time for me to be off,’ says he, ‘or I’ll be late -for the funeral.’ And out of the door with him, with his tail all of a -bristle....” - -I was rather awed by that story, which, to my infant mind, bore the -stamp of unmistakable veracity; but nothing that proceeded from the -linen room ever really distressed me. Its ruling spirit was too benign -and too perfectly in harmony with us. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: AN OLD IRISH NURSE] - -The terror of those days to me was the fragile-looking, soft-voiced, -mincing widow who became our nurse after the death of the fine old -martinet by whom we had been ruled before. It was not surprising that -our mother should have imagined she was passing us over to a much -gentler authority; but as a matter of fact—indolent, ignorant, -peevish—the new nursery autocrat was given to enforcing her orders by -threats of a ghastly and impossible description. - -“I’ll cut your tongue out,” was a favourite menace, which, if defied, -would be supplemented by—“Wait, now, till I run and get my scissors.” - -Stronger of body, more enlightened in mind, my co-nurseryites treated -these remarks with the scorn they deserved. But I cannot describe the -agony with which they pressed upon me. It is peculiar to all children -that these terrors are never communicated to others. Not even to my -brothers and sisters would I breathe one word of my apprehensions. But -the misery took shape in horrible dreams and sleepless nights. And when -matters became too intolerable, I would creep out of my little bed, and -patter across the bare boards into the adjoining room where the -housekeeper slept. On no single occasion did she show the smallest -severity or even annoyance at being disturbed. - -[Illustration: little girl] - -“Mobie,” I would pipe, “I’m afraid!... May I get into your bed?” - -“Come in, Alanna,” was the invariable response. - -Oh! the comfort of snuggling against her! - -Whether she promptly fell asleep again, or whether she watched and -talked loving nonsense one felt equally safe, equally blessedly happy. -If she slept, it was lightly enough, like all old people; and each time -she turned or moved in the bed, the small bed-fellow would hear her -murmur: - -“The Lord have mercy on me!” - -It was not a deliberate prayer, scarcely even a conscious thought, but -the natural movement of the soul. - -Little wonder that, being what she was, she who had lain down every -night, as it were, in the very arms of Providence, should pass to her -last sleep as simply and fearlessly. - -“Are you frightened, mother?” cried her daughter, bending over her at -the very end. She opened her eyes and smiled. - -“Frightened? How could I be frightened? Am I not going to my best -friend?” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXIV - - -Looking back now, it seems to me that the whole of my childhood was -pursued by one phantom or another. The smell of the woods through the -open nursery window on a hot summer’s night turned me sick with an -unspeakable apprehension. Believers in reincarnation would attribute -this peculiarity to some sylvan tragedy in a previous existence. No -doubt there must have been a physical explanation. I have come to the -conclusion that most things in life are capable of a double -interpretation; which is the same thing as saying that there are two -aspects to every question! - - * * * * * - -Is it usual for children, I wonder, to see such marvellous colours, -shapes, and appearances in the dark as both I and a sister did, between -the ages of five and eight? Kaleidoscopic colours running one into the -other, and an odd, very frequently recurrent vision of a cushion covered -with gold pieces which poured down on the bed. - -My husband, as a small child, would behold complete scenes in the corner -of his nursery, and would pull his nurse on one side impatiently when -she impeded his view. And let me here note a curious incident connected -with his juvenile imaginings. All his life, as far back as he could -remember, he had a recurrent dream of terror—at fairly rare intervals—of -an immense wave rising up before him like a mountain and curling over at -the top, about to overwhelm the land. He told me of this dream after we -were married, adding that though it was so distinct that he could draw -it, he knew it for a purely fantastic nightmare; knew that no such tall -and steep wave as he beheld in his sleep could exist in nature. A few -years ago—we were at Brighton, I remember—he brought up to me from the -hotel room an illustrated paper, and, laying it on the table before me, -said: “Look—there is my dream!” - -I looked. It was an illustration that held the whole page. I saw a huge -wall of water, rising sheer black, with a toppling crest of white—an -awful, threatening vision! I read underneath: “Photograph of the recent -tidal wave in Japan.” - -Who can explain the mystery? He had had that dream first as a baby boy -in Paris, some forty-five years before. No such sight, no such picture -had ever come across his waking consciousness. - -A tidal wave in Japan ... so far has my discursive mind led me from -garden ghosts! - - * * * * * - -We know a haunted garden belonging to an old Manor House in Dorsetshire -which was our abode one summer, five or six years ago. The house had -once been Catherine Parr’s. It was full of ghosts too, but I am none too -sure that they were mellow sixteenth-century spectres; rather I believe -were they the objectionable offspring of a table-rapping spiritualistic -owner. - -[Sidenote: THE FORGOTTEN NUN] - -The garden ghost was, to our thinking, neither Tudor nor modern, but -that of a sad little eighteenth-century nun. For, passing through many -hands, the place had for a time been a convent. A gentle community, -turned out by the French Revolution, had been offered a refuge in this -far corner of England by the then papist possessor of “The Court.” The -place had its previous story of faith and persecution: its parish -church, which had long clung to the old dispensation, and its priest -martyr still lying in the little churchyard. All this is forgotten now. -We knew nothing of it, nor of the nuns; but oddly enough, when we came -into the house, one of us said to the other: “I am sure there was a -chapel here.” - -[Illustration: nun] - -Well, when the nuns packed up their goods and returned to France, they -took away with them too ‹so tradition says› the coffins of some sisters -who had been buried in the garden. Surely they had forgotten one! What -else could account for the dreadful melancholy which fell upon us at a -particular turn of the walk that ran round that sunny, bowery enclosure? -There was nothing whatsoever suggestive about the spot. The high, warm -wall with the spreading fruit trees rose on one side; an Apple tree and -a clump of Hazels held the other—yet so sure as one came to this place -the heart was gripped, the spirit seized. We each of us felt it; -visitors felt it. That dear, departed cat, Tom, of venerable memory—he -was a great ghost-seer—he felt it—nay, he saw it! His tail would -bristle, his fur stare, he would stand and then flee as if pursued for -his life. - -The poor little nun, lying in a foreign land, away from the rest of her -sisters, forgotten!—Ghosts have walked for much less. In fact, it is -curious to note that the restlessness of most authenticated ghosts seems -due to an objection to their place of burial. And on this score—if the -anecdote takes me away from gardens, it brings me back to them in the -end—I have in my mind another tale. It is a true story, as the children -say, connected with a house which we have often visited in Ireland: an -old monastery, full of that curious depression in its stateliness which -so many confiscated church properties retain. It was haunted in many -ways. - -Personally, beyond unpleasant sensations in traversing some particular -corridor and landing, we never met any ghost in the Abbey. But then we -were not placed in _the_ ghost-room. - -[Sidenote: A STRONG MIND CONVINCED] - -An old friend of our hostess, an elderly lady, was not so kindly -treated. She was a spinster of robust constitution and strong mind; a -type of the particular generation which comes between the nervous -gentility of the Early Victorian sisterhood and the present day -“suffrage” community. No doubt the mistress of the Abbey believed her -ghost-proof. But she was mistaken. After the first night in the Lavender -Bedroom, the visitor’s appearance at breakfast pointed so conclusively -to the fatigue of sleeplessness that, with some misgiving, her friend -drew her on one side to question her in private: - -“Were you disturbed, Lucy?” - -“I was, Mary.” The maiden lady was not a person of many words. - -“Did you—did you ... see any thing, Lucy?” exclaimed the hostess. The -family had but lately come into possession; and the idea of haunters and -haunted annoyed rather than frightened her. - -“I did,” said the friend firmly. - -Some persuasion was necessary before she would relate her experience. At -last it was extracted from her in some such shape as this: - - * * * * * - -“I couldn’t sleep. Towards two in the morning I heard a noise. I thought -it was rats. I sat up in bed to feel for the matches: couldn’t find -them. There came a light, on the opposite wall. I stared. I saw a monk -in it. He began to move. He didn’t look alive: he looked like a magic -lantern. He went out of the room through the closed door. I got up, -opened the door, looked out into the passage. Yes, Mary, the light was -there, and the figure in it, too. It moved along the wall. I followed -it. It disappeared before the cross doors. I went back to bed. No, I’m -not frightened, but I haven’t slept. I’d like another room, please. No, -I wasn’t asleep—it wasn’t a dream. I can’t explain it. Nor you either, I -suppose.” - - * * * * * - -The hostess pondered. It was true she couldn’t explain. She had heard of -that apparition before—perhaps had seen it. It was certainly very -annoying. She promised her friend to give instant orders for the -preparation of another room; and then made a request that the matter -should not be mentioned to her daughter—an impressionable, imaginative -girl of eighteen. - -The maiden lady snorted. It wasn’t likely. - -Rosamund, the daughter, had of course known all about it long ago; -while, after the fashion of her kind, keeping her counsel demurely -before her elders, she had discussed freely the thrilling appanage of -her new home with all the companions of her own age who came to stay at -the Abbey. - -It was she who was destined to lay the ghost. One rainy afternoon later -in the same summer, the young members of the house-party found -themselves stranded together in the great hall, and Rosamund cheerfully -suggested table-turning and spirit-rapping to while away the time till -tea. It is a never-failing amusement. - -Having produced a satisfactory condition of lurching, and elicited -several quite distinct raps from the round mahogany table, she cried -out: - -“Let us call up the ghost.” - -Responsive knocks came, loud and marked. A system of communication was -promptly established. Two raps for yes, one for no. Then the questioning -began. - -With much laughter and some agreeable tremors, it was ascertained that -the monk-ghost belonged to the community which had dwelt so long at the -Abbey; that he was dissatisfied with his present place of burial, which -was outside the old monks’ burying-ground, now a part of the actual -garden. - -It is always safe, as I have said, to question a ghost on this point. -Now, however, some difficulty ensued when, through the limited medium, -the rapping spirit endeavoured to specify the spot of its present abode, -and the field was too wide for exactness—until a young sailor cousin -intervened. He had been playing, in mere idleness and utter scepticism, -the rather gruesome game. But at this point he roused himself, -interested to put the matter to the proof. He fetched pencil and paper, -and drew up a scheme of latitude and longitude with reference to the -garden walls; and finally determined the position where the discontented -ghost announced that his bones were actually reposing. - -With professional neatness he made a plan of the shrubbery, marked the -grave thereon, and the whole party resolved to sally forth with spades -“to see if the old ghost spoke the truth.” The sailor cousin was -particularly jocose in unbelief. - -[Sidenote: LAID AT LAST] - -Yet truly, the next day, in the very place designated, they came upon -bones—to be exact, upon a skeleton complete save for the skull. The -sailor was the first to rush back to the Abbey and collect a circle for -a fresh séance. And once more the phantom monk rapped out latitude and -longitude in connexion with his skull; once more he was found to be a -ghost of the most complete veracity. And the end of this true story is -that the skeleton, complete with its cranium, was laid duly and -reverently in the old consecrated ground in the garden. And the monk -appeared no more in the Lavender Room. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXV - - -I promised to return to gardens, and here I am. What a garden that was! -Not a bit uncomfortable in spite of its company of departed friars. The -monk’s old Yew Walk was there; such a one as has not its match in the -kingdom, I believe. There too were fields of “Malmaison” Carnations. -Never have I beheld such lavishness before or since. The scent of the -things! It was our hostess’s rather extravagant fancy. I don’t know that -I exactly envy it. It was almost too much, but yet it was a wonder! - - * * * * * - -I think it was a dream of very childish days that started my haunting -dread of graveyards; that, and the peculiar desolation of the little -burial-place through which we passed every Sunday morning to go to the -Chapel near our country home. It was what is called in Ireland a -“station,” that is a Chapel of Ease, which was only attended on Sundays -and shut up on week-days. Deprived of the flicker of the Sanctuary lamp, -the place seemed, except for that brief Sunday service, as deserted -within as it was forlorn without. - -[Sidenote: GREEN GRAVES] - -I dreamt that all those poor neglected green graves—there was hardly one -with even a black painted cross to mark it—had become endued with -ghastly life and started in pursuit of me down the familiar country -road. In a frightful, stealthy silence they wallowed and leaped, gaining -on me as I ran, in my dream, in a panic that I can hardly even now bear -to think back on. - -For years afterwards I never walked away from that little churchyard, -even in the large and cheerful company of my sisters, clutching the -solid hand of governess or nurse, without the nightmare terror coming on -me again. Not a word did I breathe of it, of course; but I would look -back over my shoulder, at every turn of the road, horribly expecting to -see those uncanny green hounds on the trace of my miserable little -heels. - -[Illustration: children walking] - -It was only in my walks I feared, however. When driving backwards and -forwards to Mass I felt I could defy the graves. We always drove to the -Sunday Mass. How vivid are the impressions of those early days! As I -write I have before me the whole scene. Just before the cracked bell -ceased ringing, we would file up the little front aisle and enter the -pew reserved for us; my mother very solemn, with what we called her -church face; our two governesses and we children. In summer each of the -four little girls wore a new starched, very full-skirted print frock; -and the one little boy of the party a white duck suit equally stiff from -the wash. Our wooden pew ran on the right side of the Sanctuary rails -and was shut off by a little door from the rest of the chapel. It had -long bright red rep cushions, and the wood-work was painted a peculiarly -pale yellow, handsomely and wormily grained! Just opposite to us, the -better class farmers’ families were installed; and every new fashion -that appeared in our bench was promptly copied by the bouncing Miss -Condrens and Miss Mahons opposite. - -There was, I recollect, one personage who inspired me with great -admiration. She was a Mrs. Condren and her Christian name was Eliza. The -daughter of what is called a “warm farmer,” she had been forbidden all -thoughts of matrimony by him, who held the holy estate in as much -disfavour as did Mrs. Browning’s father. - -Well on in years, and presumably bored by her maiden state, she had at -length eloped with an elderly admirer; and though she had “done very -well for herself” and her spouse was quite as “warm” as her papa, the -latter maintained towards them both an undying resentment. No wonder -Mrs. Condren moved in a halo of romance in our eyes. Added to this she -was always very handsomely attired in a shining purple silk, which -filled the chapel with its rustle. She also sported a yellow bonnet with -bunches of wax grapes and—last touch of elegance—dependent from its -brim, a lace veil embroidered also with grapes, a cluster of which -completely covered one eye and part of her cheek. - -Quite another type was old Judy in her little brown shawl and lilac -sun-bonnet, who knelt ostentatiously just in front of the altar rails, -apart from the rest of the congregation; and who punctuated the service -and sermon with loud clacks of her tongue, groans from and thumps upon -her attenuated chest. My mother was once highly amused by Judy’s -pantomime during a particular discourse. - -[Sidenote: BLESSED ARE THE POOR] - -“Blessed are the poor,” announced the young curate with his rolling -Irish emphasis. - -Here was a statement quite to Judy’s taste. Loud were her groans of -approval. She turned up her eyes with great piety, and the gusto with -which she beat her breast indicated that she took the benediction -entirely to herself. “But don’t think, me brethren,” went on the -ecclesiastic warningly, “that this means that because you’re poor in -purse you’re pleasing to God. It’s the poor in spirit that I do be -meaning. There’s many a poor body with a proud heart.” - -Now poor old Judy must have been conscious of the possession of this -spiritual drawback; for even as she had taken the text as a direct -compliment, so she now took the corollary to it as a personal insult. -She drew herself up with a jerk and threw a glance of furious reproach -at the speaker. No more groans should His Riverence have out of her! -No—nor tongue clacking, nor chest thumpings either! - -For the rest of his sermon she remained rigid, fixing her gaze upon him -with an unwavering glare of disapproval. - - * * * * * - -As the priest had to come from a considerable distance, he was generally -late; and as the congregation itself straggled in from over the hills, -sometimes much before the hour, it was the pious custom at Rathenisha -for the two model damsels of the congregation each to read aloud out of -a different book of sermons for the edification of the assembly in the -delay before Mass. They had fine loud voices and read simultaneously; -the effect can be better imagined than described. One ear would be -struck by genteel accents proclaiming, “Admoire the obedience of Joseph, -me brethren. Did he repoine, did he hesitate?”—the while the other ear -was assailed by a rich brogue announcing, “The sentence is already past. -Thou must doi. How many have gone to bed at noight in apparent good -health—” - -It was some such threat as this, intermittently caught from the side of -the deepest brogue, which would terrify my small mind. The whole -churchyard, with its horror of green graves, would seem to close about -me. And how much worse it was should there chance to be a new, raw mound -without! - - * * * * * - -One of the Mahon girls did indeed illustrate the gloomy treatise in a -manner appalling to my secret state of apprehension. She died quite -suddenly while dancing at some rural festivity. Rumour had it it was -tight-lacing which had produced the tragedy. - -“Wasn’t she black all down one side, the crathur?” - -“Ah, maybe—but she was always a yaller girl,” opined a wise matron. - -Dimly I can recall that she had the pallor that goes with swarthy hair -and eyes. A handsome creature, but not of the type admired by her class. -The poor girl’s sudden end formed a stirring illustration for the second -curate’s sermon the Sunday after the funeral. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: A PERSUASIVE TONGUE] - -“What did I say, me brethren, last time I stood preaching here at you? -Didn’t I say who could tell who would be missing before the year was -out? And look now at the wan that has been taken—a foin, sthrapping -young girl, one of the foinest, I might say, in this parish.... Not an -ail on her a few days ago, and where is she now?” - -He jerked his thumb terribly through the little glass window at the -side. The congregation enjoyed it enormously. There was a sucking of -breaths, a clacking of tongues and subdued groans of approbation; and a -good deal of rocking backwards and forwards on the part of Judy, who as -usual squatted on her heels at the edge of the altar rails. But, poor -little wretch that I was, how I quaked! - -The second curate was an excellent young man, of the sturdy type -familiar to many Irish districts in those days. The people called him -“rale wicked,” and loved him proportionately—“wicked,” in their -terminology, having a very different significance from the word used in -its English sense. “Wicked” to them refers but to the flame of the fire -of zeal; and they like to feel it scorch them. - -When from the altar steps he threatened by name certain recalcitrant -black sheep of his congregation who were neglecting their Easter duty, -to be “afther them with a horsewhip if they didn’t present themselves -‘at the box’ so soon as he had his breakfast swallowed,” there was a -thrill of admiration through the chapel. That was being “wicked” after a -fashion they all appreciated. And when, after his breakfast had been -gulped down, he duly appeared with a horsewhip, the results were -immediate and excellent. His morning meal, in parenthesis, got ready for -him by a neighbouring farmer’s wife and served to him in the little damp -sacristy, invariably consisted of three boiled eggs, besides the usual -pot of poisonous strong tea. Three eggs is the number consecrated to the -cleric in Ireland. - -At a certain Connemara hotel a curious visitor, hearing the orders -shouted out: “Bacon and eggs for a lady,” “Bacon and eggs for a -gentleman,” “Bacon and eggs for a priest,” ventured to inquire the -differentiation. The answer was prompt and simple. - -“Wan egg for a lady; two for a gentleman; and three for a priest!” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXVI - - -[Sidenote: NECROPOLIS] - -I have solemnly sworn my family that when I die I am not to be buried in -a “Necropolis.” Horrible thought, a “city” of the dead! To hate the herd -when living, and to be forcibly associated with it till the Day of -Judgment, if not evicted to make room for fresh tenants! - -In the very early months of my marriage we were obliged to take up our -abode in a large northern town, for Loki’s future grandfather had to -study certain aspects of newspaper management. Never was anything more -difficult to find than a roof for our heads in that place of teeming -activities. Worn out with a long and fruitless search we were at last -landed in a higher quarter of the town at the house of a dentist! The -dentist was going away for a holiday, and was ready to put at our -disposal, for a consideration, the whole of the clean, fresh, quite -unobjectionable little abode, reserving only one room—his chamber of -horrors! - -I interviewed an elderly thin-faced lady, with, as became a dentist’s -mother, a very handsome smile. She brought me to the window. We looked -down on waving tree-tops and a wide space of green in the gathering dusk -of the September evening. - -“You see,” she said, “we have a most pleasant view.” - -I gazed. That stretch of green silence and restfulness, after all those -sordid roaring streets, decided me. - -“We will take the house!” I cried, in a hurry lest we should miss such a -chance. - -“I always think,” said the dentist’s mother, smiling still more broadly, -“that it is a great advantage to be opposite the Necropolis.” - -Poor innocent as I was, and country bred, I had no idea of the meaning -of the word. - -I was soon to discover. Funerals are of more than daily occurrence in a -mighty city. Oh! the processions that I stared down upon from the -drawing-room window, through the fog and the rain—gloom generally -enveloped that centre of manufactures! I was left long hours alone; no -one but an impertinent French maid with whom I could exchange my ideas. -The proceedings in the Necropolis had a hypnotic attraction for me. I -began to feel quite certain that it was gaping for my poor little bones, -and that they must inevitably rest there. Finally, I extracted a solemn -oath that, whatever happened, this should not be the case—a promise -momentarily soothing, but far from lifting the weight of depression that -pressed upon me. - -To add a touch of revolting comedy to my experiences, the owner of the -house returned abruptly from his holiday and took possession of the -locked-up room for an afternoon, for the purpose of extracting all the -teeth of a special friend. I fled from the house in terror, when Elise -‹who hated me› informed me with much gusto of the impending excitement. -Needless to say, however, she regaled me with every groan on my return, -and all the details she had been able to pick up from the -parlourmaid—left by the dentist, _en parenthèse_—who had counted the -teeth. - -The nightmare shrinking from death and its dreadful appanages is one -that is mercifully passing from me. But I envy those who can take the -great tragic facts of existence, not only with simplicity, but with a -kind of enjoyable interest. - -A Hungarian friend of ours derived much solace in the loss of an adored -mother by the choosing of a coffin—“Louis XV, with little Watteau bows -of ormolu.” She smiled with real joy, through her tears as she described -the casket to us, adding: - -“And I have chosen just such another for myself for ven I die!” - -She stared in amazement when I remarked that I should not care what my -coffin was like. - -“Vat?” she exclaimed, “not like to be buried in a Vatteau coffin? But it -is so pretty!” - -Alas! she lies in her pretty coffin, and our world is much the poorer. -But we are sure that during the long months of her last illness, when -she shut herself away from every one in the solitude of her great -Hungarian property, to face death alone, the thought of those Watteau -bows was a distinct satisfaction. - -Never was there a creature so instinct with life as she! It was little -wonder she could not imagine herself as past caring for the small -pleasures for which she had always had so keen a taste. She never lost -the heart of a child. Though when last we saw her she must have been, as -years go, almost an old woman, there was no touch of age about her: only -a snowier white of her hair made her more like an adorable little -Marquise than ever. Her pretty picturesque ways were unchanged, her -eager sympathy, the delicious freshness of her mind, the lightness, the -charm, the simplicity. - -She had a soft oval face; rich southern tints; the bluest eyes between -black lashes that it is possible to imagine; her small nose like a -falcon’s beak—which gave a character of decision, an untamed, spirited -look to the whole countenance. The word savage could not apply to -anything so exquisitely dainty in manner and appearance; and yet one -felt the long line of savage ancestry at the back of her, a wildness no -other European nation would show in such a flower of its race. And, to -finish the description, no one had ever so pretty a mouth with the smile -of a child and a thousand fascinating expressions. - -Life had dealt very hardly with her, as is sometimes the case with such -buoyant souls. She lost all she loved, and was left in the end with half -a province in land, and no creature nearer than the son of a second -cousin to whom to bequeath the vast inheritance. - -[Sidenote: JOHNNIE’S SOUL] - -Wedded to an English officer in the Austrian service, while still in her -teens, one might have thought she would have had a better chance of -domestic bliss than if her choice had fallen upon one of her own -countrymen; since, above all in those middle Victorian days, the English -home and the English virtues are so proverbial. But he was all that a -husband ought not to be. And her only child died in babyhood. For thirty -years she devoted herself in an alien land to what she conceived to be -her duty. A fervent believer in the higher destinies of man and the -necessity of repentance, she would say, “I will not give up Johnnie’s -soul.” - -The dashing Chevau-leger became an old curmudgeon of the crankiest -description. To a less courageous spirit life would really have been -intolerable beside him. Nevertheless the small London house near the -Park, every window of which was bright with flower-boxes, was as gay -within as it was without, and friends flocked to those Sunday -tea-parties—the only entertainments she was permitted to give. - -Well, she had the reward she craved. Johnnie “made his soul,” in Irish -parlance, quite sufficiently long before softening of the brain became -too marked to preclude intelligent action. And after three years more -she was able to send that telegram to her intimates: “Released!” It was -the cry of one who had been enslaved and in prison for all her youth and -all her bright womanhood. - -But, characteristically, “Johnnie’s” funeral was a matter of great -importance. He had been very fond of driving four-in-hand, and so there -were four horses to the hearse that conveyed all that was left of the -Tyrant to Kensal Green. It was as splendid as lavish instructions could -make it; and the little widow would pop her head out of the window at -every turning to watch the noble appearance of the hearse with its -nodding plumes and murmur contentedly: - -“Poor Johnnie, he vas so fond of driving behind four horses: I vas -determined he should have it for de last time!” - -We were not a little startled to receive a postcard a few weeks later, -containing the cryptic phrase: - -“Just re-buried Johnnie!” - -Johnnie had always been a trial of a unique description. Was it possible -that he had put the laws of nature at defiance and returned to torment -his long-suffering spouse? But the explanation was simple. She thought -it so simple herself as to admit of its expression, as we have said, on -a postcard. - -When she had left him among all those ranks of dead, the thought came to -her that he was dissatisfied with his resting-place and would prefer to -be laid with his ancestors. And so Johnnie was promptly dug up from -where he had been deposited with so much pomp, removed across half -England, and “reburied.” - -If it was true that, like so many ghosts, he was particular about his -tomb, I can quite understand his displeasure in this instance. As I have -said, I share it. - -He lies now just outside the park where he played as a child, under the -lee of the little church where he said his first innocent prayers, and -his dust will mingle with the dust of his grandsires. - -Such a quiet, peaceful spot! Immense cornfields skirt it on the one hand -and on the other the great woods. - -May I lie in some such hallowed, uncrowded acre! - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXVII - - -Irish born as I am, there is something in the breath of Ireland that -makes my heart rise. The sound of the soft Irish voices is music to my -ear. I forgive the slipshod ways because of the general delightfulness. -Distressful country as it is—more than ever, now, alas! the -battle-ground of factions—from the moment of our landing joyfully on its -shores, to the sad hour of parting, our too rare visits to Ireland have -been punctuated by kindly and innocent laughter. Impossible, beloved -people! They break the heart of the politician and of the reformer; but -how enchanting they are to just a foolish person such as I am, who likes -to go and live among them and enjoy them without political bias; who can -laugh at and with them, and love them as they are! - -Our last journey to Ireland began in mirth, and ended in the agonies of -a bad passage which accentuated all our regrets. The traject thither had -been accomplished with no such drawbacks. - -The Master of the Villino is remarkably indifferent to anything the sea -can do; but I like to have a comfortable cabin to myself, and a large -port-hole for the sea-wind to blow through. I cannot say I’m fond of -feeling like the German lover: - - _Himmel-hoch jauchzend, zu Tode betrübt_ - -between wave and hollow. But it is the woes of other people that really -undo me. On this particular passage—a bright fresh day it was, with -what’s called, I suppose, “a choppy sea”—I was quite ready to defy the -elements, when suddenly there arose, from the next-door cabin, -sounds.... No—even in recollection these things are not to be dwelt -upon! - -“My dear,” said I to my companion, “let us talk and drown the outcries -of this shameless and abandoned woman.” - -Fortunately I had a companion with whom conversation is always as easy -as it is interesting. We began to enjoy our own pleasant humour very -much, and did not allow a moment’s silence to fall between us, lest— - -We were travelling by North Wall; and when the placidity of the Liffey -odoriferously enfolded us, we emerged cheerfully on deck to join some -friends, for the sake of whose agreeable company we had chosen this -particular route. - -The dear little lady who was about to be our hostess we found charitably -administering dry biscuits to a very dilapidated-looking, green-faced -young woman with the unmistakable appearance of—but again, no! - -“Poor Mrs. Saunders has been feeling so faint,” said our friend, with -the cheerful sympathy of the good sailor. - -We were introduced to the languid one. - -“Poor thing,” we said, “you do look bad! Have you been ill?” - -One is very crude in one’s questions on board ship. - -“Oh, no; not ill!” She flung the suggestion from her with an acid -titter. Then rolling a jaundiced eye upon us: - -“Were you ill?” - -“Oh, no,” we said; “we quite enjoyed the passage.” - -The sufferer turned her glance from our brutality to the sympathetic -neighbour. - -“If I could have slept,” she said plaintively. Then she looked back -darkly at us. “There were some horrible people in the cabin next me, who -would talk, and talk, and talk.” - -“Well,” we exclaimed, and it was indeed in all innocence, “you were at -least better off than we were. For there was a creature in the cabin -next to us—the most disgusting—the most unbridled—” - -It was not till we saw the dreadful rage in her eyes that we realized! -It is a horrible little anecdote, but it started us laughing even before -we set foot on the quays. - -[Sidenote: IRISH VIGNETTES] - -The next incident partakes of the tragi-comedy in which every Irish -problem is set. All Ireland stands like one of those figures of mimes on -an old drop-curtain; a laughing face behind a tragic mask—or indeed the -reverse. We laughed while our hearts grew sad at the sight of a stalwart -devil-may-care individual in a frieze coat who strolled up to a group of -jarvies while we sat in the cab waiting for our luggage to be loaded. -The whole business was conducted with a fine artful carelessness. Now -one, now another of the standing group of cab-drivers would lurch up -against him of the frieze coat or clasp him jovially by the hand, and -there would ensue a passage of coppers from one grimy palm to another. -Then out of a deep side-pocket of the frieze coat a black bottle would -be drawn, with all the _désinvolture_ of the conjuring trick. No doubt -some four yards away on either side stood a policeman; the illicit -traffic was conducted, so to speak, under his nose. But, splendid fellow -as he is, is he not, too, an Irishman? He knows when to sniff in another -direction. - -‹And here we may parenthetically remember a charming and typical -spectacle which once met our eyes in the County Wicklow: a local police -station, a large placard commanding that all dogs shall be muzzled, and -five or six curs of different low degrees snapping untrammelled in the -sunshine at the feet of two smiling members of the constabulary. - -Some brutish Saxon member of our party stops to point out the -discrepancy. - -“Unmuzzled, is it?” says the elder policeman genially. “And, begorra, so -it is, ma’am. But, sure, isn’t that Tim Connolly’s little dog? Sure, -what ’ud we be muzzling him for? Thim orders is only for stray dogs!”› - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: DRIVEN IN STYLE] - -We drove away across the cobbled Dublin streets at a hand gallop. -Whether the poor animal that drew us had to be kept at this unnatural -speed lest it should collapse altogether, or whether our “jarvey” had -had more than one pull at the black bottle I know not; certainly we went -in peril of our lives. Shaving off corners, striking the edge of the -curb, oscillating violently from side to side, the antique vehicle -threatened at every leap and bound to break into fragments like a -pantomime joke. The Dublin cab is a thing apart. From the musty straw -upon which your feet rest, to the dilapidated blue velveteen cushion -upon which you leap, to its wooden walls and rattling windows, you would -not find its like upon any other point of the globe. It searches you to -your least bone socket; and the noise of its career deafens your wails -on the principle of the “painless extractor” at the fair, who blows a -trumpet for every wrench. - -It was useless for us to thrust our heads out of the window, like “Bunny -come to town”; the frightful clatter of an arrest, a grunt, and a start -at fresh speed were the only result. We trembled in every limb and so -did the poor horse, as we were at last flung out in front of our hotel -with a jerk that nearly broke the bottom of the cab in two. - -We tendered what we knew to be considerably more than the fare. The -driver surveyed it and looked at us, then rolled a disgusted glance back -to the coins, and dropped them into his pocket. - -“Is that all? And me afther dhriving you in such style!” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXVIII - - -Humours pursued us during our brief sojourn in the hotel. We are very -fond of that hotel. It is associated with the repeated charm of its -hospitable reception on each of our visits. We were glad to see we were -given the same set of rooms as on a previous occasion; and when we found -the same broken lock on the door, we felt indeed that we were among old -friends. - -When our tea was brought—we were lying down to rest—we had however to -ring and protest. - -“Look at this spoon!” we exclaimed dramatically. - -The soft-voiced maid looked at it quizzically. - -“What is it?” Then she smiled. “It’s apt to have been in the honey, by -the look of it,” she observed dispassionately. - -“Please take it away,” we said, “and bring another.” - -She thought us strange and dull of wit. There was a clean napkin on -every plate. But—no doubt with a mental “Ah, God help us. Travellers is -queer folk!”—she departed, we feel sure, no farther than the passage, -there to wipe the honey off on the inside of her apron. - -[Sidenote: A GARDEN IN MEATH] - -The next day saw us landed at a small wayside station in the rich flat -land of Meath, where we were met by a charming old-fashioned “turn out,” -a handsome waggonette and a sturdy pair of carriage horses. At least we -thought the waggonette old-fashioned and delightful, in these motor -times; but it seems it was on the contrary new and wonderful. - -The coachman surveyed us tentatively two or three times while our divers -small goods were being collected, magisterially directing the footman -with the butt end of his whip. Presently he broke into speech: - -“Will you be noticing the carriage, sir?” he remarked, addressing the -head of the party. “Her Ladyship’s just bought it. I chose it for her -meself, so I did. It’s a grand contrivance. You can have it the way it -is now, and it’s real comfortable, isn’t it, sir? But sure, you can turn -it into an omnibus. And you’d never believe now, how many it would hold. -I drove six ladies to a ball in it the other night, and not one of them -crushed on me—And fine large ladies they were,” he observed admiringly. - -“We do wish he would not tell every one that,” observed one of the -“large ladies” a little later. “Every time he’s gone to the station in -the new waggonette this summer he’s told that story.” - -But she was quite good-humoured and amused. Indeed, her largeness was of -the beautiful order. It was no wonder the coachman was proud of -conveying it uncrushed. - -The gardens where these hostesses dwelt were pleasantly green and -flowery. There was the usual high-walled garden. Villino Loki, with its -absurd terraces, can never dream of attaining to such an enclosure of -antique charm. For if we walled in the Kitchen and Reserve Garden at the -foot of our hill we should wall out the moor from below, and obstruct -our sweeping vision from above. But my heart yearns to an old walled -garden. A place quite apart, with its mingled odours of herb and flower -and ripening fruit; with its perpetual murmur of bees, its tangled -walks, its old bushes of Rosemary and Lavender, its mossy Apple-trees, -its crisp Parsley beds, its tumble-down greenhouses. - -[Illustration: garden view - two pages wide] - -[Sidenote: CURBED AMBITIONS] - -This particular walled garden was a very good specimen of its kind. It -was here that our ignorance first made acquaintance with the invaluable -Cosmia; that treasure of the herbaceous border that keeps on blooming in -the face of adversity from June till November. There was also a huge bed -of Salvias, one sheet of gentian blue. ‹Why cannot we grow Salvias like -that?› It ran at the foot of an overgrown, very old rose plot, the trees -of which had developed into fairy-tale luxuriance. And opposite, across -the gravelled path, which from old associations we prefer to any other -species of walk, was a field of Snap-dragon against the high wall where -the leaves of the plum branches were reddening as they clung. Duly -mossed was this old wall, and richly lichened; overtopped by the great -trees without. These swayed to the mild Irish wind, with long, pleasant, -choiring sounds, the rooks cawing as they circled in them. It was small -wonder that I should have felt content and at peace as I stood there—if -only my heart had not swelled with envy over those Salvias! But one -can’t be the owner of an Italian Villino on a Surrey Highland and -encompass the antique peace of a centuries-old Irish home. One must be -reasonable—as a French governess of our youth used to say to us when she -began her most lengthy harangues. “_Voyons—de deux choses l’une ..._” - -The park was typically Irish, and possessed some wonderful trees. -Amongst others a chestnut, four or five immense branches of which, -sweeping to the ground, had taken root again and started fresh trees, -forming a singular tropical-looking grove. How children would have -delighted in such a leafy palace, roofed in and pillared of its own -stateliness! - - * * * * * - -Memories of laughter pursue us at every stage of those weeks. There was -the visit to a neighbouring castle; a genuine old castle this, but -irretrievably “restored” in that bygone period of history when Pugin -reigned supreme. - -[Sidenote: AN IRISH CHATELAINE] - -It was Sunday, and we found the Châtelaine—a little lady renowned for -her vivacity and charm—out in the field with her children and her lord, -energetically teaching hockey to the young men and women of the village. -Her little boy was running up and down after her, wringing his hands and -ejaculating, “Mamma, ye’ll be kilt! Mamma, ye’ll be kilt!” to perfectly -regardless ears. - -In a whirl of energy we were rushed into tea; and, while drawing off her -loose gloves and flinging them at random into a corner, our hostess’s -tongue, which was as nimble as her little feet, never ceased wagging: - -“I hope you don’t mind the smell! Oh, it’s a terrible smell. But it’s -only the dogs, ye know. We’ve been washing them. They’re sick, poor -things. Not infectious, ye needn’t be a bit afraid. Only mange, or -something. It’s the sulphur in the soap, ye know. Come in, come in!—Oh, -I do hope we have got something fit to eat! Katie, Katie! ‹Katie’s me -eldest daughter› Katie, what have we got? Ah, it’s horrid!—Ah, I don’t -know what’s the matter with them.—Yes, it’s a fine big room. We were -dancing here last week. You wouldn’t think it to look at it now, would -you? ’Pon my word! I was thinking to meself that night, ‘It’s a queer -world we live in, with all those saints looking down at us with their -bare legs, and we with our bare backs!’ Oh, yes, they’re very grand old -paintings, I dare say! But there is a deal of bare legs about them.—Will -you have any more? Ah, no, ye can’t eat it!—I don’t wonder, I can’t -meself.—Will you come into the garden? I’d like to be showing you the -garden. Where’s me gloves?—Where’s me yellow gloves? Katie, did ye see -me yellow gloves? Ah, never mind! This way.—I’ve been making a new -herbaceous border. Ah, ’pon me word, if they’ve not gone and locked the -garden door! Sunday’s the mischief! Never mind, I’ll ring the bell. -Green! Green, Johnny Green, are ye there? Is Mrs. Green there? Is Patsy -there? Where’s young Condren? Ah, they’re all out! But I’ll not be -beaten.—Maybe I’ll get it open. Will ye push, now? I’ll turn the handle. -Give a good shove. It’s an old lock. Ah, devil a bit of it! Will ye give -me your stick.—No, thank ye. I’d rather hit it meself.” - -Even to her it was impossible to continue talking, while she was, as she -herself would have expressed it, “laying on to the garden door.” -Scarlet, panting, dishevelled, but still completely fascinating, she -desisted at last and handed back the stick with a smile and gasp, and a -resigned: “Ah, I clean forgot, I see how it is now. They’re all off to -the funeral of the priest’s brother’s sister.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: THE HOLLY TREE] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XXXIX - - -From the rich plains of Meath to the barren lands of Galway, it is a far -cry and an unforgettable journey. The country grows more and more -desolate, and grand in desolation, as one approaches the Atlantic. There -was an orange sunset that evening, over an illimitable stretch of bog, a -vision of savage, haunting beauty that went with us into the darkness of -the fast closing day like a strain of wild music. - -Ireland has always been as a living creature to her children. She has -taken, in their fanciful minds, a distinct personality. To get such a -glimpse of her as that, is to understand the passionate ardour of fealty -which she has had the power to inspire; to understand how she has come -to be “Kathleen na Hoolihan,” and “My dark Rosaleen,” to those poet -hearts. We were speeding now to that very corner of land from which her -younger lovers have chiefly sprung. - -It was pitch dark when we alighted at a town which had once been large -and prosperous and was now forlornly sunk in decay; mute witness, like -so many others, to that act of tyranny—blunder and crime—the effects of -which England can never wipe away. - -Our kind friends had ordered “a carriage from the hotel” to meet us. We -had a long cross-country drive before us. Looking doubtfully by the -light of the station lamp at the two emaciated animals that were to draw -us, we wondered, in our tired brains, if two bad horses are not worse -than one. It had begun to drizzle rain, a fine soft rain that is like a -caress in the air. - -[Sidenote: A TYPICAL JARVEY] - -If anything could beat the Dublin cab, it was that Galway carriage. We -set off lurching and rattling; and soon, the wind catching us from over -the fields, the rain began to strike in across the open windows. To have -a window up seemed the simple remedy; but things simple elsewhere are -not so in the West of Ireland. One window was as impossible to lift out -of its socket as the oyster out of its closed shells, for it was -strapless. We fell upon the other strap and instantly the window shot -outwards at right angles, with the evident intention of casting itself -on the road, had we not held it despairingly by its shabby appendage. If -you have ever tried to hold a window in that position by its strap you -will know how agonizing is the process. The driver was hailed. - -“Look here! Your window’s loose!—You’d better stop and put it back.” - -The slogging trot of the horses slackened, and over his shoulder the man -of Galway demanded: - -“Is it the windy on the left, or the wan to the right of ye?” - -“The left, the left! Oh, do be quick!” - -“The left, is it? Sure, isn’t that the wan with the sthrap?” He jerked -his reins and clucked at his horses. What more could we want? Wasn’t -that the one with the “sthrap?” - -With great difficulty, with imminent risk to the life of the window and -our own safety, we got the recalcitrant pane back into its socket, and -discovered that by dint of judicious manipulation, and a tight hold of -the “sthrap,” it was possible to shelter the most neuralgic of the -party. - -A ten Irish miles’ drive along the stoniest of roads, through complete -darkness—for there was only a partial glimmer from one carriage-lamp -half the way, which then became extinct altogether—it is something of an -enterprise! But it was worth it to find such a welcome at the end! - -[Sidenote: A GALWAY DEMESNE] - -A “Gothic” mansion, dating from the early part of last century, -Kilcoultra is outwardly a very grand pile and stands nobly in the midst -of a rolling park, reclaimed from the wild stony land of Galway. And -inside, the first impression is like stepping in to the glories of a -missal page. The whole house is homogeneous and entirely successful in -its mediæval colouring. On the walls are gorgeous enamel blues, peacock -greens or yet carmine crimsons appropriately set with fleurs-de-lis, -maltese cross or some other conventional device in gold; ceiling and -cornices are richly illuminated to correspond. To find this glow of -colour in the midst of the melancholy greys and greens of the western -landscape, under the low drifting cloud-ridden skies, has a great charm; -it has a poetic Maeterlinckian atmosphere. - -There is something too of the delicate sadness of an old romance in the -lives of these kindly ladies who rule so wisely over the lands left to -them by their brother—the last of his name. He was a man round whom -justly centred unusual hopes and ambitions. Now he, who had so great a -heart and so splendid a mind, lies in the ruined chapel in the park, -alone. The chapel is roofless. It is a nobly solitary and fit -resting-place for one who was nobly apart from the petty aims of his -contemporaries; who lived and died true to his ideals; whose work still -prospers in the freed lands of his people. He gave up much for Ireland, -and Ireland gave him nothing at all in return ... except that wonderful -sleeping-place with the changing sky overhead. - -They say there is no such word in the Irish language as gratitude, and -yet— - -My Kilcoultra hostess drove me round the property on the day after my -arrival, and drew the pony to the standstill on a height that finely -dominated the park and house. When I had duly admired the view she -pointed with her whip to a little white cottage that stood a few yards -away and began a kindly tale of the old woman who had long lived there -and had but recently passed away. - -“When I’d come round to see her, I used to find her, times out of -number, leaning over the wall, gazing down at Kilcoultra. Always she’d -be leaning over the wall, staring down at the house. And one day I said -to her, ‘Mary, what in the world makes you stand there like that?’ And -she answered me, ‘I’m looking down on the roof that shelters me lovely -master!’” - -“My lovely master!” A fragrant thing to have become to the poor that -live on your soil! When we reach a sphere where things are judged by -different standards and higher measures than we can now conceive, how -far will not such a title outweigh any paltry worldly honour! - -Yet if the memory of its lost master dominates and haunts all Kilcoultra -house and lands, there is nothing to sadden one in the thoughts it -inspires; and our stay there is altogether full of charm and pleasure. - -Not only are the ladies a fund of anecdote, racy of the soil; not only -do they live delightfully in touch with their peasantry, with eye and -ear ever ready to catch the humour and the pathos about them; but they -are cultured, far-travelled beings. Not much in the outer world escapes -their knowledge and shrewd apprehension. - -Home topics, however, are what appeals to their visitors most. - -[Sidenote: IRISH WITS] - -“Carrie,” the younger sister will say to the elder, “I heard Whalen the -guard, and Tim Rooney the porter, at Athenmore Station, talking -together. And Tim is thinking of making up to a young lady, you know, -and I suppose he’s always talking about it, for Whalen was saying to him -just as I came up: ‘’Pon me word, I wish you were married, and had your -family rared on me!’ They had a great jollification at our station the -other night,” she goes on, turning to us. “And they brewed the punch in -the station bell! Whalen’s a very humorous man,” she proceeds. “They -used to stop the express from Galway at Athenmore when required; but -there were complaints of the delay and orders came from Dublin it wasn’t -to be done on any account. But it’s a recent regulation and everybody -doesn’t know about it. And the other day there was terrible work, for -there was Father Blake and the Doctor both counting on it for an urgent -sick call—dying, they said the poor man was. - -“‘You’ll have to stop the train for this once, Whalen,’ says Father -Blake. - -“‘I’ll maybe save him yet,’ says the doctor. - -“‘I couldn’t, yer riverence,’ says Whalen; ‘it’s as much as me place is -worth. Don’t you be askin’ me, doctor. It ’ud be me ruin. The company’s -very strict.’ - -“‘Think of his poor soul,’ says the priest. - -“‘I’ll hold ye responsible for his life,’ says the doctor. - -“‘Wirra, I can’t,’ says poor Whalen, and calls up Tim. ‘Tell his -riverence, Tim,’ says he, ‘tell his riverence and the doctor that I -can’t be disobeying orders.... And begorra, she’s due this minute! Up -into the signal-box with you. And down with that signal, so the express -can get by,’ says he. And as Tim starts off at a great pace, Whalen -shouts after him, ‘And I’m sure I hope ye’ll get it to work, Tim, for -it’s terrible stiff it is, that same signal, and it at danger!’ - -“Well, whether he had winked at Tim, or what, but Tim worked and worked. - -“‘I can’t get it to move,’ he says. ‘Will you come up yourself, Mr. -Whalen, sir, and have a try?’ - -“And, oh,” says Miss Margaret, in fits of laughter, “the way the two of -them went on in that signal-box, and the way Whalen pumped and pulled, -and at last he cries, ‘There’s no help for it, it’s stuck! And sure the -company can’t blame me, if the machinery’s out of order,’ says he. -‘Well, there’s wan good thing, your riverence, the thrain ’ull have to -stop now, anyhow.’” - -We laugh a good deal during those pleasant meals at Kilcoultra. Not one -dull moment does the house hold for us, and we don’t want any better -company than that of the two dear ladies. - -“We’ve got,” Miss Caroline, the elder, explains to me carefully, “a very -careful coachman, a very steady man, so you needn’t be the least nervous -driving out with us. He was selected, indeed, because he could be -trusted. It wouldn’t do for us unprotected women, you know,” she says in -all seriousness, “to be risking our necks with a tipsy coachman.” - -Two days we are driven by this paragon. The third day there sits a -stranger on the box. - -“I hope,” says Miss Carrie apologetically, “that you don’t mind his -being out of livery.” - -“The fact is, Regan had an accident last night,” explains Miss Margaret. -“He fell into the old gravel pit going back home and cut his head open, -and——” - -“It was my fault entirely,” interrupts Miss Caroline in distressed -accents. “I had to send him in to Galway town, and to tell him to wait -and bring back Captain Blake. And that meant loitering an hour.” - -“Dear, dear!” Miss Margaret clacks her tongue. “That was very -unfortunate! He—such a steady man! But an hour in Galway town...!” - -“It’s only what might have been expected,” Miss Caroline concludes. “I -blame myself entirely.—I generally,” she adds, turning to me, “avoid -leaving him any time in the town, you know.” - -[Sidenote: A STEADY MAN] - -And the best of it is that Regan remains in their minds “the steady -man.” How impossible it is for the stranger to understand Ireland and -Ireland’s ways! How much humour must you have—and what unlimited -patience! There is nothing, of course, that so conduces to patience as a -pleasant sense of humour. - -The ladies are the Providence of the district. There is a room at the -back of the great gallery filled nearly to the ceiling with rolls of -homespun made by the peasant women in the villages. Whenever a cottage -mother is in want of money she runs up to Miss Margaret or Miss -Caroline, bringing or promising the product of her loom. A good deal of -money is advanced; a good deal paid in this manner, chiefly out of the -ladies’ generous pockets. - -“Of course, poor things, you must know the way to take them,” says Miss -Caroline in her Irish way. “One of them will come up and declare they’ll -all be ‘lost entirely, ruined out and out’ for the want of five pounds. -‘Are you sure you couldn’t do with thirty shillings, now?’ I say to -them. ‘Oh, Miss Caroline’—it will be then—‘as thrue as I’m a living -woman, I couldn’t do with less than two pound ten!’ ... I get at the -truth that way,” she adds. - -It is Miss Margaret who undertakes the sale of goods which have already -cost Kilcoultra so dear, and no one can say that she shows a commercial -spirit. - -“Let me see now,” she will say, fingering the stuff—and splendid stuff -it is—with tentative finger and thumb. “I think we paid -three-and-tenpence a yard for this, or maybe it was four shillings, -but”—with a delighted smile—“I’ll let you have it for one-and-six, if -you’re sure—really sure—you want it.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XL - - -[Sidenote: THE COLOUR OF THE WEST] - -The country all about Kilcoultra is typically wild and melancholy. The -fields stretch, barren and yellowing, strewn with giant stones. Except -where sombre belts of woodland mark the great estates, there is scarcely -a tree to break the monotony; a monotony intensified by the low, -unending lines of rough grey walls that border every road. But there is -a kind of poetry even in this desolation, and a satisfaction to all who -love the freedom of unbounded horizons. Then the mountains of Clare -stretch their incomparable plum and grape colours against the sky. The -colour of Ireland is a thing scarcely realized over here, where, -somehow, hues seem washed out. “In England everything has got grey in -it,” an artist friend of ours discontentedly avers. - -[Illustration: landscape with tree - two pages wide] - -We are taken across the county to a castle standing by a lake, which is -a place of wonder. It is a castle no older, in its mediæval sturdiness, -than the Gothic mansion we are staying in, but quite as convincingly -built. Loughcool is a realm of beauty. At the end of the long approach -the road rises very steeply through a stern grove of pines. All at once, -as you approach the summit of this dark woodland, the ground breaks away -abruptly on the right, and, between the pines, far, far below, lies the -lake smiling, and on its banks what is called “the hidden garden”—a -stretch of fairy beauty. Words are poor things to describe the vision -which breaks so unexpectedly upon the eye. Everything that gardening art -can do has been accomplished at Loughcool. You have terraces and a glory -of roses overhanging the water even this late September; and there are -“Auratum” Lilies rising in splendid groups on each side of a grass walk -that runs grandly into the woods between stately trees. The lady of -Loughcool is fighting a hard fight to make Azaleas and Rhododendrons -grow in the limy soil; but it is a question whether the struggle is -worth while. - -“We have given it up,” says the sensible châtelaine of Kilcoultra. - -We smiled privately. Villino Loki has at least some points of -superiority. - - * * * * * - -We made another expedition, over the border into County Clare. A white -plastered pillared house this, dating from the terrible neo-Italian -period of the end of the last century. There dwells an eccentric -gentleman, one of the chief instigators of the Young Ireland movement; -but he was unfortunately away. We visited the house, and were -entertained by his housekeeper. This lady’s name was Mrs. Quinlan, and -she was an old friend of our hostesses. We think we enjoyed that -afternoon as well as any of our excursions; and certainly we laughed as -much as ever. - -Mrs. Quinlan came creaking down in a flowing black silk, which brought -me instantly back to the Sundays of my childhood and the genteel -appearance of my mother’s maid. We sat in the early Victorian -drawing-room and had tea and Albert biscuits, listening with unremitting -amusement to the conversation between Miss Caroline and Mrs. Quinlan. Be -it mentioned that the owner of Curriestown has long been a widower and -that the question of his remarriage has never ceased to agitate the -bosoms of his neighbours since the event, so many years ago, which -qualified him once again for the matrimonial market. - -Mrs. Quinlan stood, her perfectly unwashed hands crossed on the last -button of her black silk bodice; her faded face all over lines, -querulous, good-humoured, quizzical, under the untidy wisps of her -yellow-grey hair; and, while we ate and drank, she flowed continuously -on, stimulated by a question here and there, or an appropriate comment. - -[Sidenote: SPEAKING THE IRISH] - -“And indeed, Miss Caroline, it’s very busy I am. For sure, didn’t the -master wire there’d be twelve of them here the day after to-morrow? It’s -getting all the rooms ready I am, and the Professor here and all. Not -that he’s much trouble, the crathur. Them’s his shoes, in the hall -beyant. I’m sorry he’s out, then, for it’s the queer-looking body he is. -He’s wearing the kilt, ye know, Miss Carrie. And not a word out of him -but Irish! Musha, I don’t know what he’d be saying!—It’s a deal of store -they do be setting on speaking the Irish now, Miss.” - -Here Mrs. Quinlan, seized with a paroxysm of silent laughter, claps one -of the grimy hands over her mouth and doubles herself in two. - -“The master’s wild about it, God help him!” she proceeds presently. “But -sure, I do be tellin’ him, I’m too old to be thinkin’ about that kind of -thing at my time of life. Troth, and it’s queer times we do be having! -Isn’t the master bringing back a black lady on us!” - -“A black lady?” ejaculated Miss Carrie, startled out of her placidity. -“Good gracious, Mrs. Quinlan!” - -“Indeed, and it’s true. A rale black lady I hear she is, and it’s in -Paris he met her.” - -“In Paris!” - -It seemed a strange place from which to bring a black lady. We were all -full of the liveliest interest. - -“I suppose,” says Miss Caroline, “you mean a very dark lady, Mrs. -Quinlan—a brunette?” - -“I do not, then—rale black she is, I’m told. Out of the Indies, or -Africa, or some of them places.” - -“Dear me!” Our hostess is much puzzled. “Is he thinking of marrying her, -Mrs. Quinlan?” - -“I wouldn’t put it past him. I wouldn’t put anything past him, Miss -Carrie!” - -A black lady! Was this to be the end of twenty-five years’ expectation? - -“Well, now, and is he bringing her with him to-morrow night?” - -“Och, maybe he is! He’s coming by the midnight train, Miss Carrie, and -the Lord knows what time in the world they’ll be up here.” - -“Oh, he must mean to marry her!” says Miss Carrie, and Mrs. Quinlan -laughs again exhaustedly with an undercurrent of plaintiveness, and -remarks once more that she wouldn’t put it past him. - -We go through the house in Mrs. Quinlan’s wake. There is something that -looks like a kitchen rubber laid over one corner of the mahogany table -in the great red-papered dining-room; and on it a crusty loaf flanks a -dim glass and a cracked plate. Mrs. Quinlan casts a phrase of -explanation as she trails us around. - -“He do be looking for his bit of dinner early.” We presume “he” to be -the “crathur that gives no trouble.” - -We pass through a bewildering series of bedrooms. The damp has been -coming in very copiously at Curriestown. Mrs. Quinlan points out the -worst places in each apartment as we go along: - -“Look athere, now! Just cast your eye on that, Miss Carrie, and sure -it’s nothing to what’s behind the bed. If ye could see the way it is at -the back of that press, Miss Carrie, you’d be hard set to believe it. -Och, the house is in a tirrible state! Me heart’s broke pulling the -furniture about, thrying to get them bad bits covered.” - -Some one suggests that perhaps the owner will have it painted for the -black lady. But Honoria Quinlan is still of opinion that you couldn’t -tell what he’d be at. - - * * * * * - -On the way back we burst a tyre, not far from one of those hamlets which -are typical of the western coast. Set in surroundings of the wildest -beauty, it is practically deserted. The four walls of the ruined chapel -gaping to the sky, and the long row of empty broken-down cottages -testify still to the ruthless policy that laid the country waste in far -Cromwellian times. Perhaps there are no more than fifteen smoking -hearths left, beaten by passionate seas, guarded by the tremendous black -cliffs. Life here, it would seem, must be hard won indeed from stony -fields and treacherous waters. - -Very soon, while the chauffeur worked at the wheel, a small knot of -onlookers gathers about us; children with a tangled thatch of bleached -hair, and eyes that look half-fiercely, half-appealingly out from under -it. Black eyes they seem at first sight, set as they are with raven -lashes. It is only on examination that you find them to be richly -violet. There is an old man fantastically attired in a blanket laced -with twine down to his knees. Such a creature of savage primitiveness he -seems that one of the party is moved to ask him humorously if he has -ever driven in a motor-car. He surveys us with his mild blue eyes that -are as innocent as the child’s beside him, and shakes his shaggy white -head. - -“Bedad, I have,” he then says unexpectedly. “And sure it never touched -the ground at all but an odd time between here and Connemara.” - -[Sidenote: CLARE ROADS] - -Yet motor-cars must be very rare apparitions along these Clare roads; -for at their approach the people fling themselves sideways into the -ditches and against the walls, when they cannot escape through a gap -into the fields. Even the dogs will flee. One poor Collie flattened -himself on a bank in a paroxysm of terror that we cannot forget. When I -remember how along the English roads my heart is for ever in my mouth -over the callous indifference of the British cur, I realize that canine -folk are very much like human beings when all is said and done. - -The Irish of the west have curious habits and customs which seem to link -them with their forgotten eastern ancestral race. The women will draw -their garments over their heads at the approach of a stranger, so -closely that you may not get even a glimpse of their faces. Their -husband is still “the master” to them, and they walk two steps behind -him when they go abroad. But it is the old Catholic spirit that leads -them to expect the greeting “God save all here!” when you enter their -cottage, and “God bless the work!” when you pass them in the field. - -[Sidenote: AN IRISH STRIKE] - -We hurry away, much against our will, from these attractive scenes -because of the breaking out of the railway strike. The newspapers are -all very alarming, and we are threatened with being flung for an -indefinite period upon the hospitality of our most hospitable friends. -We do not fear for a minute that that would fail us, but we are due in -England at appointed dates, and so we bustle off, “against the heart” as -the French say. - -But when you make acquaintance with a strike from an Irish point of -view, it seems one huge joke. Never did we make a journey to the sound -of so much laughter as that day. Every station was crowded with -soldiers, and all the inhabitants mustered on the platforms to exchange -sallies with them. An eager, curious, good-humoured gathering greets and -speeds the train which is supposed to be kept running at imminent risk -of riot and peril. - -A very splendid looking police-inspector came into our carriage and had -an animated conversation on the prospects with an elderly gentleman whom -he addressed as “Judge.” Both seemed inspired with glee. - -When we arrived in Dublin there was indeed a slight drawback in finding -no porters available for our many boxes. But the stalwart man of the -party made “no bones,” as they would say, about shouldering them -himself, and this was accomplished amid the unstinted enthusiasm of the -“jarvies.” He was aided ‹save the mark› by the only faithful porter, as -old as Pantaloon, who quivered and quavered behind him. A further -occasion for cheers. - -“Ah, will ye look at the gintleman! To think of the likes of him now, -being put to carry the thrunks! Isn’t it ashamed of themselves they -ought to be! Well done, Larry, it is a grand old boy ye are! Let me get -a hould of the box, yer honour. Oh, begorra, isn’t it the stringth of -ten ye do be having....” - -“And how do ye like Dublin now, Mr. Smith?” we heard a pretty Irish girl -saying to a stalwart young British soldier on the platform. - -He was grinning down at her in stolid admiration. She herself had -dove-like eyes and a dove-like cooing voice. - -We think he liked Dublin very much indeed. - -It was the laughing face behind the mask of tragedy. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XLI - - -[Sidenote: THE FALL OF THE LEAF] - -Once more has the Equinox come and dropped into the past. Autumn—the -Fall, as our older and more poetic term had it to balance the image of -Spring, and as America still prefers to call it—is about us. - -[Illustration: bird in nest] - -We disagree radically with Chateaubriand’s estimate of the “russet and -silver days.” - -“A moral character” ‹thus does the Father of _Romantisme_ meditate, in -his usual melancholy mood, upon the season of shortening days and -long-drawing nights› “is attached to autumnal scenes.... The leaves -falling like our years, the flowers withdrawing like our hours, the -colours of the clouds fading like our illusions, the light waning like -our intelligence, the sun growing colder like our affections, the rivers -becoming frozen like our lives—everything about Autumn bears secret -relations to our destinies....” - -Yes, we disagree with every one of these similes. Rather should Autumn -be considered as the happy season of the task accomplished. The wine is -pressed and stored, the fruit is garnered.... In the garden it is the -time of eager preparation against new delights, another year; of -solicitude for the treasures of beauty which are to brighten another -Spring, another Summer. The seed of the dying Annuals has been saved; -the more tender of the Perennials are timely withdrawn into shelter, -while the hardier are cosily tucked in their own bed for the coming long -winter sleep. It is the time of the tidying down and of the confident -“good night—till next year!” - -“Colder, like our affections,” indeed! What will not love of rhetoric -perpetrate?—and Christmastide drawing on apace! - - * * * * * - -The Master of the House has an old-fashioned weakness—what may be called -a “Dickensy” weakness—for things Christmassy. And his family have all -childlike tastes and are quite ready to minister to his picturesque -fancy. - -We have a Christmas tree—a Spruce sapling, selected yearly for -sacrifice in the territory called the Wilderness. It must be said that -the wide library, with the capacious hearth and the beamed ceiling, -lends a suitable scenery to this homelike ‹but, we fear, obsolescent› -entertainment. The tree is lit up on the first night for ourselves; on -the second for the household; and a third time for the children. For -the true pleasures of Yule would be incomplete without a -“foregathering-and-rejoicing-together” ‹as only a tough German -compound word could express it› of all grades of age and station. The -children, in this case, are those of the Catechism class and of our -_employés_—which pompous term must be understood to refer to the -gardener, the chauffeur, the under-gardener, and the “occasional -help.” This last has five of them—so it mounts up satisfactorily. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THINGS CHRISTMASSY] - -[Illustration: bird bath hanging from tree] - -The beloved “furry ones” are not forgotten. Loki, who is always in a -state of violent excitement on Christmas Tree nights, has a toy animal -to make acquaintance with, tease, and finally worry. Some one ‹it must -have been Juvenal› suggested tying up nice clean bones in red ribbons; -but out of regard for Grandma’s carpet, the succulent thought has never -been “materialized.” - -The Master of the House, and Juvenal, are also full of solicitude for -the feathery things in Winter. The bird-baths are carefully thawed—it -seems, by the way, to be in the coldest days of the year that they -appear to prefer to bathe; sand baths are generally found sufficient in -the Summer, one wonders why. In cold weather generally, cocoanuts filled -with fat are disposed in various parts of the garden, around which tits -and finches of every shade dispute noisily all day. But on Christmas day -the terraces, the balustrades and steps round the house are further -disfigured with such an abundance of crumbs and other tempting morsels, -that, even with the help of all the black birds from neighbouring -copses, they cannot come even with the whole of the feast. - - * * * * * - -We give each other enchanting presents. The lovely little carved-wood -Joan of Arc, on a bracket in Grandpa’s library; the Madonna of Cluny -“prayer-stick” in one corner of the chimney-piece; the Medici copy of -Filippino Lippi’s wonderful angel in the National Gallery, in the grey -and yellow bedroom; the cut-glass goblets painted with purple plums and -red cherries and blue grapes in the drawing-room—all these were this -year’s Christmas gifts, cunningly chosen, we think, and a constant -delight to our eyes. - - * * * * * - -Loki’s Grandma, after the fashion of a lady in a recent celebrated -lawsuit, likes to choose her own presents. But she is not so indelicate -as to demand money and buy it herself—No, she drops an absent hint, as -Christmastide draws near. If this is not satisfactory, she abandons -diplomacy for an engaging frankness.... But she is always overwhelmed -with surprise and delight when “the very thing she wanted” duly appears -about the Tree. The Master of the Villino, on his side, has had all the -pleasure of purchasing; and, being of a guileless nature, is often quite -persuaded that the choice was his own. - -In fact we all become like children again at Christmas; and this, after -all, cannot be displeasing to the Christ Child. It is a time of hectic -preparation, of pleasurable brain-racking over the suitability of gifts; -of endless tying up of parcels for foreign and home dispatch. We -decorate the Villino with round compact Holly-wreaths, which Adam makes -with rare raste and adroitness. Never was such a year as the last for -Hollies; and some of the trees were still scarlet with them in the late -Spring. - -[Sidenote: HUES OF WINTER] - -As for Juvenal, he shows a recrudescence of genius in the devising of -table decoration with unthought-of evergreens; with rich-toned leaves in -the sear and the brown and purpling hues of Winter, brightened with an -astonishing variety of haws, hips, and berries. - -In the little Chapel a crib is built up in a stone manger brought from -Rome. Therein lies the Italian _Bambino_, purchased two generations ago -by a dear one who has now gone from us. It is the quaintest little wax -figure imaginable, with its painted red curls and one wax foot uplifted -in the act of kicking.—The story goes that the original much venerated -image in a certain Roman church, the object of yearly pilgrimages, was -purloined, or for some reason moved to another Church, to the woe and -indignation of the faithful of the district. But on the first Christmas -night after this translation, a loud knocking was heard at the door of -the original Church, and the small figure was discovered, kicking with -all its might for re-admittance. Captured and carried in with devotion -and joy, it was re-established with much pomp in its old quarters, but -ever after remained with a little kicking leg in the air! - -Our Crib, surrounded with Roman Hyacinths and White Narcissus and -Primulas, is fragrant and poetic; but we do not attempt to show anything -more than the one image. Want of space prevents it. Our ambition, -however, finds larger scope in the village Chapel. There Juvenal has -built a very noble stable, thatched with heather; and all the figures of -those first scenes of the Greatest Story in the World will take their -place this year. - -Last year the tragedy happened that the St. Joseph and Our Lady; the Ox -and the Ass; the Kings and Shepherds, which had been ordered in secret -to surprise every one, remained on the high seas detained by December -gales, until too late.—But our coming Noel will be the richer for the -enforced postponement of the Holy Picture. - - * * * * * - -At the last Yuletide the Mistress of Villino was unable, after a long -year’s illness, to join the family party at Midnight Mass in the village -below the hill. ‹Midnight Mass, be it noted in parenthesis, has an -extraordinary charm for the household and indeed for the neighbourhood. -And, when all is said and done, it certainly is as picturesque and -touching a ceremony as ever men of goodwill are happy to join in. It -seems to bring one in direct touch with the simplicity of the shepherds -of those far-off hills.› But as the excluded _padrona_ was lying quietly -in bed waiting for the sounds of departure, she was touched and charmed -to hear the strains of a carol rising softly from the terrace beneath -her windows: - - _See amid the winter’s snow, - Born for us on earth below, - See, the tender Lamb appears, - Promised from eternal years!_ - - _Hail, thou ever blessed morn! - Hail, Redemption’s happy dawn! - Sing, through all Jerusalem, - Christ is born in Bethlehem!_ - - _Lo, within a manger lies - He Who built the starry skies; - He, Who throned in heights sublime - Sits amid the Cherubim!_ - -All the household had gathered there to give her this pleasure and make -her feel that she was not altogether shut out from the Christmas -privileges! Wrapped in their thick cloaks, with Juvenal swinging a -lantern, they stood in a long row and chanted to her. It was one of -those small sweetnesses in life that leave a lasting memory. - - * * * * * - -There is a picture in a garden paper of Japanese single Asters growing -wild in grass: the seeds had been mixed by mistake, but the result, -according to the illustration, was singularly attractive. When we saw it -we said that the experiment should be made at Villino Loki!—Many indeed -are the experiments, many the improvements to be made within our small -acres. - -But what a difference lies between conception and execution. Of late -‹for an instance› we had revolved round the agreeable thought of a Pool -and a wet place generally, for Iris Kæmpheri, Spiræa and other -moisture-loving darlings. We had indeed intended something altogether -choice in the shape of a large sunken basin with a piping faun on the -edge of it. Oh, something quite delightful.... But an inconvenient -attack of “conscience”—in other words the heavy memory of garden bills, -already incurred over the Autumn lists, rose up and barred the way. We -felt something like Scrooge when the ghost with the bony finger -‹horrible vision of our youth› pointed to the tomb. Only, on our tablet -what was written was the ghastly total of our bulbous liabilities! Like -Scrooge, we covered our faces with our hands. No wonder the faun took -fright and leaped into next year. - - * * * * * - -[Sidenote: THE TURN OF THE YEAR] - -Well, now, another year has come; and it is passing, taking us upon yet -another round of garden pleasures, of old hopes and ambitions -renewed—with many new delights and new disappointments, as of old; with -also fresh openings on the bright horizon. New interests too. Of these, -some of the smaller are not the least engrossing. To Villino Loki this -year, for example, has come a new Pekinese. It is a Princess, very -small, very sleek; chestnut-hued, with a face like a pansy. She has got -a little jutting under-jaw, an extremely flat nose; and, in moments of -excitement, her eyes display an amazing amount of white rim. But they -are becoming very beautiful eyes for all that. They were the brightest -of “boot-buttons” when she came first. - -[Illustration: dog] - -Loki was, naturally, very angry. He did his best to kill her; which was -ungrateful, as she was really procured, at great cost and difficulty, to -be his Imperial Bride! She, on her side, liked him awfully, and told him -so. On her first motor drive down here from London, as she waggled and -smirked at him from an opposite lap, he sat on his Ma-Ma’s knee and -pulled a series of grimaces in return, the like of which you can only -find painted on Chinese screens or cast in Chinese bronze. - -[Sidenote: THE NEW PEKY] - -The ways of the new Peky are an endless source of amusement and joy. We -tried to call her Mimosa; but, as usual with the youngest of the family, -she remains “Baby.” - -She has a coat the colour of a ripe chestnut, which will, we think, -almost rival Loki’s in luxuriance. Her eyes have the same proportion to -her face as those of a Dicky Doyle fairy. She has the oddest tastes, -loving among many other unexpected things the flavour of tobacco. If she -can get hold of a pipe or a cigarette she will sit and suck it, sniffing -with enchantment, till one would swear she was smoking. - -All the dogs, of course, have their coffee after lunch and dinner in -orthodox fashion, so there is nothing astounding in her having taken to -it with gusto from the very first—but, for her, the stronger the better! - -Like most Pekies, she begs and “prays” without ever having had to be -taught the art. She has furthermore a talent quite her own—that of -elaborately waltzing in front of you when she wants anything very -particularly. - -One of the dearest peculiarities of the breed is, as we have said, the -rapture of their welcome on the return of any member of the family. The -Master of the House is sensitive to this attention, and is quite hurt if -he misses Loki’s clamorous greeting. The other day “the Baby” was sent -into the Hall to meet him on his home-coming. No sooner did he appear -than she solemnly began her dance and preceded him as he advanced, -conscientiously executing her finest _pas de fascination_. This consists -of leaping into the air, turning round upon herself, and coming down on -to her front paws. Little Eastern as she is, she knew no better way of -expressing her feelings towards “the Master.” - -From what far ancestress, bred in the secret sinister splendours of a -Manchu Palace, did she inherit this accomplishment? - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: WINTER] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - -XLII - - -It is the dream of the owners of Villino Loki to build on another wing; -but, so far, funds do not run to this. The Villino is sadly short of -guest chambers; that is because one room has been for ever allotted to -the little Oratory. - -This little Chapel is a haven of peace. One’s thoughts turn to it when -one has the misfortune to be away from home. Over the altar there hangs -a large, wonderfully beautiful crucifix. The figure, white majolica, was -bought in a villainous den of a curiosity shop on the Tiber. We remember -how it shone out of the darkness at us, and we felt it _had_ to be ours! -It is now affixed to a large gilt carved wood cross made for us by the -_doratore_ in _Piazza Nicosia_.... Excellent ruffian! The cross has one -arm much longer than the other, though no one would know it who did not -measure; and it has the inimitable stamp of the artistic hand bound by -no slavish measure or hideous time-saving mechanism. - -The Chapel is chiefly white and gold. Two large Donatello angels, warm -ivory-coloured, from the _Manifattura di Signa_, carry the red Sanctuary -lamps. One is certainly the real Donatello—the other, we fear, a poor -foundling. But they both look very well. - -There is a great window over the moor. - -The few small statues are, we think, attractive; chiefly decorated with -bronzy golds and deep colours. There is St. Louis, King of France, -specially carved by a Bavarian artist; a slender noble figure with a -face of grave asceticism, holding up the Crown of Thorns. And there is a -sternly warlike St. Michael, all golden, resting on his sword. And a St. -Anthony ‹a real discovery this› lifting a pale countenance that seems on -fire with ardour towards the Divine Infant who stands on his book—St. -Anthony is “in glory”; his habit golden over the brown. St. George, a -fine splash of colour, charges the dragon over the fireplace. It is a -most satisfying dragon with red jaws open and a green claw tearing at -the lance that has conquered him. St. George’s iron-grey horse, with -flowing crimson trappings, starts aside and rolls a distraught eye—as -well he might. It is all in plaster and in rather deep relief. Two tall -golden wood-carved Roman church candlesticks flank it on either side, -fitted with electric light. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: garden view] - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -We have placed square Compton pots with Italian wreaths, filled with -palms and flowering plants, one on each side of the altar step. - -At night, when there is no light in the Oratory, except that of the -Sanctuary lamps, the shadows of the palms look like angels’ wings, -crossing and re-crossing.... - - * * * * * - -But, just as to a Garden there is no end—no end to its wants or to our -desires for it; to its phases, its transmutation surprises; to our joys -and disappointments in it—so there is no end to a Garden and Country -House gossip. We might go on for ever—like Tennyson’s Brook! And -meanwhile the year is passing on, in its stately pomp. - -[Sidenote: SUMMER ONCE MORE ... AND AFTER] - -Full Summer is once more upon the Garden. The Delphiniums are rampant. -We are in the centre of a heat wave, and our dry hill-side pants in the -sun. At the fall of eve our souls rejoice in the sound of the refreshing -showers when the watering begins; for one thirsts sympathetically with -the cherished borders.... - -The moor is deepening to purple. The trees wear the deep green that -precedes the turn. Life is rushing by with us so quickly that it seems -but the “blink of an eye,” as the Germans say, since we were peering for -the first bulb shoot.... In a little while the Ramblers and Wichurianas -will be one blaze of glory; and in a little while again the Autumn winds -will be shouting up the valley and the Bracken turning gold over the -rolling hills; and again in a little while again it will be the Winter -and the snow and we shall be watching for the Spring. - -And it will be all even as before and yet all quite different. And so -year by year.... And one day our garden will bloom for other eyes than -ours. - -_Nunc tibi—mox aliis_, the Book-Lover’s motto has it. How true also of -the beloved Garden!... Another “eye-blink.” - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - -[Illustration: path down garden] - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Our Sentimental Garden, by -Agnes Sweetman Castle and Egerton Castle - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN *** - -***** This file should be named 51779-0.txt or 51779-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/1/7/7/51779/ - -Produced by Clarity, ellinora and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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