THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 in
 
 FROM THE HEART 
 OF THE ROSE
 
 f.* 
 
 St. t
 
 FROM THE HEART 
 OF THE ROSE 
 
 LETTERS ON THINGS NATURAL 
 THINGS SERIOUS, THINGS FRIVOLOUS 
 
 BY 
 
 HELEN MILMAN 
 
 (MRS. CALDWELL CROFTON) 
 
 JOHN LANE: THE BODLEY HEAD 
 LONDON AND NEW YORK MDCCCCI
 
 Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson 6° Co. 
 At the Ballantyne Press
 
 35 
 
 
 TO 
 
 THE HON. MRS. JOHN DUNDAS 
 
 I DEDICATE 
 
 THESE SCATTERED THOUGHTS, FOR MANY HAVE 
 BEEN GATHERED IN HER PRESENCE 
 
 6542±8
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. TO A LOVER OF BIRDS .... I 
 
 II. ON MATTHEW ARNOLD'S POEMS . . 5 
 
 III. CORINNA'S LETTERS 9 
 
 IV. TO ONE WHO WRITES GARDEN BOOKS . 27 
 V. ABOUT PEOPLE 2 9 
 
 VI. "I CANNOT DO MUCH," SAID A LITTLE 
 
 STAR 33 
 
 VII. A LETTER FROM A MIDDY . . -35 
 
 VIII. A LETTER FROM SOUTH AFRICA . . 39 
 
 IX. A GARDEN IN JUNE 42 
 
 X. A LETTER FROM MRS. RITCHIE . -47 
 
 XI. TWO LETTERS OF GILBERT WHITE'S . . 50 
 
 XII. A SHORT LETTER 57 
 
 XIII. ON THE SUBJECT OF A VISITORS' BOOK . 58 
 
 XIV. ON MR. WATTS 6 1 
 
 XV. NOTES ON JUNE 67 
 
 XVI. TWO NEW SOCIETIES . . . • 7 1 
 
 XVII. TO A GIRL FRIEND • • 7 2 
 
 vii
 
 Contents 
 
 
 
 PAGB 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 A RIVER WALK 
 
 75 
 
 XIX. 
 
 ON MANY SUBJECTS 
 
 82 
 
 XX. 
 
 FROM NEWNHAM .... 
 
 86 
 
 XXI. 
 
 FROM DR. HARRY ROBERTS . 
 
 88 
 
 XXII. 
 
 FROM E. L 
 
 9i 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 FROM C. H. C 
 
 94 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 TO AN OLD CHUM 
 
 97 
 
 XXV. 
 
 ON REVIEWS .... 
 
 99 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 FROM THE LONG AGO . 
 
 IOI 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 INDIAN GARDENS .... 
 
 103 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 ABOUT TABLE MOUNTAIN 
 
 109 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 ON MAGAZINE CLUBS . 
 
 112 
 
 XXX. 
 
 ABOUT SKETCHING 
 
 ii5 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 PURE LITERATURE SOCIETY . 
 
 121 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 SPRING 
 
 122 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 TWO LETTERS. 1841, 1901 
 
 128 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 TO LUCIOLE .... 
 
   13 2 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 IS CHIVALRY DEAD ? . 
 
 136 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 TO AN EDITOR .... 
 
 140 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 ON FLOWERS TO THE SICK . 
 
 142 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 AUGUST 
 
 145 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION 
 viii 
 
   153
 
 Contents 
 
 XL. FROM A MAN OF LAW 
 
 XLI. TO ONE IN LOVE 
 
 XLII. JANUARY ..... 
 
 XLIII. ON THE CHARACTER OF A SERVANT 
 
 XLIV. ON MANY SUBJECTS . 
 
 XLV. TO MARGATE .... 
 
 XLVI. JULY 
 
 XLVII. VERSES FROM OVER THE SEA 
 
 XLVIII. FROM AUSTRALIA 
 
 XLIX. TO LITTLE MARY 
 
 L. THE FALKLAND MEMORIAL . 
 
 LI. AURATUM LILIES 
 
 LII. ON THE GROWING OF BULBS 
 
 LIII. TWO POTTERIES .... 
 
 LIV. SLOE GIN 
 
 LV. TO A LOVER OF GARDEN BOOKS 
 
 LVI. A HUNTING LETTER . 
 
 LVII. MONICA'S TEA-PARTY . 
 
 LVIII. TO ONE INTERESTED IN PLANTS 
 
 • 154 
 
 160 
 
 162 
 
 . 166 
 
 167 
 
 . 176 
 
 180 
 
 . 184 
 
 . 186 
 
 190 
 
 . 191 
 
 • 195 
 
 196 
 
 . 198 
 
 • 203 
 
 204 
 
 . 20S 
 
 • 213 
 
 • 215 
 
 IX
 
 PREFACE 
 
 MONICA opened her post-bag. She 
 was sitting on the lawn in the 
 Garden of Peace. The " heir of all 
 the ages " was charging an invisible 
 enemy across the grass. He tried in vain to 
 attract his mothers attention, but she was 
 wholly absorbed in her letters. 
 
 " Mother, there are some dear roses out," 
 he said, but she never moved. 
 
 " There is a rabbit in the kalmia-bed," he 
 shouted. Still no answer. Then he crept up 
 and whispered in her ear, " Mother, I don t 
 think the Horse Artillery soldiers are so very 
 brave after all!'' 
 
 Down went the letters on the grass, and the 
 heir of all the ages triumphed. 
 
 After the child disappeared into the wood 
 Monica sat down to think again. She felt 
 it was selfish to keep all her letters to herself. 
 A sudden thought struck her. " I will give 
 them to the world," she whispered ; " / will 
 fill up the book with my own letters, full of 
 thoughts entrusted to me by others, and with 
 
 xi
 
 Preface 
 
 lessons life has taught me" She knew she 
 had had an uneventful life, hut it was very 
 full, and her wish was to share all her sun- 
 shine with others. Perhaps her letters would 
 reach unknown friends, and perchance might 
 cheer, or amuse, if only for a moment, one less 
 favoured than herself Monica made up her 
 mind not to betray her friends, or to print 
 their real names, but she felt so grateful for 
 the pleasure they had given her that she wanted 
 the charm of her correspondence to reach " out- 
 side the garden" 
 
 XII
 
 
 To a lover of birds. 1 90 1 . 
 
 SO you want me to tell you what nests 
 we have this year. Do you think, 
 then, I have leisure moments to prate 
 to you about my feathered friends ? or do 
 you think, if you pretend to take a profound 
 interest in my garden, you will drag a letter 
 from my laggard pen ? I have but little 
 time for letters, but remember silence gives 
 consent to love. If you do not hear, then, 
 you may be certain that I trust you entirely 
 and your love. Some say this is an unsatis- 
 factory solution, and that they would rather 
 a little distrust and letters in addition ! I 
 take no notice of such suggestion, but will 
 tell you of our nests. In the box outside 
 my bedroom window, overlooking the rosary, 
 a big tit built her nest ; she laid her ten 
 eggs and began to sit on them, and then one 
 morning when I looked I found to my dis- 
 tress only two eggs and no sign of the 
 mother-bird. The nest was not disturbed,
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and no egg-shells were left about. We think 
 a mouse may have taken them, or perchance 
 my enemy the sparrow. For days and days 
 nothing happened, and we thought the nest 
 deserted. At last back came the tits. They 
 had examined other holes, but being weary of 
 house-hunting, returned to their old quarters. 
 They determined to try again, and soon ten 
 more eggs appeared. This time they were 
 all hatched, and at this moment ten little 
 yellow mouths open wide as I lift the lid 
 and peep in to see what they are all doing. 
 On my other window-sill an impertinent 
 sparrow has made her home. I am very 
 angry ; at the same time I have not the heart 
 to turn her out. A fly-catcher and a chaf- 
 finch have built in the honeysuckle over the 
 drawing-room window, and I verily believe, 
 if the truth were told, there is a swallow's 
 nest in one of the chimneys. Outside the 
 back door, in full view of every back-door 
 caller, a silly fly-catcher sits all day on her 
 four browny eggs. Foolish bird ! she flies 
 off when any one passes, and she lives a 
 miserable, unrestful life. I really cannot 
 think why birds are so silly in this garden ; 
 they don't seem to think one bit before 
 they make their homes. There is a darling 
 jenny wren living in public in a laurel-bush 
 just where you enter the kitchen garden.
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 She does not even pretend to be out of 
 sight. Certainly she has pulled a few laurel 
 leaves together and firmly fastened them 
 round the nest, but there it is in full view, 
 with its little domed roof and moss-covered 
 walls. We have a black-cap in the kalmia- 
 bed, and a cole-tit, a marsh-tit, a blue-tit, 
 and two big tits in the boxes. The big tits 
 in the old stump have a lovely nest. They 
 filled up the whole space with moss, and then 
 made a cosy nest in one corner. We have 
 never had a cole-tit in a bird-box before. 
 Of course I could show you " thousands of 
 thrushes' nests," as Dick would say. You 
 can hardly walk about the garden without 
 treading on young thrushes, or meeting a 
 sleepy-looking baby thrush face to face on 
 a bough — greenfinches, robins, and of course 
 starlings, in their usual box in the beech- 
 tree. As yet we have not found a cuckoo's 
 egg. Don't you wonder how a cuckoo ever 
 learns to say " Cuckoo ! " as he has only 
 pretending parents who can't say " Cuckoo ! ' 
 at all ? A French baby wouldn't talk French 
 if brought up in an English nest ? You 
 need not take up this matter seriously, it 
 will not bear investigation ! I asked about 
 the young cuckoo, but nobody will think it 
 a subject worthy of study, and one asked me 
 if I thought a cow would ever do anything 
 
 3
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 but " moo ! " which I must say I think is 
 quite outside the question. Farmer Dick 
 tells me of a thrush's nest in a cauliflower, 
 which seems a strange locality to choose. 
 I suppose that family of young thrushes 
 will be brought up as vegetarians. Now I 
 am beginning to frivol, and so had better 
 stop. A bullfinch began to build in the 
 ivy on the house, but the nest was never 
 finished. Bullfinches seem to begin nests all 
 over the garden. Greenfinches of course we 
 have, and blackbirds. The jays are most 
 tiresome and unneighbourly, and rob the 
 nests in a bold, wicked way. I wish they 
 could be taught better manners. I hear the 
 dear kingfishers in their hole over the Wish- 
 ing Well, and of course nests are number- 
 less outside the garden. Dick says he has 
 found a hawk's nest in a rose-bush, which 
 you may believe or not as you see fit. The 
 chaffinch's nest in the fork of a rhododen- 
 dron-bush is the most beautiful thing I 
 have ever seen, so small and compact, with 
 bits of brown wool twined in and out, and 
 all covered with lichen. Nothing fascinates 
 me more than birds' nests. I should love 
 to show them to you. 
 
 Monica.
 
 II 
 
 To a niece who is reading Matthew 
 Arnold's poems. 
 
 YOUR letter interested me very much. 
 I am glad you are taking up the 
 study of each poet separately. One 
 learns so very much more that way, and for 
 the time being you become thoroughly im- 
 bued with the poet's ideas. If I can find 
 my Wordsworth and Shelley notes, I will 
 send them to you ; but you know how 
 dreadfully untidy I am, I can never find 
 anything. Somebody once tried to comfort 
 me by saying that all genius's are untidy, 
 so when I cannot find a thing I try to 
 comfort myself with that thought; but after 
 searching for about an hour, I come to the 
 conclusion it would really be much nicer 
 to be tidy, and I cheerfully give up the 
 genius idea. But I am wandering from my 
 subject, namely, Matthew Arnold's poems. 
 They are very beautiful, but so utterly 
 hopeless. I once had to preside at a meeting 
 
 5
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 where we discussed his poems, and I was 
 asked to define his gospel. As they gave 
 me notice beforehand, and knowing my 
 opinion was little worth, I wrote to Mr. 
 R. H. Hutton (who was then alive), and I 
 cannot do better than send you extracts 
 from his letter : — 
 
 "The only thing exactly approaching a 
 gospel (he writes) which can be attributed 
 to Matthew Arnold is the couplet — 
 
 " ' But tasks in hours of insight willed 
 Can be thro' hours of gloom fulfilled.' 
 
 — which has been really useful to many 
 persons whom I knew ; but it is a very 
 feeble gospel. On the other hand, he has 
 certainly taught very many that there are 
 saints in the disguise of all sorts of callings, 
 who have remained unspotted from the 
 world. Christian and pagan, king and slave, 
 soldier and anchorite. . . . Distinctions we 
 esteem as grave are nothing in their sight. 
 
 " ' They do not ask who pined unseen, 
 Who was on action hurl'd, 
 Whose one bond is, that all have been 
 Unspotted from the world.' 
 
 But I should say that the greatest service 
 he has done the world — though it is almost 
 the opposite of a gospel — has been to teach 
 
 6
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 it, not only in England but all over the 
 world — that the life of those who have lost 
 their Christianity and gained nothing in its 
 place is, and must be, ' forlorn.' 
 
 " ' Wandering between two worlds, one dead, 
 The other powerless to be born, 
 With nowhere yet to rest my head, 
 Like these, on earth I wait forlorn. 
 Their faith, my tears, the world deride, 
 I come to shed them at their side.' 
 
 This is not a gospel, but it may lead to a 
 gospel. . . ." 
 
 Is not that splendid ? One great admirer 
 of Matthew Arnold present remarked that 
 I was quite wrong in saying the poems were 
 hopeless, and that such an assertion simply 
 proved my ignorance. He pointed to the 
 lines at the end of the lyric poem entitled 
 " Progress " — 
 
 " But that ye think clear, feel deep, bear fruit well, 
 The Friend of man desires," 
 
 and told us that that one line carried a 
 gospel in itself. I do not think myself it 
 is Christ-like ; there is no self-sacrifice there. 
 In Mr. Hutton's essay you will find he 
 writes: "He (Matthew Arnold) gives us 
 no new strength to bear. He gives us no 
 new light of hope. He gives us no new 
 
 7
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 nerve of faith." Why should the sea bring 
 ' The eternal note of sadness " to our 
 hearts ? Because to him the world 
 
 " Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, 
 Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain.'' 
 
 There are others in the world who feel the 
 nearness of Christ, so all the darkness is 
 turned to light. Do not ask me for criti- 
 cism, I am no critic ; but I can tell you 
 what thought lifts me up on to a higher 
 plane, and what does not. 
 
 Monica.
 
 Ill 
 
 CORINNA'S LETTERS 
 
 Enid asked how Corinna was getting on in 
 her new home. So Monica enclosed the 
 only letters she had had from her. They 
 tell their own story. 
 
 D 
 
 EAR Darling old Monica, — I 
 have not had a moment to write 
 before. You have no idea how dif- 
 ficult it is to get into a house without 
 servants. Of course I engaged some, but at 
 the very last moment, owing to the " cussed- 
 ness " of the human race, they all failed me 
 except one elderly female, who I now have 
 reason to believe was more or less mad. She 
 very soon took to her bed with inflamma- 
 tion of the lungs, which the local doctor 
 called lumbago. We carted her to the 
 hospital, a ghastly drive of ten miles. " You 
 never know what may happen on the way, 
 
 9
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 ma'am," said a village woman as we started. 
 Ted went on the box — and we mercifully all 
 arrived alive. So there we were, plants la, 
 without a soul. Next morning we crept out 
 of bed and lit the kitchen fire, then back, to 
 bed and rest awhile to wait for hot water. 
 I cooked the breakfast. You have no idea, 
 Monica, what a lot of bacon it takes to 
 make a dish. I no sooner cut slices than 
 they frizzled away in the frying-pan. Ted 
 promised to wash up, but it took him a long 
 time, for he washed his hands between every 
 plate, and said it really was thoughtless of 
 us both to have our plates so dirty. We 
 did not clean the house much, for of course 
 in the country things never get very dirty. 
 About luncheon-time Mr. Lewis turned up. 
 Ted gave a gasp, but I didn't mind a bit. 
 " I suppose you have come to lunch," was 
 my greeting in an airy way, as if we always 
 expected guests. " I suppose I have," he 
 answered, smiling. " Then you stay on one 
 condition," I said, "and that is that you 
 help to wash up. We have only got pork pie, 
 for we live on pork pie now." He looked 
 a little surprised, for he lunched out pretty 
 often, but had never been asked to wash up 
 before, and at first he thought it a joke. 
 (He is in the — Hussars, you know.) He 
 didn't think it a joke, though, when he 
 
 10
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 found himself in the scullery with an apron 
 on and his sleeves turned up. I pretended 
 I didn't see the pathetic appeal in his eyes 
 as he glanced at the dirty plates. 1 thought 
 to myself, What Ted can do, you can do, 
 and I didn't care if he was smart or not. 
 I think he really enjoyed it, but he didn't 
 come to lunch again at once ; in fact, not 
 until Ted told him we had proper servants. 
 That night I told Ted we really must have 
 a cook ; I was beginning to feel worn out. 
 So next day he sallied forth into the high- 
 ways and by-ways, and returned in triumph, 
 like a conquering hero. " A cook would 
 wait on me at two o'clock." I never saw 
 a man so proud in all my life. At two 
 o'clock she arrived, and I interviewed her 
 with a light heart. " Can you cook ? " 
 " Yes, ma'am." " Can you do nice little 
 dishes ? " (I had no idea what on earth you 
 ought to ask a cook.) "I can moind the 
 meat." That sounded decidedly hopeful. 
 " Can you make sweets ? " " If you make 
 the puddings I can moind them." Despair ! 
 I nearly boxed Ted's ears with fury. I 
 never went near him for quite half-an-hour, 
 and I wouldn't believe him when he said 
 it wasn't in the least his fault. We then 
 got a local woman from the first cottage 
 we came to, and she cooked a chicken for 
 
 ii
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 dinner. Oh ! Monica, my angel, the thought 
 of that chicken makes me shiver even now. 
 // had not been trussed. Have you ever seen 
 a chicken cooked au naturel ? I devoutly 
 hope you never will. Its legs were stretched 
 wide as if in appeal to heaven. Its 
 
 neck Oh ! I don't know where its neck 
 
 was. I don't know where any portion of it 
 was ; it was everywhere, and all over yellow 
 blisters. Yellow blisters which went pop 
 when you cut them. I went without dinner, 
 and afterwards was told that the so-called 
 cook was weeping in the kitchen because I 
 wouldn't eat, and refused to be comforted. 
 I found her, a damp little heap in the scullery. 
 ' The chicken looked horrid," I said sternly. 
 " You never even trussed it, it was not a bit 
 disguised." " Well, ma'am, you see, where 
 I was before (sob) the gentleman always liked 
 a chicken (sob) to come to table looking 
 as much like a chicken as possible " (sob). 
 " Then please remember that I like a chicken 
 to come to table looking as little like a 
 chicken as possible ; " and, Monica dear, I 
 walked majestically away. The next cook 
 arrived at six o'clock by telegraph from 
 London. She ate up all our dinner and 
 drank the remaining bottles of beer. I saw 
 what she was, so sent her back in tears, with 
 thanks, at ten o'clock the next morning. 
 
 12
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 It is a long lane, &c, and we are settled 
 down now and divinely happy. Ted laughs 
 and says even I am enjoying proper meals 
 at last, and he rather gloats over my ex- 
 periences. I got Mrs. Bing to come to me 
 then, but as her baby was only a month 
 old she had to bring it too. I told her she 
 might if she would faithfully promise it 
 should never cry when visitors called. It 
 would have been so embarrassing. I believe 
 the baby passed its days with its mouth full 
 of sugar, but it never uttered a sound — and 
 it lived all right. We had great fun arrang- 
 ing the furniture. Fixing the big bed up 
 was a great difficulty. I felt sure we should 
 never manage it, for it arrived in hundreds 
 of little bits. " My dear girl, leave it to 
 me," said Ted loftily ; " it's perfectly easy. 
 I've put together dozens and dozens of 
 beds." "Oh! indeed," I said, "I never 
 knew you had been in a furniture business." 
 He went away in a huff to do it all alone. 
 Presently Captain Edmunds came over from 
 Aldershot to see Ted, and he was called up- 
 stairs to help. I remained below. Presently 
 the garden boy was sent for, but the door 
 was kept religiously shut. At last I could 
 bear the suspense no longer, and I ventured 
 upstairs and peeped in. The two gentle- 
 men were sitting disconsolately on the floor 
 
 13
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 among the unfitted fragments of brass and 
 iron, and the garden boy was staring 
 vacantly, scratching his head the while. Oh ! 
 Monica, how I laughed. I ached all over 
 with laughing, and at last the men laughed 
 too, and we simply couldn't stop. " I don't 
 even know what the beastly thing looks like 
 
 when it is done. If you will buy " 
 
 " Ted ! I thought you had put dozens 
 
 and " " Oh! shut up;" and then Captain 
 
 Edmunds begged me to help, and I am 
 proud to say at last we got the bed " fixed 
 up." I really mustn't bore you with more at 
 present, but will write again soon. Love 
 and a hug from — Yours ever lovingly, 
 
 Corinna. 
 
 II 
 
 Monica Darling, — Burglars have been 
 our last excitement. Don't be frightened, 
 they were not real burglars. Mrs. Bing 
 woke us up in the middle of the night, and 
 stood at the door shaking and quaking. 
 "Will you please come, ma'am? there are 
 burglars in the house ; they have been using 
 the file, and now are using the chisel." It 
 was so circumstantial. We sallied forth with 
 candle and poker, but, of course, nobody was 
 there. Several other nights we have been 
 
 14
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 roused by "footsteps," and at last Ted, who 
 kept awake hour after hour, spotted the thief, 
 and he whispered to me that he was going 
 to creep out of bed and see who it was. 
 He reached the window, and peered out 
 into the broad davlitrht, and — saw the thief. 
 Guess what he was doing ? Oh, Monica ! 
 guess quick. He was setting a mole-trap 
 (by request) on the rockery ! — Tableau. 
 You will be glad to hear we have started 
 chickens. Ted brought a dear and precious 
 hen back from his mother's the other day. 
 It was in a hamper, and he pretended that 
 it didn't belong to him, for it began to 
 cackle loudly on the platform, and the dear 
 thing laid an egg there and then to show 
 its good feeling. Wasn't it nice of it, 
 Monica ? It has never laid any since. 
 Perhaps it heard Ted swear, or perhaps its 
 feelings were hurt at Reading station, for 
 those dreadful porters would hold it upside- 
 down. Ted said he lost his temper, and 
 hit the porter with his hat-box, and the 
 porter didn't like it. I want to keep ducks 
 and dear little bantams and pigeons and 
 guinea-pigs, but Ted doesn't encourage me 
 in my love for the brute creation. He 
 says he knows quite well that I should feed 
 them for about one day, and then he would 
 have to look after them for ever afterwards. 
 
 J 5
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 I don't think our gardener is a great success. 
 He knows nothing at all about gardening, 
 but he has made an apron out of an old 
 sack and some string, and Ted likes that, 
 and thinks it betokens a thrifty nature. I 
 don't myself care to see a gardener tending 
 my flowers, elegantly attired in an old sack ; 
 but I suppose Ted knows best. I have got 
 a real cook at last, and she is so pretty ; 
 I wish you could see her. And fancy, 
 Monica, I always have rose-leaves, real rose- 
 leaves, in my finger-bowls at dessert. It 
 was my own idea, quite. Ted never smokes 
 in the drawing-room, and we always say 
 grace, and he wears a high hat to church, 
 so we are rather high-toned. Monica, my 
 angel, this is the dearest little house in the 
 world, and we want you badly. — Your 
 loving Corinna. 
 
 Ill 
 
 My Monica, — I have such news for you. 
 Something really has happened at last, some- 
 thing much better than burglars or babies. I 
 am simply aching to tell you all about it, and 
 if you are not excited too, I shall be very very 
 angry. Ted says — no, I won't tell you what 
 Ted says, or I shall never get to my story. 
 It is a sign of decrepit old age when you 
 
 16
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 stray about searching aimlessly for the point 
 of your story. So I suppose I am getting 
 decrepit. Oh ! I forgot to tell you, Monica, 
 I found a real white hair in my head the 
 other morning, quite snow-white. I suppose 
 the cooks turned that hair white, or store- 
 lists. Store-lists are awful things. One finds 
 so many things in the book one doesn't want, 
 and one forgets the things one does want. 
 Well, now to begin. We were sitting at 
 lunch the other day eating resurrection pie, 
 when Snap suddenly leapt out of the window 
 and on to the lawn barking furiously. Ted 
 thought something terrible had happened ; I 
 only thought somebody had come to lunch, 
 and there was no lunch for somebody. Snap 
 continued to bark, and we rushed out. What 
 do you think we saw just over the paling 
 in the field ? I suppose, in your gentle way, 
 Monica, you would suggest a stoat, or a 
 wounded heron, or a hawk murdering a poor 
 little helpless bird. Not at all ; it was a 
 balloon, a huge war balloon, and the men in 
 it were shouting for help. Of course we 
 all ran, and in the deserted landscape men 
 appeared as if by magic ; they must have 
 been hiding in the rabbit-burrows, for they 
 simply arrived like the mythical baby " out 
 of the everywhere into here." You don't 
 know what a lot of excitement there is about 
 
 17 B
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the descent of a balloon. Such a heap of 
 things might happen. Sometimes men even 
 get killed. Well, the ropes of this particular 
 balloon, after getting entangled in about a 
 hundred trees, were safely pulled to earth, 
 and out stepped a sergeant of Engineers 
 and — what do you think ? Why, " a captain 
 of the Queen's Navee " in full uniform. I 
 gasped as Ted offered lunch in his usual 
 lordly way, without apparently a ghost of a 
 blush at the memory of that last helping 
 which entirely emptied the dish. Luckily 
 my cook (you know, the pretty one, who is 
 a real treasure), saved the situation for me 
 by cooking impossible dishes out of nothing, 
 for she knew her master's little way. We 
 looked sternly at that naval captain, and 1 
 longed to ask, " What are you doing, sir, in 
 a war balloon ? Does your mother know 
 you are wandering in the air ? " But he dis- 
 armed all doubt and made friends at once in 
 that jolly way naval men have. Of course, 
 Monica, my lady of a garden dedicated to 
 peace, you will take this as a slur on the 
 army ; I never knew any one stand up for 
 guns and soldiers as you do. I can't think 
 why . . . perhaps, though, I can guess. 
 The huge rocking monster was tethered in 
 the field, and I suppose the sergeant had 
 lunch in the background. The naval captain 
 
 18
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 told us one rather good story. His sister 
 had just engaged a young servant at Alder- 
 shot, and thought it right to warn her about 
 the iniquities of the ordinary " Tommy." 
 The girl looked at her mistress gravely 
 and said, " My grandfather was a soldier, 
 and my father was a soldier, and I don't 
 care that for a soldier," and she snapt 
 her fingers haughtily. That girl had good 
 spirit. After lunch the naval captain de- 
 parted in a fly, which also arrived from 
 nowhere ; and then Ted and I went into 
 the field, and before you could say "Jack 
 Robinson " (only I know you wouldn't say 
 such a vulgar thing, Monica dear) I had 
 jumped into the basket, and was soon over 
 the wood with my heart in my mouth. Of 
 course I was tethered, I mean the balloon 
 was. I wouldn't go in a loose balloon for 
 anything on earth or sky. The field looked 
 so far away, and the river was winding about 
 everywhere, and I could see the village and 
 castle ; but to tell you the honest truth I 
 really saw very little, for I felt as if I was 
 sailing away into space, and should never see 
 my little home again. When I came down 
 Ted went up, and I felt much more miser- 
 able, for I thought he would be lost for ever 
 and ever. Soon after he descended, more 
 sappers arrived breathless, asking if any 
 
 19
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 one had seen a balloon ? Lost, stolen, or 
 strayed, a war balloon, warranted to go in 
 the opposite direction to that intended by 
 the occupants. Being reassured by the bal- 
 loon itself, which was staring them in the 
 face, they pitched a tent in our field, and 
 in the evening the whole village came 
 up, and had aerial trips for love. How 
 they screamed and tittered. I think the 
 part they liked best was being lifted into 
 the cradle by the sergeant, and then the 
 fall into his arms as they came out. He 
 reassured the timid misses and was most 
 gallant in his attentions. It was really a 
 most picturesque scene, I assure you, Monica, 
 and as I was there to see that all was carried 
 on within the bounds of strict decorum, you 
 need not look grave, dear madam. Next 
 morning the colonel of all balloons appeared 
 on the scene, and many young officers, and 
 the sergeant introduced them to me with 
 the air of a courtier. The colonel said 
 women must never go up in the balloon, 
 not even when it was tethered, so I looked 
 very grave and entirely agreed with him. 
 I did not mention the flight of a hundred 
 and one maids in the air the night before — 
 of course you would have told him, but 
 then you would not have been wise. The 
 sergeant told the lieutenant, who told the 
 
 20
 
 From the Heart of the Rose- 
 captain, who told the major, who told the 
 colonel, who told me, that the men said 
 they had never had such a pleasant camping- 
 ground or had been done so well. This I feel 
 sure meant a hot breakfast, and accounts for 
 the fact that our breakfast was a very scanty 
 one. Now what do you think of this as an 
 adventure ? It really was splendid fun. I 
 I loved it, so did the servants. I wish you 
 had been here. I can picture you trying 
 to get into the cradle without the help of 
 the sergeant ! Never mind, I can't take life 
 seriously just yet ! — Yours ever, 
 
 Corinna. 
 
 [The sequel to this story is interesting. 
 The sergeant, who Corinna felt was a really 
 good honest soldier, as all Royal Engineers 
 must be, made away with tons of zinc at 
 Aldershot, escaped the law, fought on 
 the Boer side in South Africa, was finally 
 wounded, taken prisoner, and recognised. I 
 cannot tell you his end, simply because every 
 paper gave him a different one. 
 
 Monica.] 
 
 IV 
 
 Dear Old Monica,— We have given a 
 garden-party, and I am simply aching to tell 
 
 21
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 you all about it. To most people a garden- 
 party would be a garden-party, but with us it 
 was an event. The first thing we did was 
 to send out about a hundred invitations to 
 friends in London, as well as here in the 
 depths of the country, and to order a band. 
 When the letters were all posted and gone 
 beyond all recall, we simply looked at each 
 other and gasped ; we felt as if we had 
 done an awful and venturesome deed. " My 
 dear girl," Ted said, in would-be trembling 
 tones, "how are you going to get out of 
 the wood ? " Of course it was a facer. A 
 big garden-party and a supper afterwards 
 for London guests, and only a limited num- 
 ber of maid-servants, and no accommoda- 
 tion. " It will be all right," I said 
 airily, with a weight like lead on my heart. 
 " Something will turn up ! ' And faith has 
 its reward, for the first thing to " turn 
 up " was a butler. He simply grew out 
 of nothing in the garden. A strange place, 
 forsooth, for a butler to be found growing ! 
 For you, dear Monica, I will solve the 
 mystery, but only for you. Our garden 
 boy has a brother, so you will say at once, 
 " What relation is Dick to Tom ? ' Not 
 at all. This brother was a butler in a big 
 place in Yorkshire, and was home for a 
 month's holiday. He offered his services 
 
 22
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 to me for love, so what could I want 
 more ? It reminded me of the ' Swiss 
 Family Robinson," finding a butler grow- 
 ing on a rose-bush. Don't you remember 
 they found hot rolls and cotton garments 
 and frying-pans all ready to hand on their 
 desert island. I felt very happy, for a 
 butler gives such an air to a small party, 
 or rather a big party in a small place. 
 The next thing that happened was this. 
 The village heard I was going to give a 
 party, so they all offered to come and help. 
 I can only tell you that on the day itself 
 the back regions were simply crowded with 
 helpers. They tumbled over each other, 
 and nobody knew in the least what to do, 
 but every one was happy, and every one 
 enjoyed it. I had the summer-house by 
 the pond filled with tables of strawberries 
 and cream in little china basins, and we 
 turned the lawn into a summer drawing- 
 room under the cedars, with comfortable 
 chairs, and tables covered with sketches and 
 garden books, so that for the time being 
 we might pass for being intellectual. There 
 were bowls of sweet peas and mignonette 
 everywhere. Then in strange out-of-the- 
 way corners my guests came on old oaken 
 tables, with fruit thereon and macedoine. 
 The band, of course, played divinely — there 
 
 23
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 is nothing like music, after all, to cheer the 
 savage guest. The great joke was, we 
 dressed up the pretty farmers' daughters — 
 no, I mean the farmers' pretty daughters — 
 in our tall parlour-maid's clothes, and our 
 vicar spent all his afternoon in a series 
 of spasmodic starts, because he kept recog- 
 nising faces in new and strange garb, and 
 in racking his brain trying to remember 
 who was who. Amelia was staying with 
 us, and she had to unstalk strawberries all 
 the morning, while I macedoined fruit. 
 Monica dear, I hope never to see a mace- 
 doine again. Of course none of us were 
 ready when the carriages arrived from the 
 station, but it didn't matter. Every one was 
 in great spirits. The only thing that 
 annoyed me was this : everybody utterly 
 refused to treat my party seriously ; they 
 would all think it was a joke, which was 
 so rude of them. The butler was the only 
 grave thing about the whole show, and he 
 looked at me a little reprovingly, which 
 made me feel uncomfortable. Having to 
 smile so much made me uncomfortable 
 too, and my mouth got quite stiff. When 
 people are coming to meet you across a 
 lawn, it doesn't do to begin to smile too 
 soon, or it becomes a fixed grin, which 
 looks horrid ! Oh, what fun it all was ! 
 
 24
 
 From the Heart of the Rose- 
 There was no big catastrophe. Every one 
 said they enjoyed it, and I really believe 
 they did. If only you could have been 
 there, Monica, I should have had nothing 
 else to wish for. All the right people came, 
 and a good many of the wrong, and the 
 garden was rather small for them to jostle 
 in ; but the nut-walk made a dividing line, 
 and Ted is such a neutral soul, so they all 
 felt at home. You say I am unconventional; 
 I hope indeed I am. Unconventional people- 
 can do much more what they like, and are 
 not trammelled by petty laws of society. 
 Why does anything matter ? Of course I 
 don't mean things like dressing for dinner. 
 I couldn't eat my dinner — I was going 
 to say undress — but I mean unless I 
 was properly dressed ; and I know that 
 dinner without soup is only a meal. 
 But I mean leaving cards and calling 
 and keeping up appearances — pretending 
 to be much better off than you really are, 
 and liking certain people because they are 
 rich (ignoring soap, candles, and mustard), 
 and disliking people because they only live 
 in small houses, and have no footman. 
 Oh ! it's a hollow world, Monica dear. I 
 wish people were more real. I wish every 
 one was as happy as we are on our tiny 
 income. Life is one beautiful dream, 
 
 2 5
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and you are a dear old duck. — Your ever 
 loving Corinna. 
 
 To Corinna. 
 
 ... I was much amused by your letter 
 about the balloon. I wish I had been there. 
 Last night, turning over a book of prints 
 belonging to A., I came on one of Vincent 
 Lunardi, " The first Aeronaunt in the 
 English Atmosphere." The print was pub- 
 lished June 25, 1785, and is called "The 
 three favourite Aerial Travellers." Vin- 
 cent Lunardi took care to take a very pretty 
 woman up in his balloon, Mrs. Sage by name, 
 and she is described as " The first Female 
 Aeronaunt," and they took one " George 
 Biggin " as a chaperone ; so you see a hun- 
 dred and seventeen years ago a woman was 
 as foolish as you are ! Does that comfort 
 your heart ? Monica. 
 
 26
 
 IV 
 
 To one who writes garden books. 
 
 DO go on writing garden books. 
 i Dwellers in our great cities turn to 
 them. I only heard this morning 
 from one living in the heart of Leeds. " The 
 scent of your roses and the echo of the Dawn 
 Chorus have found their way into the rather 
 dreary surroundings which make up the 
 East End of Leeds. . . . Often when the 
 streets are hot and dusty, and when the 
 longing is great to go and leave my work to 
 look at the beauty of the country, I betake 
 myself to a nature book and find there a 
 solace denied to those who live in mean 
 streets. I remember reading not long ago 
 that we had ceased to care for beauty, and 
 only read about it instead, but I don't think 
 it is true, and I hope you and others who 
 both love God's handiwork in nature and 
 have the gift of describing it, will go on 
 doing so with His blessing on your work." 
 This is splendid encouragement, is it not ? 
 
 27
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 I feel very grateful to the writer. As I sit 
 in my garden listening to the birds, I often 
 think of the workers in towns, and wish they 
 could rest here awhile. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 28
 
 About people Monic i met. 
 
 YOU ask me how my book is getting 
 on. It is gro.ving daily, but not a bit 
 in the way I meant it to. I sketched 
 out an idea beforehand, but nothing happens 
 as I planned it. My children utterly refuse 
 to do the deeds and say the words I want 
 them to. Now I just let them go their own 
 way, and I sit and write down what they 
 do. To me all my characters are alive. 1 
 never begin to write until I know them well. 
 I actually see them do the things they do, 
 and I never can force myself to write any- 
 thing. I remember once introducing a true 
 story of a child, and making one of my 
 characters do it. The first time I saw Mr. 
 Hutton after the book was published, in 
 that hallowed room at the Spectator office, he 
 was telling me so kindly how he liked my 
 child. " Your children are so natural," he 
 said, " even when they do impossible things 
 they do them naturally ; except where Boy 
 
 29
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 did ' so and so' — that is impossible." " But 
 that was perfectly true ! " I exclaimed. " Yes, 
 I daresay," he answered gently, stroking his 
 beard as he always used to do, " but it is 
 dragged in and bad." I wrote an article 
 for the Spectator one day, and when it ap- 
 peared the first sentence was missing. " I 
 hope you will forgive me," wrote Mr. 
 Hutton, " but an article should never begin 
 on too high a key, people want preparing for 
 it." Writing is a very absorbing occupation, 
 that is the danger of it. I begin to think a 
 housewife ought never to be an author ! 
 One longs to shut oneself up all alone with 
 pen and paper, and then write till one 
 drops. It is so difficult to lift oneself 
 out of the atmosphere of a book. H.'s 
 grandmother, author of " Emelia Wynd- 
 ham " (who, I think, may be classed 
 among the first women writers, for she came 
 directly after Miss Burney, Jane Austen, 
 Mrs. Radcliffe, Mrs. Sherwood, and that 
 generation), wrote at a fixed time every 
 morning {never at night), directly after 
 ordering dinner and household affairs, and 
 she never wrote for more than two hours 
 at a time. She began her novels in 1834 
 with "Two Old Men's Tales," which was 
 published anonymously, and which created 
 quite a sensation at the time. She pub- 
 
 3°
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 lished eighteen novels altogether, and "The 
 Reformation in France," which — until it 
 was known to be written by a woman ! — 
 was the text-book on the subject at Oxford. 
 She was so dissatisfied with " Emelia Wynd- 
 ham" that she was on the point of throwing 
 it into the fire, when her daughter Louisa 
 persuaded her not to, and it was by far the 
 most popular of all her novels. She always 
 read her novels aloud to her daughters, when 
 she had written them, to see their efFect. 
 She always arranged her plots before she 
 began to write, and very seldom were her 
 people drawn from life — they were her own 
 imagination of character and action. I re- 
 member as a little child seeing Mrs. Marsh 
 in her house in Lowndes Street, where men 
 and women of letters gathered round her. 
 She was very awe-inspiring, and always 
 wore a white shawl. Myself, I find it 
 difficult to write at a fixed hour every day. 
 I like writing in the evening, but seldom do 
 so. " Never trust what you write at night," 
 Bishop Thorold said to me one night when 
 I was dining at the Castle, and had the 
 privilege of sitting between the Bishop and 
 "A. K. H. B." I remember I felt very much 
 alarmed because they were so extremely 
 nice to me, and both deserted their neigh- 
 bours to talk to me all the time. I do not 
 
 31
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 think you could have found two men pos- 
 sessing such distinct personality. Alas ! they 
 have both passed away now. Their tasks 
 were finished. "A. K. H. B." was dressed 
 in black velvet knee-breeches, shoe buckles, 
 lace ruffles, and all. I feel proud to think 
 he was so kind to me. I certainly felt just a 
 little frightened when he began to examine 
 me on my great-uncle's (Dean Milman's) 
 books, " The History of the Jews," " Latin 
 Christianity," and such light reading ! But he 
 forgot to ask me questions when he became 
 interested in hearing about " My Dean," as 
 I used to call my father's uncle when I was 
 a very very small child. Dear old Dean ! 
 I can see him now through the mist of 
 years, with his beautiful face and bent back, 
 as with trembling fingers he fastened a gold 
 chain round my neck, from which hung a 
 torquoise cross containing a tiny piece of 
 his snow-white hair at the back, and our 
 initials entwined. I was too young to 
 appreciate the honour of the gift then, but 
 I value it now among my greatest treasures. 
 This long letter will weary you, but directly 
 one begins on reminiscences one is tempted 
 to ramble on. Monica. 
 
 32
 
 VI 
 
 7 b one who is discontented with her lot. 
 
 SO you do not feel it is enough to " help 
 lame dogs over stiles." Perhaps I 
 cannot do better than send you en- 
 closed. The words came to me from over 
 the sea, and I love them. 
 
 " Whatsoever thy hand funic th to do, do it ivith 
 thy might." 
 
 " ' I cannot do much,' said a little star, 
 ' To render the dark world bright, 
 My silvery beams will not reach far 
 
 Through the folding gloom of night : 
 But I'm only part of God's great plan, 
 So I'll gladly do the best I can.' 
 
 ' What can be the use,' said a fleecy cloud, 
 
 1 Of the little drops I hold ? 
 They will scarcely bend the lily proud, 
 
 If caught in her cup of gold ; 
 But I'm only part of God's great plan, 
 And my drop I'll give as best I can.' 
 
 33 c
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 A child went merrily out to play, 
 But thought, like a silver thread, 
 
 Went winding in and out all day 
 Through the happy golden head : 
 
 My mother has said, ' Do all that you can, 
 
 For you are a part of God's great plan.' 
 
 She knew no more than the shining star, 
 Or the cloud with its chalice full ; 
 
 How, why, or for what, all strange things are, 
 She was only a child at school ; 
 
 But she said : * I'm part of God's great plan, 
 
 And must do His work the best I can.' 
 
 Then she helped another child along 
 Where the road was rough to the feet ; 
 
 And she sang in her heart a little song 
 Which we all thought passing sweet — 
 
 < If I am part of the Master's plan, 
 
 I'll do and I'll do, — the best I can.' 
 
 So let us help, as we go our way 
 
 In the journey before us all ; 
 To lighten the burden day by day 
 
 Of some who might stumble and fall, 
 But for the touch of the stronger man 
 Who can and will ' do the best he can.' 
 
 34
 
 VII 
 
 A Letter from a Middy on board H.M.S. 
 " Rattlesnake " at Zanzibar. 
 
 M 
 
 Y dear Aunt Monica, — We have 
 had such exciting times out here 
 that I haven't had time to write to 
 you before. You may have thought I was 
 shut up in Ladysmith, but I'm not, as you'll 
 see by this address. Some of our chaps had 
 to go up with the 4.7 guns, however, and 
 there they are hard and fast, and playing 
 Old Harry with the Boer guns of position. 
 I do envy them, I can tell you, for I hate 
 these cheeky Boers, and would like to give 
 them a lyddite shell or two, and see them 
 scuttle and run like so many rabbits. They 
 are exactly like bunnies, you know, amongst 
 the rocks and in their trenches and rifle-pits, 
 and won't come out in the open and fight 
 in grim earnest. The Admiral doesn't al- 
 together like having to land so many men, 
 but the army chaps can't do without them, 
 you see, and so it's a feather in our caps, 
 
 35
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and we jolly well enjoy helping them to 
 run the show. We've been patrolling the 
 coast for six weeks, and overhauling all the 
 steamers bound for Lourenco Marques ; but 
 this was most awfully slow work, and we 
 were jolly glad when we were ordered up 
 here for our skipper to interview the Sultan 
 of Zanzibar, who has been playing up about 
 some rot or another — something about the 
 slave trade, I think. I rather hope to get 
 some prize-money later on, when the S.W. 
 monsoon sets in, and perhaps we'll have a 
 fight with some of these rascals of slave- 
 dealers. It's simply disgusting the way the 
 beggars behave to the wretched Africans 
 they take prisoner up country. They 
 ought to be strung up or shot, that's the 
 way I would treat them. Of course we 
 middies take a loaded revolver with us if 
 we go in chase of them, and a cutlass too, 
 if we like. The Arab captains really show 
 fight sometimes, and then it isn't all jam, 
 I can tell you, for they are fierce enough 
 when their blood is up, and are muscular 
 athletic chaps, with a human cargo under 
 hatches worth a lot of money to them. I 
 know how fond of dogs you are, so I'm 
 going to send you a yarn or two about 
 our skipper's Airedale terrier " Jingo." 
 Before we sailed from Portsmouth we were 
 
 36
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 lying alongside the wharf at the dockyard, 
 and the skipper who had been at home on 
 leave for three or four days rejoined his 
 ship, bringing his dog with him for the 
 first time ; but Jingo got wind of a rat in 
 the dockyard and was left behind, the 
 skipper coming on board without him. 
 A few minutes afterwards Jingo, awfully 
 out of breath, came rushing up and tried 
 to board the ship by the entry port ; but 
 the fool of a sentry thinking he was some 
 stray cur, progged at him with his rifle 
 and shouted, " Clear out from there, you 
 whelp, d'ye hear ? " Poor Jingo got such 
 a sudden fright that he started back and fell 
 overboard with a most tremendous splash ; 
 and as he couldn't swim a bit, things 
 looked a little black for him, but Joe Mul- 
 lins, the captain of the maintop, and a great 
 pal of mine, happened to be looking out of 
 a port, and saw all that happened. In a 
 second he had his pumps off, and had plunged 
 overboard after the dog. Of course Joe 
 brought him safely ashore, and was compli- 
 mented like anything by the skipper, who by 
 this time had realised that it was his dog 
 that had nearly come to an untimely end. 
 You should have seen the sentry's face. It 
 was as white as a sheet, and the beggar was 
 trembling in his shoes, but I don't think 
 
 37
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 after all he was punished. Joe Mullins does 
 spin such good yarns. You see I'm the mid 
 of his top, and so he tells me all his best ; but 
 some of them have to be taken with a grain 
 of salt ! you know ! ! ! I was going to tell you 
 about Jingo and the Sultan of Zanzibar's 
 dog, but must leave that for another time, 
 as the epistle will be jolly well over weight. 
 We get oranges here at 3d. a hundred, ripping 
 ones too. I wonder if you will be reading 
 this letter in that pretty summer-house in 
 the garden where you so often let me tuck 
 in at strawberries and cream. There are no 
 strawberries like yours, and the cream that 
 came from Devonshire was A 1. My love 
 to all. I hope you are quite well. Your 
 aff. nephew, 
 
 38
 
 VIII 
 
 A letter came from South Africa. Though it 
 made Monica laugh, it brought the war 
 very near to her. Still, it must be the 
 grandest thing in the world to be wounded 
 for your Queen and country, and five 
 bullets seem comparatively a small allow- 
 ance. 
 
 HERE I am in hospital, having had a 
 ripping time with brother Boer. I 
 daresay you heard I made a bloom- 
 ing target of myself. It wasn't particularly 
 pleasant, but I suppose all's fair in love and 
 war. Some awfully amusing things happened 
 during our little show, which simply made 
 me yell, although I was in such a beastly 
 funk. There was one covey behind a rock 
 next to me who was in great form, and one 
 could really quite believe he was enjoying 
 a pheasant battue, and that rocketers were 
 coming over his head. He lay very prone 
 on his you-know-what, stuck his rifle straight 
 up in the air, and fired for all he was worth. 
 
 39
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 I doubt if he saw master Boer all day. And 
 another silly ass, a Yeo boy, got hit through 
 the ankle, and being in such a beastly funk 
 that he was killed, he actually did die before 
 evening. We had a ripping time in the 
 ambulances ; directly they put us in, the 
 niggers got frightened and the mules stam- 
 peded for all they were worth. As you can 
 imagine, it was simply ripping, as trees, rocks, 
 and ant-heaps did not impede them in the 
 slightest. I thought the burghers were not 
 at all a bad lot ; one cove of theirs rushed 
 into my shelter which I had on picket and 
 bagged my purse. My skipper, who was 
 there, told the commandant, who immediately 
 rushed up to the man, took the purse away, 
 and gave him fifteen of the best with his sjam- 
 bok. They do ripping things in our hospital. 
 A wretched cove here, who was hit through 
 the tummy and was almost dead by the time 
 he got in here, revived a bit the other day and 
 said he thought he could manage something 
 better than milk. The doctor said, " Right 
 you are," and immediately sent him a bit 
 of the toughest of trek oxen I have ever 
 met, and a bottle of stout. Needless to say 
 he had a bit of a painy-ache that night. 
 There was great excitement in the camp 
 here the other day, some of the fellows 
 told me. 
 
 40
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 A fellow in the Fusiliers, who was 
 
 wounded at P 's Hill and had just come 
 
 out from home again, joined his regiment in 
 the Brigade. He had got seventeen bullets 
 in him, and you can't imagine the rush 
 there was of fellows wanting to bathe with 
 him in the river close by. I believe he was 
 most amusing in the way he told how he 
 got them all, but I am afraid the story is 
 not quite fit, even for you, dear auntie. 
 I'm afraid I must shut up now, as I'm just 
 about to be decorated with blue chiffon 
 round my head. You cannot think how 
 becoming blue chiffon is. Love to every one. 
 — Your affec'. nephew. 
 
 P.S. — Mind you have fried sole for 
 
 breakfast the morning I get home. It's 
 
 the one thing we all wish for in the 
 regiment. 
 
 41
 
 IX 
 
 Monica wrote a paper all about her garden in 
 June in the " Londoner" and sent it to 
 the Editor. He printed it, and told her 
 afterwards she might add it to her letters. 
 
 A FTER the raindrops, sunshine ; in 
 /\ the midst of the storm a rainbow. 
 L jL The jewelled arc is spanned across 
 the garden, drawing sky and earth together. 
 All the flowers are sobbing, but soon, as 
 the sunbeams shine out for joy, they will 
 lift their heads refreshed by the shower, 
 and the buds will open to the light. 
 Oaks still don their square-cut yellow- 
 green robes, and they shine against the 
 indigo firs as only oak-leaves can. The 
 hawthorn hedges are laden as if with snow, 
 hardly a green twig is visible, for this year 
 there is so much more blossom than usual, 
 branches being simply beaten down with 
 bloom, and they grow tired of their burden 
 ere the petals drop. At last the longed-for 
 moment has come when I can rest in a low 
 
 42
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 wicker-chair under the mespilus trees, and 
 realise the wonderful presence of summer. 
 Overhead the turtle-dove purrs out her 
 gladness with renewed vigour, and the sweet 
 sound blends with the soft fall of the river 
 over the weir as it hurries on to the great 
 sea. The dove came over that sea, and 
 perhaps, as she sits on her untidy nest on 
 the Austrian pine, she wonders to herself why 
 the river is rushing on eager to be swallowed 
 up in the vast ocean. Lazily looking across 
 the shining lawn at the house, we see a wall 
 covered with early roses. The dear, time- 
 honoured old Gloire de Dijon peeping in at 
 the upper windows, masses of pink china 
 roses, crimson Longworth ramblers inter- 
 twined with trusses of Reve d'Or. Two 
 thrushes have built in the roses on the wall, 
 "all among the roses, love," under the 
 shadow of yellow jasmine ; and a fly-catcher 
 has made his home on the trellis, while a 
 chaffinch — foolish, trusting bird — has built 
 his nest just by the doorway, and every time 
 any one enters the mother-bird flies off" in 
 a fright, and she is rapidly getting worn to 
 a shadow by constant movement. Her mate 
 chose the spot, but never again will she leave 
 the choice to him. She cannot desert her 
 eggs, but the anxiety is almost more than 
 she can bear. In the ivy a wagtail builds 
 
 43
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 in peace, and as long as a cuckoo does not 
 catch a glimpse of the nest she is safe. But 
 cuckoos are all round the garden, bubbling 
 away to one another. Many folks do not 
 understand the cuckoo's different notes, and 
 even, in their ignorance, think he can only 
 say " cuck-oo." A big tit has a nest in a 
 box on my lady's window-sill, and the nest 
 is lined with orange and blue fluff off the 
 drawing-room carpet — a sequel to spring 
 cleaning ! Backwards and forwards journey 
 the parent birds with their beaks full 
 of green caterpillars for their large and 
 hungry family. In one corner of the 
 house there is a wilderness of orange and 
 yellow Welsh poppies, and they come up 
 year after year between the stones by 
 the steps, and in every crevice and cranny 
 available. If they once take root they make 
 their home and never leave again, but they 
 are "kittle cattle" till they settle down. 
 In my lady's border Eastern poppies reign 
 supreme, turning great scarlet petals sun- 
 wards ; white and blue lupins stand sentinel 
 on either side. Sweet rockets, violas, peonies, 
 and tall groups of aquilegias are there. It 
 is somewhat of a wilderness, and the Spanish 
 iris grumbles at being a little overgrown by 
 the cornflowers which have chosen of their 
 own sweet will to come up everywhere. 
 
 44
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 Banks of rhododendrons are now a mass of 
 bloom, and azaleas make the evening sweet 
 on one side, while the scent of the giant 
 syringa is wafted all across the garden as 
 a soft west wind bids sprays of yellow 
 laburnum jostle the lilac boughs. When 
 rhododendrons are out a garden must be 
 fair, for the trusses of white, and red, and 
 mauve add so much colour to the picture, 
 and such a real mass of colour relieves the 
 eternal green. Kalmias are nearly in bloom, 
 soft waxen pink flowers which can be seen, 
 too, at a little distance. This is the per- 
 fect season for the rock garden, when blue 
 veronicas mix with rock roses, pink, yellow, 
 orange, and the deep blue of the dear fleur 
 de frontier replaces the blue of the gentian 
 which is past. Here and there crimson 
 lychnis on slender stalks shine against the 
 time-worn ironstone of the country, and the 
 pink oxalis flowers next the double white 
 campion, and wonders to itself why it is 
 happy out of the greenhouse. A tangle of 
 periwinkles and scarlet honeysuckle make a 
 soft combination of colour which appeals to 
 the heart of an artist passing on his way 
 through the rosary. A poet would under- 
 stand it all, too, without any waste of words. 
 Under the Spanish chestnuts all the ferns are 
 fresh and green ; they are not tired out yet, 
 
 45
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 for some of the fronds are hardly unfurled. 
 Nature is still young and hearty ; nature is 
 still bright and gay. Outside the paling is 
 my lady's wild garden, where brambles grow 
 in artistic sprays, and golden broom and 
 gorse form a glory all their own. Patches 
 of red sorrel colour the land, and pink 
 mays brighten the middle distance. Beds 
 of spireas seem to flourish in the sandy, 
 stony soil, and yellow briar roses are covered 
 with bursting buds. Wild flowers and 
 garden flowers grow side by side here, my 
 lady allows no murmur of caste in her wild 
 garden ; if a flower does not wish to grow 
 it must e'en die, it will not be pampered into 
 life again. Trees have been planted for 
 shade and shelter, for on the brow of the 
 hill you can watch the sunset, and sit and 
 dream that the world is fair. All the 
 shrubs peep over the trellised paling and 
 long to live freely out in the open, and 
 birds fly hither and thither, for is not this 
 a sanctuary for them ? A whitethroat 
 flies over the broom to tell a meadow-pipit 
 in the wild garden that it is quite safe to 
 build in the shrubs round the rosary, and a 
 chiff-chaff, strange to say, has built quite 
 high up in a tall Cyprus near the front door. 
 The June of life is a fair month ; anxieties of 
 spring are over, the weariness of summer 
 has not come, and winter is out of sight. 
 
 46
 
 X 
 
 A letter is found in the post-bag from Mrs. 
 Ritchie. Monica is filled with delight. 
 " William Makepeace Thackeray " is a 
 name to inspire. To know how he wrote 
 and when, to be in touch with his 'memory 
 through his daughter, to hear that, some 
 day, she might gaze on his actual MS., 
 made even the sun shine on a raining day 
 in June. 
 
 June 2, pres Fontainebleau. 
 
 DEAR Mrs. Monica, — Your letter 
 has followed me to this little place 
 by the river, where I have been 
 staying for a few days. We came here 
 from Paris, which was delightful and full 
 of interest, but which seemed to be on fire. 
 This, on the contrary, is very silent and 
 refreshing. The fishes leap from the waters, 
 the birds are still in full song, a few holidav- 
 makers disport themselves on the little ter- 
 race in front of the hotel, where grow the 
 pretty old cropped lime-trees, and the green 
 
 47
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 chairs and tables. Just across the road the 
 great forest of Fontainebleau begins its 
 wonders, and the rocks and the beautiful 
 beeches work their enchantments, as do the 
 changing lights of the beautiful panorama 
 which one sees from the higher levels. All 
 this carries me oddly back to my childhood, 
 when with our grandparents we used to 
 come sometimes to little country inns 
 such as this one, and to which my father 
 sometimes followed us. I cannot quite 
 answer your question about him and 
 his manner of writing, for he was in so 
 many different ways of being and feeling 
 that his habits and hours varied. He was 
 always careful, his manuscript was always 
 orderly. His writing was never casual, but 
 always intended. I can never remember see- 
 ing him writing out of doors, or scribbling 
 hasty notes upon scraps of paper. What I 
 think I must have told you, was that I 
 remember hearing him say that he used to 
 wonder, when he looked at the sheet of 
 blank paper, how it was to get filled, and 
 where it all was to come from, and yet that 
 he knew that in due time the writing would 
 be there before him. It may have come 
 easily in early days, but it was not so in 
 later times. He used to say that holding his 
 pen seemed to cause his ideas to flow ; but 
 
 48
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 I think I have said something like this in 
 my prefaces already. He wrote a great deal 
 in the early morning. He had a chair, 
 across which he placed his desk. He did 
 not like writing at night, unless he was 
 obliged by circumstances. He used to like 
 the hours just before dinner, and in winter 
 time I have often seen him working by the 
 light of a little bronze candlestick with 
 double lights, which he kept in his study, 
 and which he used to put before him. I 
 hope, if ever you can come and see me at 
 home, I might show you some of his MSS. 
 When I look at it, it always seems to me 
 like looking at a sort of picture of him, 
 more like than are many of the pictures ! 
 
 I have not at all forgotten our meeting, 
 and I hope we may come together again. 
 
 I am, sincerely yours, 
 
 Anne Ritchie. 
 
 49
 
 XI 
 
 To a lover of Selborne and all that belongs 
 to Gilbert White, with copies of letters 
 enclosed. 
 
 A SHOWED me his bound copy of 
 White's Selborne yesterday. He 
 . has several autograph letters of 
 Gilbert White's. I have copied two of them 
 for you. I do not know if the first has ever 
 been published, the second is in Professor 
 Bell's edition, but evidently has been care- 
 lessly copied. As both of the original letters 
 belong to my family, I feel I have a right 
 to them. Gilbert White's handwriting is 
 beautiful, and it interested me very much to 
 find him discoursing on poetry. I foolishly 
 thought that he had but few ideas beyond 
 birds and beasts, but that betrays my ignor- 
 ance. You remember going to Hind-head 
 with me, do you not ? 
 
 "Selborne, Jan. \st, 1791 . 
 
 "Dear Sir, — As the year 1790 is just at 
 an end, I send you the rain of that period, 
 
 50
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 which, I trust, has been regularly measured. 
 Nov. and Dec., as you see, were very wet, 
 with many storms that in various places 
 had occasioned much damage. The fall 
 of rain from Nov. 19 to the 11 inclusive 
 was prodigious ! The thunder-storm on Dec. 
 23 in the morning before day was very 
 awful ; but I thank God it did not do 
 us any the least harm. Two millers, in 
 a wind-mill on the Sussex downs near 
 Goodwood, were struck dead by lightning 
 that morning ; and part of the gibbet on 
 Hind-head, on which two murderers were 
 suspended, was beaten down. I am not sure 
 that I was awaked soon enough to hear the 
 whole storm ; between the flashes that I saw 
 and the thunder, I counted from 16 to 14 
 seconds. 
 
 " In consequence of my Nat. Hist. I con- 
 tinue to receive various letters from various 
 parts, and in particular from a Mr. Marsham 
 of Stratton near Norwich, an aged gent: who 
 has published in the R. S. respecting the 
 growth of trees. Do you know anything 
 about this person ? He is an agreeable corre- 
 spondent. He is such an admirer of oaks, 
 that he has been twice to see the great oak 
 in the Holt. 
 
 " Dr. Chandler, and family, who came at 
 first only with an intent to stay with us a 
 
 5i
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 few months, have now taken the vicarage 
 house for some time. The Dr. is much 
 busied in writing the life of his founder, 
 William Wainflete : he lives a very studious 
 and domestic life, keeps no horse, and visits 
 few people. . . . Mr. Chaerton, who is 
 keeping his Xmass with us as usual, de- 
 sires his best respects, and many thanks 
 for the hospitable reception, and intelligent 
 information which he met with last sum- 
 mer at Lyndon. He is a great antiquary, 
 and much employed in writing the life of 
 Doctor Will. Smith, the founder of Brazen- 
 nose Coll., of which he is now the Senior 
 fellow. 
 
 " Your leg, we hope, is recovered from its 
 accident. 
 
 " Mrs. G. White joins in affectionate com- 
 pliments, and the good wishes of the season. 
 I conclude, Yr. most humble servt., 
 
 "G. White." 
 
 This letter is addressed to Thomas Barker, 
 Esq., of Lyndon Hall, Rutland, and has a 
 big black seal. Of course the paper is yellow 
 with age, and as I reverently touched the 
 page I seemed to be standing again in the 
 old churchyard at Selborne, by the time- 
 worn stone almost hidden by grass and wild 
 flowers, with its simple inscription — "G. W., 
 
 52
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 26 June 1793." He was seventy-three years 
 old when he died. I must take you to see 
 Selborne when you come to us. Here is 
 the second letter I copied, on the making of 
 poetry : — 
 
 "Selborne: Nov: 3; 1774. 
 
 "Dear Sir, — When I sat down to write 
 to you in verse, my whole design was to show 
 you at once how easy a thing it might be 
 with a little care for a Nephew to excel his 
 Uncle in the business of versification : but as 
 you have fully answered that intent by your 
 late excellent lines ; you must for the future 
 excuse my replying in the same way, and 
 make some allowance for the difference of 
 our ages. 
 
 " However, when at any time you find 
 your muse propitious, I shall always rejoice 
 to see a copy of your performance ; and shall 
 be ready to commend ; and what is more rare, 
 yet more sincere, even to object and criticise 
 where there is occasion. 
 
 " A little turn for English poetry is no 
 doubt a pretty accomplishment for a young 
 gent: and will not only enable him the better 
 to read and relish our best poets ; but will, 
 like dancing to the body, have an happy in- 
 fluence even on his prose compositions. Our 
 best poets have been our best prose writers : 
 
 53
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 of this assertion Dryden and Pope are noto- 
 rious instances. It would be vain to think 
 of saying much here on the art of versifica- 
 tion : instead of the narrow limits of the 
 letter, such a subject would require a large 
 volume. However, I may say in few words, 
 that the way to excel is to copy only from 
 our best writers. The great grace of poetry 
 consists in a perpetual variation of your 
 cadensies : if possible no two lines following 
 ought to have their pause at the same foot. 
 Another beauty should not be passed over, 
 and that is the use of throwing the sense 
 and pause into the third line, which adds 
 a dignity and freedom to your expressions. 
 Dryden introduced this practice, and carried 
 it to great perfection ; but his successor Pope, 
 by his own exactness, corrected away that 
 noble liberty, and almost reduced every 
 sentence within the narrow bounds of a 
 couplet. Alliteration, or the art of introducing 
 words beginning with the same letter in the 
 same or following line, has also a fine effect 
 when managed with discretion. Dryden and 
 Pope practised this art with wonderful suc- 
 cess. As for example, where you say ' The 
 polished beetle,' the epithet ' burnished ' 
 would be better for the reason above. But 
 then you must avoid affectation in this case, 
 and let the alliteration slide in, as it were, 
 
 54
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 without design: and this secret will make 
 your lines appear bold and nervous. 
 
 " There are also in poetry allusions, similes, 
 and a thousand nameless graces, the efficacy 
 of which nothing can make you sensible of 
 but the careful reading of our best poets, 
 and a nice and judicious application of their 
 beauties. I need not add that you should be 
 careful to seem not to take any pains about 
 your rhymes; they should fall in as if they 
 were of themselves. Our old poets laboured 
 as much formerly to lug in two rhyming 
 words as a butcher does to drag an ox to be 
 slaughtered ; but Mr. Pope has set such a 
 pattern of care in that way that few com- 
 posers now are faulty in the business of 
 rhyming. When I have the pleasure of 
 meeting you we will talk over these and 
 many other matters too copious for an 
 epistle. I had like to have forgotten to add 
 that Jack copied your verses and sent them 
 to your Uncle John, who commended them 
 much ; you will be pleased to be commended 
 by one that is the best performer and the 
 best critic in that way that I know. With 
 respects to your father and mother and all 
 the family, I remain, yr. affect: Uncle, 
 
 " Gil: White." 
 
 I wonder why an uncle should begin a 
 
 55
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 letter to a nephew "Dear Sir"? We are 
 not so punctilious in these days. The 
 letters I receive from my nephews are any- 
 thing but orthodox. Would Gilbert White's 
 nephews call him "an old brick," I wonder? 
 I am sure these letters will interest you. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 56
 
 XII 
 
 There was only one letter in the -post-bag, and 
 when Monica saw the handwriting she 
 looked grave , but after reading the contents 
 she smiled ; she really could not be stern 
 any longer. 
 
 D 
 
 EAR Monica, — I am on my knees, 
 may I get up ? — Yours ever, 
 
 C. 
 
 57
 
 XIII 
 
 On the subject of a visitors' book. 
 
 I AM sending you the verses you read in 
 my visitors' book. I think I told you 
 Constance wrote them. They are so 
 very pretty. 
 
 " Across the threshold of a dying year 
 
 Stretch forth, old friends, in peace your kindly hands ; 
 Or if you pass away to other lands, 
 Let fly your harmless shafts of memory here. 
 Familiar voice and presence hovers near, 
 As every page its record brief receives, 
 Like perfume lingering in the rustling leaves 
 Of bygone roses, sweet, though dried and sere, 
 Kind words and deeds are garnered in the heart, 
 A treasure that no thievish years can steal ; 
 Though seas and continents world-wide may part, 
 And Time, still stepping onward, turns each wheel. 
 Fast comes another year on pinions fleet, 
 Fresh finger-prints to leave on empty sheet." 
 
 Here are the lines also another visitor 
 
 wrote for 1895, the year the 'heir of all 
 
 the ages,' namely, Dick, was born. I have 
 
 58
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 not copied them into the book for fear Un- 
 closing sentiment might offend somebody ! 
 
 " So ends 1895. 
 Strange to say we're all alive, 
 
 And even one more 
 
 Than in '94. 
 Of the names on our list 
 
 Some we missed 
 
 When they went, 
 And we thought how the days had 
 
 been spent. 
 Others ? — well, — we just fed them, 
 Showed them the country and sped 
 them." 
 
 Don't you think that is rather nice ? 
 After all a visitors' book is rather a sad 
 possession. You turn the pages carelessly 
 and read names of loved ones who can never 
 come here again. It is good to think Where 
 they have gone there will be no need of a 
 visitors' book, because there will be no more 
 good-byes, no partings. At first I tried to 
 get folks to write a verse in my book, and 
 the first quotation is the time-worn line, 
 " God made the country and man made 
 the town." I thank William Cowper for 
 that kindly thought. Cowley wrote, " God 
 the first garden made, and the first city 
 Cain," and Bacon, " God Almighty first 
 planted a garden," so all great men are 
 agreed. It reads — as I have written it — 
 
 59
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 as if these people stayed with us ! The 
 quotations soon fell off, and I do not grieve 
 over the fact, for so few people write any- 
 thing original. Monica. 
 
 P.S. — Do come again soon. Our door is 
 
 always wide open. 
 
 60
 
 XIV 
 
 To a lover of Mr. G. F. Watts' pictures, 
 with photograph enclosed. (See frontis- 
 piece.') 
 
 I HAVE been over to Limnerslease, and 
 have seen Mr. Watts again. I always 
 feel as if I climb on to a higher plane 
 when I have been there. The atmosphere is 
 clearer, and the grand personality of our 
 prophet artist seems to envelop one and 
 inspire one to try and really do something. 
 " Do noble deeds, not dream them all day 
 long." Mr. Watts is not great in stature, 
 but as you stand talking with him you feel 
 at once you are standing in the presence of a 
 great master-mind. He has a very keen eye, 
 and the kindest smile I have ever seen. I 
 think what strikes me most is his wonderful 
 simplicity, and I might almost venture to say 
 humility. But then all really great men 
 are humble. We stood by the sundial in 
 the little square garden by the barn wherein 
 the huge statue of Tennyson is being modelled 
 
 61
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 for Lincoln, and the artist pointed out the 
 motto to me. " It is my own motto," he 
 said, " and is better than any picture I ever 
 painted, and will do more good." I read 
 the words, 
 
 " The utmost for the highest," 
 
 and I felt at once that his pictures are the 
 realisation of that splendid thought. 
 
 I generally talk to him about birds ; it is 
 a subject we have in common. He loves 
 birds even more than flowers, and he leads 
 the crusade against the slaughter of beautiful 
 birds for the adornment of ladies' hats and 
 heads. He simply cannot understand how a 
 woman — worthy of the name — can wear a 
 dear dead thing in her hat, such as a humming 
 bird or other pretty foreign bird. Ostrich 
 feathers, of course, can be allowed, or even 
 pheasants' feathers, but that is all. You 
 know his " Bird Angel " picture. An angel 
 is bending over the altar of fashion where 
 beautiful birds lie tortured and dead. Her 
 hands are clasped tightly in an agony of pain 
 over her eyes. She cannot bear to look at so 
 much suffering. It is hard to believe that a 
 woman's whim could be so cruel and so 
 wanton. If the women of England joined 
 hand in hand, the leaders of fashion, the 
 beauties, the great ladies of the land, and 
 
 62
 
 From the Heart of the Rose- 
 would give up all aigrettes and wings and 
 small birds' feathers, then our womanhood 
 would not be sullied, and Mr. Watts' message 
 would reach all hearts, and the " Bird Angel ' 
 would be able to take her hands from before 
 her face. I should dread to see the look of 
 pain now on her face and watch her tears, 
 but oh ! how I should love to see her smile. 
 
 On the longest day of the year (last week), 
 Mr. Watts felt he must make the most of 
 the light, and so got up to paint soon after 
 three in the morning and painted till dark, 
 with only a few minutes' rest now and again. 
 And this at eighty-three years old ! He 
 feels that every artist has a message to give 
 to the world. His whole life has been given 
 up to raise the tone of English art. No 
 artist has ever taught so much as Mr. Watts 
 has done. " Love and Life " has helped so 
 many up the steep incline of the King's High- 
 way. Love, so tender and yet so strong. 
 Love, leading ever upwards. " Hope " has 
 spoken to thousands whose courage failed 
 them. They had not before realised the 
 tune on the one string. "Death Crowning 
 Innocence " has taken away all fear of death, 
 so infinitely tender and kind and protecting 
 is the figure bending over the little baby 
 child. If I begin to write to you of 
 his pictures I feel I cannot stop, because 
 
 63
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 they are so inspiring. I am devoted to 
 " Good luck to your fishing." The little 
 child playing with the fisherman's line 
 seems actually to rise and fall on the 
 wave as you gaze at the painting. In the 
 studio at Limnerslease the great picture of 
 " The Court of Death " is being painted. 
 Here, again, Death is kind. Some are glad 
 to lay down their lives, and some are afraid. 
 Every type of man is there pictured — soldier 
 and slave, king and scholar, man and maid. 
 In the arms of Death there is a little child, 
 token of the better world to come. " Ye 
 shall be born again." Some time ago, when 
 we were talking of how little we could 
 individually do in the world to " right the 
 wrong," and I was saying what infinite good 
 he had been able to do, Mr. Watts reminded 
 me of the story of the raindrop grieving as 
 it fell into the sea at doing no good in the 
 world ; " but it fell into an oyster-shell and 
 was turned into a pearl." I shall never 
 forget the kindness of his smile as he told 
 me the story. Some think the most perfect 
 of all his pictures is " Love and Death." 
 The great veiled figure making its way into 
 the house of Life ; Love passionately and, 
 one feels, so hopelessly, barring the way. 
 But you know all these pictures better than 
 I do, yet I feel infinitely richer, for I knew 
 
 64
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the man. I can see him now, with his long 
 light coat, little red velvet skull-cap, dainty 
 frills, at work at some great picture ; but 
 palette and brushes are readily laid aside to 
 give a kindly greeting to a friend. He 
 little dreams how far his shadow reaches, 
 but perhaps he knows the world is a better 
 world for his teaching. 
 
 Limnerslease is an ideal home for the 
 great master, nestling among the pines in 
 the fairest corner of Surrey. 
 
 In the new graveyard belonging to Comp- 
 ton Mrs. Watts has built a little chapel, but 
 I cannot describe that to you now. Come 
 and stay with me and I will take you over 
 to see it. All the terra-cotta work in the 
 walls has been modelled by members of her 
 own modelling school. She has started an 
 industry of her own, here and in Scotland. 
 All the patterns are hers, and the work 
 done is exceedingly good. Mr. Watts be- 
 lieves that the only cure for drunkenness 
 in our villages is interesting employment. 
 If properly trained and taught, the coming 
 generation will make their own patterns, 
 and the load of misery will be lifted from 
 many. 
 
 I fear I have failed to carry you into the 
 atmosphere of the artist's home, where I 
 would fain have you follow me, for it is so 
 
 65 e
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 splendid to stand in the actual presence of 
 the best. When life looks small, when you 
 are tempted to give your " second best," 
 when you lose heart and think the work is 
 not worth doing, then remember the words 
 of the motto — " The utmost for the high- 
 est" — and instantly you will feel that your 
 very life is too small a gift to give. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 66
 
 XV 
 /;/ the glad June time to one in London. 
 
 HOW I wish you were here instead 
 of being shut up in musty, fusty 
 London. You will expect news 
 straight from the heart of the rose this 
 month, but you will not get it. My roses 
 are still in bud in the rosary, and besides, 
 let me remind you that all garden books 
 will tell you about roses. The other day 
 I was told of a tree near Black Lake from 
 which some young birds were making a 
 curious noise. Of course we were at once 
 much excited, and rushed off to investigate. 
 There is a cart-track through the bracken 
 which leads to Black Lake, as you know, 
 and we were walking along this when Dick 
 shouted out, " Oh, look at that rabbit ! " I 
 looked, and there I saw a half-grown bunny 
 charging at us at express speed. I expected 
 every moment that he would catch sight of 
 us and turn off into the fern, one side or 
 the other, but no, on he came, and eventu- 
 
 67
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 ally passed so close to us that he actually 
 brushed against the child's foot. We were 
 wondering what on earth could make a 
 rabbit behave in so odd a manner, when 
 we saw coming towards us along the cart- 
 track, and following the footsteps of the 
 rabbit, a large stoat. Evidently the rabbit 
 had been so terrified at being hunted by 
 his enemy that he had no eyes or thoughts 
 for anything but what was behind him. The 
 stoat, of course, turned off when he saw us 
 into the bracken, and I hope we were thus 
 the means of saving poor bunny at least for 
 a time. We soon found the old birch-tree 
 close to the path, in which were two holes 
 about ten feet from the ground. They were 
 too small to admit my hand, but I could 
 just feel that they went in for about an inch, 
 and then downwards. The holes did not 
 seem to be connected with one another. I 
 lay down under the bracken, flattering my- 
 self I was completely hidden, and watched 
 eagerly. Very soon I heard a loud angry 
 " Jick, jick ! " from a tree overhead, and 
 another "Jick, jick ! " from the mother-bird 
 close by. They were a pair of great black 
 and white woodpeckers. I kept very still, 
 and soon one of them flew down and clung 
 to the bark near the hole, and I saw the 
 bird beautifully. Its crimson head was 
 
 68
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 brilliant, and its tail a little outspread. 
 " Jick, jick ! Jick, jick ! " cried his mate, 
 and the nestlings literally screamed for food. 
 I was almost afraid to breathe, but I might 
 just as well have been lying comfortablv 
 against a tree in the open, and not suffer- 
 ing under the fern, for the birds never took 
 their eyes off me. They peeped at me 
 round the trunks of all the trees, and when 
 one grew a trifle over bold, the other gave 
 a warning cry at once. They utterly re- 
 fused to enter the hole, and tried over and 
 over again to take my attention off by 
 flying on to a bough of an old oak near by 
 and tapping for insects. Their babies cried 
 in vain, for their parents were deaf to all 
 entreaties. Now and then they flew quite 
 away, only to return calling angrily, as they 
 found I was still watching their hole. I 
 wish you had been there. At last I gave 
 up my vigil and wandered on. The moment 
 I was out of sight I heard both woodpeckers 
 give a joyful, triumphant "Jick, jick !" and 
 I knew they both flew into the hole at 
 once. I found, by the lake, a baby heron 
 still in its nest, swaying to and fro on 
 a slender topmost branch of a fir. The 
 old herons did not in the least mind my 
 being there, and brought dainty morsels 
 several times from the water while I sat 
 
 6 Q
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 at the foot of the tree. I suppose a heron's 
 nature is grander than a woodpecker's, and 
 scorns fear. 
 
 Richard Caesar brought us over a very fine 
 specimen of an adder caught on the farm. It 
 is supposed to have come in some bavins from 
 Whit Mead. It was nearly two feet long, 
 rather a thickset specimen, the dark zig- 
 zag down its back well marked. Long 
 after it was supposed to be dead we noticed 
 it coil and uncoil as we examined its fangs. 
 Poor adder ! I don't believe it would have 
 hurt any one if it had been allowed to live. 
 Outside the garden a field of white clover 
 mixed with red poppies is a joy for ever, 
 shut your eyes and picture it. The sun is 
 shining on it and the sky is a deep deep 
 blue. Larks are singing overhead, singing 
 as if their little hearts would burst with 
 joy. A lapwing dipping across the field 
 cries "Pee-wit — wit-wit! Pee-wit — wit-wit!" 
 and a yellowhammer in the hedge among 
 wild roses and honeysuckle calls for " a little 
 bit of bread and no cheese " ; if you listen 
 you will also hear the tender humming of 
 bees in the clover. June is a very perfect 
 month. Monica. 
 
 70
 
 XVI 
 
 To a friend who begs Monica to belong to 
 two new societies. 
 
 I REALLY belong to so many societies 
 and unions that I fear I must decline 
 to join any more. My patience is on 
 the wane. The " Linen Rag Society " and 
 " The Doorstep Mission " are of course ad- 
 mirable, but beyond my sphere. If you 
 ever ask me to subscribe to a Home for 
 overworked mothers, I will gladly con- 
 tribute my mite. I suppose the reason 
 why such a Home is never started is be- 
 cause homes (with a little " h ") could 
 not get on without their mainspring. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 71
 
 XVII 
 
 lo a girl who longs to publish a book. 
 
 OF course if you must, you must. If 
 you feel you have anything to 
 write, write it. But I tremble for 
 you beforehand. One has to suffer so 
 much pain over one's books, for you can 
 only write with your heart's blood, then 
 rough criticism or thoughtless humour 
 wounds terribly. The only chance of peace 
 is to make up your mind not to care, and 
 that is easier said than done. Of course 
 there is no joy which can compare with the 
 sight of first proofs. It seems so splendid 
 to have anything one has ever written in 
 print ; then follows the hopelessness, the 
 knowledge that one can never write a word 
 worth reading ; and at last faith in the hope 
 that He who gives the power of writing will 
 give the thoughts too. Mrs. Bishop (author 
 of the " Prison Life of Marie Antoinette ") 
 once said to me in her sweet, gentle voice, 
 " Ton are on the side of the angels." It 
 
 72
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 made me feel utterly humble, but I have 
 never forgotten it, and I use her words as a 
 test to all I write. You know, I feel very 
 strongly on the subject of women writing. 
 We ought all to be " on the side of the 
 angels." Men can write what they like, I 
 do not judge them for a moment. A very 
 well-known authoress said to me once at the 
 Women Writers' Dinner, " Why should we 
 dig in the dustbin for plots ? ' Careless 
 words fade from memory, but what we 
 write is down in black and white for all 
 time. We can never tell how far our 
 shadow may reach. I sometimes wonder if 
 we all realise the universal power of the 
 pen ? It is a woman's work to " stand in 
 the light reflecting the light," and we cannot 
 do this by writing of sin and impurity. If 
 it is " a shame even to speak of those things 
 which are done of them in secret," it must 
 be a still greater shame to write of them. 
 I know every one will not agree with me. I 
 had a long controversy with one authoress 
 on the subject of one of her heroines. I 
 maintained that if we want to aim high we 
 must keep a perfect ideal before our eyes. 
 She said we learn more by looking in a 
 looking-glass than by gazing at a star. 
 Perhaps it is lucky that we all see things 
 from different points of view. My advice 
 
 73
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 will ever be that we women must think, and 
 we must pray, before we put pen to paper. 
 Please do not think I want to preach, I only 
 want to warn you. God never wants us to 
 pull a long face and hide our brightness, He 
 wants us to be splendid, He wants us to do 
 our best. By all means send me your MS., 
 I feel sure it will be worth reading. I hope 
 you have had it typed, for my leisure hours 
 are few. I will give you a present of the 
 advice dear old Mr. George Bentley (the 
 publisher) gave me when I asked him about 
 the publication of my first book, " Boy." 
 " You must not be discouraged, you must 
 win success, and make the Fates yield to you, 
 not you to them." Monica. 
 
 74
 
 XVIII 
 
 A river walk with a companion who knew all 
 about birds and flowers. 
 
 IS there anything in the heart of the 
 country that one more thoroughly 
 enjoys than a complete change of scene ? 
 Not that one is tired of the old nature, 
 but a little of a new nature comes as a 
 blessing to all of us. 
 
 Up on the top of the hill, a hundred 
 feet above the river, the uninteresting plan- 
 tation of pines wrestling with each other 
 and striving to get a breath of air above 
 each other's heads, the hot dry soil covered 
 with heather, the white sand which one 
 kicks up as one stumbles down the narrow 
 zigzag path to the foot of the hill — all 
 breathe heat, heat, heat. What a comfort 
 to get to the bottom to a little grove of 
 young oaks, their green still fresh, hardly 
 as yet losing the auburn tint of the young 
 foliage. Then good-bye for an hour or 
 so to the dry hot heather, and with a 
 
 75
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 plunge through a gap in the hedge we 
 are in a water - meadow, where the 
 grass (if grass it can be called — really 
 more weeds than grass) is already nearly 
 a couple of feet high. Oh, the green of 
 it! 
 
 We find a track which we follow, and 
 soon come upon a river, perhaps only twenty 
 feet across, and moving, as rivers through 
 water-meads generally do move, rather slug- 
 gishly. Here, by an old boat-house, we 
 stop a while and look round. Opposite to 
 us on the other side of the river is a small 
 flock of well-bred black calves, who seem 
 to enjoy the cool grass as much as we 
 do, though naturally where they are the 
 meadow has not been put up for hay, and 
 the grass would be short were it not that 
 in such a damp place grass is bound to 
 grow quickly, however fast it may be eaten 
 down. Beyond the calves a small clump of 
 bright green oaks, one of which has a dead 
 stag-horn head, and away and away beyond 
 the oaks comes the sound of the evening 
 church bells of the neighbouring village. 
 Quietly a snipe rises from the meadow and 
 takes a wide sweep in the air ; then, as we 
 watch it, suddenly begins to descend for a 
 few yards, and while it does so we hear that 
 ever curious drumming which the bird makes 
 
 76
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 with its wings as it falls through the air. 
 Drumming it may be called, but to our 
 mind it much more resembles the bleat of 
 a lamb or a goat. This sound only lasts a 
 few seconds and then the vibrating wings 
 cease, and with another long swing the bird 
 flies to another point of the sky, and again 
 the bleating is heard, as again with vibrating 
 wings it lowers itself down once more. 
 Another bird rises and performs the same 
 evolution, and yet another. Then tired by 
 their flight, the birds drop either into the 
 marshy grass from which we saw them rise, 
 or settle quietly on the dead branch of the 
 old oak opposite. 
 
 When steadying themselves to perch on 
 the tree, the birds always descended with 
 their wings held high in the air, so that 
 the sides of the body and the inner part 
 of the wings were visible ; then just as it 
 neared the branch the wings would be shot 
 stiffly out, the long legs lowered, and the 
 snipe settled quietly down on the branch. 
 I daresay there are many people who think 
 that a snipe never perches. Well, if they 
 still doubt this fact, let them come and see 
 for themselves. 
 
 While perched in this way, the birds often 
 utter a rather hard note of two svllables, 
 quite distinct from the note of alarm that 
 
 77
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the bird makes when we put him up in the 
 shooting season — a chirp it might almost be 
 called ; but though I have watched them for 
 hours, I have never heard this note uttered 
 except when they were perched on the dead 
 oak-tree. After a good deal of chatter and 
 chirping the snipe will again rise, and again 
 the curious drumming is heard ; sometimes 
 the birds will come in their flight quite close 
 to where we stood, though always at a good 
 height in the air. 
 
 A little splash, a swirl in the water, and 
 there is a fly the less in the world at large, 
 but one more inside a big trout who we just 
 catch sight of as he turns back to his hiding- 
 place under the bank, and a lovely blue 
 dragon-fly darts past us down the stream and 
 settles for a moment on a piece of floating 
 weed. 
 
 We turn to walk along the edge of the 
 river, and the noise we make sets a sedge- 
 warbler chattering and scolding with unceas- 
 ing vigour, as if all the place belonged to 
 him and no one else had a right to be there ; 
 and then from a thorn-bush close at hand 
 the common whitethroat joins in the hubbub 
 with his aggressive and rather harsh song, 
 which seems to come out of his little body 
 in great jerks. As we walk through giant 
 
 nettles that force us to hold our hands high 
 
 78
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 to avoid their sting, now squelching through 
 high grasses, we hear a rustle at our feet, then 
 a splash in the water, and standing still to see 
 what we can see, we watch the middle of the 
 stream and soon up comes the head of a 
 water rat making all the haste he can to get 
 to the other side. The pause has given us 
 time to listen to a not very familiar note, a 
 song (for it is a song) of only two notes and 
 a short shake which we know by the name 
 of the reed-bunting or black-headed bunting. 
 He is not very close to us but farther down 
 stream, so we move down the bank as quietly 
 as we can to try and get a glimpse of 
 him ; but a glimpse of a black head and 
 a white collar is all we get as the bird flies 
 quickly down the river and is soon out of 
 sight. 
 
 Stopping now to listen to the snipe, now 
 to admire the beauty of a kingfisher as he 
 flashed up and down the stream, we wander 
 on its banks until we find ourselves on the 
 outskirts of a young plantation of birch, 
 strongly scenting the air with their peculiar 
 aromatic smell, and pushing our way through 
 the young growth, we reach at length a 
 part of the oak copse we had before been 
 through. Good-bye to the river and to its 
 birds, beasts, and insects. Here we are again 
 in the home of the more ordinary birds of 
 
 79
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the heart of the country, the blackbird, 
 thrush, chaffinch, and the merry willow- 
 wren, all singing at their best. Good- 
 bye, too, to the fresh green grass and the 
 " sludgy, squdgy creek." We climb the 
 white zigzag path up the hill, over the 
 dry crackling heather, through the hot 
 close pines, on to the dusty road, and 
 home. 
 
 P.S. — On a second visit to the snipe-bog a 
 week later we found the whole place pink 
 with ragged robin. The reed-bunting was 
 again seen, but this time had its bill full of 
 feathers, evidently going to build. We took 
 a little path through the long grass which 
 cut off a promontory where the river turned, 
 and which was made either by rats or water- 
 hens, or both. 
 
 There is not much dead wood at the top 
 of the oak-tree where the snipe settle, but 
 a short thick dead branch. We noticed that 
 the snipe, when they settle on this piece of 
 dead wood, always do so with their heads 
 inwards, that is, they do not perch on the 
 branch and look across it as other birds 
 would do, but on every occasion they perch 
 at the end and face inwards. This, I think, 
 is a peculiarity worth noticing. The white- 
 throat was feeding its young, so must breed 
 
 80
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 earlier than the reed-hunting, or to be more 
 correct, the reed-bunting breeds later than 
 other birds, unless this was its second nest. 
 I forget whether it breeds twice in the year 
 or not ; I think not. 
 
 81
 
 XIX 
 
 On many subjects, with letters enclosed. 
 
 I AM sending you a batch of letters I had 
 this morning. I suppose every one gets 
 the odd mixture I get ; it is quite a pot- 
 pourri of letters sometimes. I never can see 
 why, for instance, because I write books, 1 
 am supposed to keep a registry for servants. 
 Unluckily I abused sparrows in one book, 
 so I have called forth the wrath of half 
 London, and provided food for many re- 
 viewers. " What would our pale-faced slum 
 children know of birds," writes one, " but 
 for the sparrow's cheerful chirp and brisk 
 little person ? His little heart has not for- 
 gotten Paradise, but when man his friend 
 was banished he braved for him the gloom 
 of towns to show him wings might still 
 be his, and his flight though wavering be 
 heavenwards. Come to our parks, and you 
 will see how the little one whom you 
 despise is cherished ; you will see baby 
 hands throwing him crumbs, you will see 
 
 82
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 tired men and women, who have crept 
 from some back street to rest themselves 
 awhile, feeding him, from perhaps a scanty 
 store ; and you will see him, with a happy 
 confidence and a loving heart, stuffing the 
 precious crumbs down his youngster's throat 
 with as much affection as your sweetest 
 singer. In our back streets, where he can 
 hardly find a twig to build his nest with, 
 he clings to us still. Grimy he may be, 
 sooty he may be, a puddle must serve him 
 for a bath, but brave and courageous he is 
 always. We love our plucky little friend 
 who is with us through thick and thin, so 
 I pray you when you write again do not 
 belittle the only bird who lives with us town- 
 dwellers, whether we be rich or poor. . . ." 
 After this, alas ! I can never have the consola- 
 tion of abusing sparrows again, but I have 
 learnt something. I never knew before that 
 sparrows made their nests of twigs in London. 
 They are so tiresome in the country. They 
 will build in my bird-boxes, and frighten all 
 my other beautiful bird friends away. I do 
 not grudge them to the " town-dwellers," 
 but in spite of all I cannot promise them 
 sanctuary in my garden. We have just been 
 reading a charming book, " My Birds in 
 Freedom and Captivity," by H. D. Astley. 
 In it the author makes this observation, " I 
 
 83
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 wish all sparrows were hoopoes." I echo 
 that wish. But where — oh ! where — 
 would such a possibility end ? " I wish 
 all relations were friends." " I wish all 
 thorns were flowers." "I wish all friends' 
 notes were banknotes." " I wish all dark- 
 ness was light." " I wish all prose was 
 poetry." (Others would reverse that wish.) 
 But I suppose my correspondent would be 
 quite vexed if her sparrows were hoopoes ! 
 Then again I truthfully described our own 
 doves. This assertion bore even better 
 fruit. It drew forth letters in a very well- 
 known weekly paper. Oh ! such letters ! 
 bristling with 1 was going to say " un- 
 truth," but that might sound rude. You 
 cannot in your wildest dreams conceive 
 the impossible things these published doves 
 did. One made little graves of coloured 
 feathers on the top of a piano day after day 
 for a dead mate. One mourned among the 
 ashes in the grate, and then slowly died of a 
 broken heart, and one utterly refused to 
 marry again, and shut her eyes whenever 
 such an idea was even suggested ; it hurt 
 her loving heart so much. I am glad to 
 say the author of " Concerning Teddy " 
 writes to me more truthfully. " I had a 
 dove for twenty-six years," she says, " and 
 he was so cruel that after he had killed two 
 
 84
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 mates I dare not trust him with another ; 
 therefore he lived alone quite happy, and 
 unable to injure any one else, save a cat, who 
 " plucked " him through the bars of his cage, 
 but was routed by him and almost blinded. 
 He died full of days and of evil temper and 
 cantankerousness ! ' I love getting letters 
 from unseen friends, and am proud to say 
 I have many now. People always appreciate 
 one so much more at a distance, and before 
 they know one ! " It is always so disappoint- 
 ing to meet people who write books, you 
 know," a lady said to me one day, and of 
 course I agreed with her. " Will you write 
 and tell me how to make a garden ? " writes 
 an unknown correspondent. She said no 
 more. What could I answer ? Then comes 
 a dear letter from an eight-year-old child in 
 America saying how " dlited" she was with 
 a book she had read about children. " It 
 helped me to get well," she adds. " When 
 we finished it, I said, read it all over again." 
 I wish I had kept all the letters for you, but I 
 must have a " rummage ' and find you 
 some. Monica. 
 
 35
 
 XX 
 
 From Newnham College. 
 
 DEAR Monica, — I hear that you, in 
 your garden, offer counsel to minds 
 in perplexity about gardens and the 
 like matters. The only gardens in my control 
 are window-boxes. Window-boxes are more 
 satisfactory in one way than either a real 
 garden or vases of flowers in a room, since 
 they give pleasure both to the tenant of 
 the room and to persons outside. Yet here, 
 as in all life, there seems to be the need 
 of a comparison between what is pleasant 
 to oneself — sitting in the room — and what 
 shows well to those outside, who look up 
 to my first-floor window. If, as seems 
 probable, you know all about window-boxes, 
 possibly you have a solution for this prob- 
 lem. The common answer : " Please your- 
 self, and what you choose will please others," 
 does not hold when the points of issue are 
 so different as those of the mistress, sitting 
 at her desk, and her friends walking in the 
 
 86
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 paths below ; which things are an allegory, 
 if you like to make them into one. 
 
 To return to window-boxes. It seems a 
 heartless and expensive measure to put them 
 into the hands of a nurseryman to keep 
 stocked. But for an ignoramus que /aire ? 
 One likes to think of the plants about one 
 as friends rather than as pieces of furniture, 
 living friends — wherefore I never love cut 
 flowers. — With all good wishes for your 
 garden, I am, yours sincerely, Legula. 
 
 37
 
 XXI 
 
 From Dr. Harry Roberts, author of " The 
 Chronicle of a Cornish Garden''' Monica 
 read the enclosures with keen interest. She 
 positively revelled in garden books. 
 
 The Book of the Green-house, 
 
 The Book of Old-fashioned Flowers, 
 
 The Book of Asparagus, 
 
 The Book of the Grape, 
 were all on the list. The editor says in 
 his note that " Lack of enterprise and lack 
 of knowledge are the great facts to be over- 
 comer . . . In life ? or in gardening ? 
 Well, the two are much alike. Spring, 
 summer, autumn, winter, come to all of us. 
 JVe bear fruit, some thirty, some forty, and 
 a very few a hundred fold. We need a 
 deal of pruning, and those who are pruned 
 hardest bear the best blossoms. We cannot 
 do without sunshine — and we never grow 
 without — showers. 
 
 DEAR Monica, — I am sending you an 
 illegible MS. to test your eyes with. 
 'Tis a prospectus of a series of practi- 
 cal books on gardening, which I'm sure you'll 
 
 88
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 agree is a desirable series to produce. You'll 
 observe that that " note " begins with the 
 words " Merrie England," and it is wonder- 
 ful what a battle-cry that is to me at least. 
 I don't think we've hit off that ideal state 
 yet, nor do I think that merely growing 
 Asparagus and Bulbs will bring it about, 
 but I do believe that one of the greatest 
 factors will be the movement of people with 
 the cosmopolitan spirit which is bred in great 
 cities, moving out into the country and help- 
 ing to break down its silly barriers of caste, 
 and to reduce its stupid little idle etiquette 
 to the ridicule it deserves. Before an ad- 
 vance on the dull old times was possible 
 it was essential that the country folk passed 
 through the city for a generation or so, 
 but the time has now come for them to 
 leave the town again and return to their 
 mothers once more. Do tell me what you 
 think of these things, and of the idea of the 
 books I am arranging. — Yours sincerely, 
 
 Harry Roberts. 
 
 [Monica wishes to bring all the trades 
 back to the country. Why must we go 
 to the towns for everything ? she says. 
 Every village ought to have its little shop, 
 its shoemaker, carpenter, paper - hanger, 
 blacksmith, and, if possible, its builder. 
 
 89
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 Cannot the great cities supply this want, 
 provided cottages can be had ? In many 
 villages cottages stand empty, while in 
 others I must own overcrowding necessitates 
 a move somewhere.] 
 
 90
 
 XXII 
 
 From a friend staying in Devonshire, -who sees 
 everything and everybody through rose- 
 coloured glasses. 
 
 MY dear Monica, — I have been tri- 
 cycling during the last few weeks 
 through some of the most beautiful 
 parts of the south-west of England, often 
 stopping on my way to talk to the country 
 people. Their kindness and readiness to help 
 one in every possible way was quite delight- 
 ful, but one was puzzled by their want of 
 appreciation of the beauty by which they 
 were surrounded. At two especially lovely 
 places, one a rock-bound Cornish cove, and 
 the other a beautiful fishing village, I was 
 told, " Yes, people who come here say it is 
 beautiful, but we don't see much in it." 
 It seemed such a contrast to the feeling 
 of some of the north-country people one 
 has met, especially in the large towns. I 
 remember driving once with a party of 
 working people over the Derbyshire moors, 
 
 9i
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and being much struck by their real reverence 
 for what they saw. " We ought to take 
 off our hats here," one man said ; another 
 person, also from a northern town, whom 
 we took a short time ago to see the Brank- 
 some pine-woods near Bournemouth, said 
 " she thanked God that He had allowed 
 her to live to see such beauty." Are the 
 country people unappreciative because of 
 over-familiarity ? One would have thought 
 that the effect of living always with Nature 
 ought to make people love beauty of all 
 kinds, spiritual and intellectual as well as 
 material, and have high ideals all round in 
 consequence. I suppose that to love beauty 
 is really the same as having ideals. Do you 
 think, Monica, that this appreciation of the 
 beauty in Nature is in any way connected 
 with moral character, or is it a result of 
 education and something which may be 
 acquired, or is it simply a natural gift inde- 
 pendent of character or class or culture ? 
 
 A friend of mine has just told me that 
 it is wanting in the townspeople as well 
 as in the country ones. She once took a 
 Mothers' Meeting into the country from 
 Croydon, and after vainly endeavouring to 
 make the women turn their heads round 
 to look at a lovely sunset, she was, as she 
 
 thought, rewarded by an outstretched hand 
 
 92
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and eager face, and delighted exclamation, 
 " Oh, look at the colour" — but to the regret 
 of my friend the sentence ended with — " of 
 that there washing hanging on the line ! ' 
 One wonders what the woman would have 
 said if she had come to the Garden of Peace. 
 — Yours ever, E. L . 
 
 93
 
 XXIII 
 
 From one who is staying at Wiesbaden. 
 
 I ALWAYS like to send you a story, my 
 dear Monica, whenever I hear one that 
 I think will interest you. The following 
 was told me by a man who was himself an 
 eye-witness of the last act of the tragedy, 
 though, as you will see, he could not have 
 been present when the curtain rose : — 
 
 " It was in the reign of our King Henry 
 the Eighth that the Turks besieged the 
 famous Knights of Malta in their strong- 
 hold in the Isle of Rhodes. The Knights 
 held out bravely, and the Turks had decided 
 to raise the siege of the town in which the 
 besieged were so strongly entrenched, when 
 an arrow was shot into the Turkish camp 
 from the city, with a letter attached to it, 
 telling the Turks not to go away, as all the 
 ammunition of the Knights would soon be 
 exhausted, and they would be forced to sur- 
 render. The letter was written by one of 
 the Knights, a Spaniard it is said, who had 
 
 94
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the charge of the magazines, and when, after 
 a few days' interval, the garrison surrendered, 
 it was thought by some that he had pur- 
 posely hidden the bulk of the ammunition 
 in his charge. 
 
 "Years passed, and in time the Church of 
 the Knights was turned into a mosque. 
 
 " In the year 1 800 a great earthquake 
 occurred, which cracked what had been 
 thought to be a blind wall, and revealed 
 the presence beyond of a magazine contain- 
 ing a vast quantity of powder. For some 
 reason it was not thought desirable at the 
 time to remove this old powder, which had 
 evidently been concealed there by the traitor 
 Knight nearly three hundred years before, 
 and the old magazine was again bricked up. 
 
 " Another half-century passed, and in 1856 
 a second earthquake with a terrific thunder- 
 storm took place. This time the lightning 
 struck the mosque, ran down to the crypt, 
 and exploded the gunpowder. The resulting 
 loss of human life was appalling. The 
 mosque was surrounded with the dwellings 
 of the Turks, and over six hundred of these 
 people perished in this terrible explosion. 
 
 " Thus were the Knights avenged for the 
 sacrilege done to their Church." 
 
 A point that interests me not a little in 
 this account is, that I was born at Malta just 
 
 95
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 when this earthquake was going on, the room 
 in which I was lying being violently shaken, 
 and portions of the ceiling falling to the 
 floor. ... I hope, Monica, you will ap- 
 preciate the story and are glad that I 
 survived the earthquake. C. H. C. 
 
 96
 
 XXIV 
 
 To an old chum. 
 
 I WAS so glad to get your letter and to 
 hear you did not leave your bones in South 
 Africa. I should never have heard even 
 this detail about you if you had not answered 
 our advertisement. That sounds rather as if 
 you wanted a situation as gardener, or coach- 
 man ; but if you did you would never get a 
 place, for nobody, I feel sure, would ever give 
 you a character ! What fun we used to have ! 
 Do you remember that day on the cliff when 
 the wind nearly blew us away, and we got 
 drenched with spray, and couldn't hear each 
 other speak, and you wrapt me up in an old 
 coat, and all the seagulls battled with the 
 wind just as we did? and then ... do you 
 remember how we got lost when we had that 
 picnic in the castle ruins, and how we won- 
 dered how we could have done such a stupid 
 thing when we both knew the way so well ? 
 I find myself laughing at the bare recollection 
 of that adventure, and as I write I suddenly 
 
 97 g
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 catch sight of my grey hair in the glass, 
 which brings me back to the peaceful mar- 
 ried present. Those were merry days ! I 
 remember . . . no, I will not remember 
 
 anything else, for you never realised 
 
 never mind, I do not care to remind you 
 of it now. I am so perfectly content. Your 
 pony would never do for me, many thanks ; 
 I want a very quiet one. I answered an ad- 
 vertisement to-day, "Cob, 14.2, suitable for 
 an aged lady, will stand any length of time 
 unattended." See what I have come to ! 
 
 Monica. 
 
 98
 
 XXV 
 
 On reviews of books, with comments thereon. 
 
 YES, I have got beyond the stage of 
 being hurt by reviews. They amuse 
 me now, for I know well that if I 
 only wait for second post I shall receive 
 one which will absolutely counteract the 
 last. If I am praised in the morning I 
 shall be abused at night, and vice versa. 
 The only thing that really annoys me is, 
 when some reviewer a little cleverer than 
 the rest attacks my natural history facts. 
 For instance, I write of a pheasant's nest I 
 know, and I am told in dictatorial words 
 that it could not possibly have contained 
 eggs on the day I saw them there ! I do 
 not " dream " eggs into nests, and I never 
 write a word of natural history which I 
 do not myself observe and note, or find 
 in notes belonging to my better half. One 
 reviewer ends a delightful article thus: "We 
 have greatly enjoyed this account of a 
 garden dreamy-fair, where the weed never 
 
 99
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 sprouts and the song-birds never fail ; we 
 believe everything the author tells us, but 
 we draw the line at everlasting white sweet 
 peas. There are white sweet peas and 
 there are white everlasting peas, Monica, 
 but — they are distinct. Something must 
 be left for the gardens of Paradise." One 
 reviewer says I describe my garden " with 
 a lazy, ladylike grace." In the morning 
 I am happy because I read that my " papers 
 are very tender prose poems," in the after- 
 noon I weep because my writing is described 
 as " artificial stilted prose." But I cannot 
 tell you of all I receive, for the cuttings 
 fill many books. A friend writes, " I have 
 read your book, and I see you have copied 
 your own little boy for the hero ; I can 
 picture him all the way through in a 
 wonderful way " — wonderful indeed ! for 
 the book was written two years before 
 Dick was born ! Monica. 
 
 IOO
 
 XXVI 
 
 To one whose thoughts travelled back 
 to the long ago. 
 
 W 
 
 HAT made you suddenly think 
 of the words I taught you in 
 the long ago ? Here they are : — 
 
 "In the inner Me, Love, 
 When I think of Thee, Love, 
 I seem to see, Love, 
 No Ego, there. 
 But the Mf-ness dead, Love, 
 And the 'J'bee-ncss fled, Love, 
 There is born instead, Love, 
 An Us-ness rare." 
 
 That is a little intense, is it not ! I 
 suppose the commonplace will always rub 
 the corners off the ideal. To which you 
 will doubtless respond, " If you cannot 
 realise your ideal, you must idealise your 
 real." Yes, I know ; but how can I idealise 
 store lists, orders for coal, and butcher's 
 bills? I suppose one can idealise life as 
 a whole, but one runs the risk of being 
 
 IOI
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 called a dreamer, and one's house is apt 
 to become very untidy ! After all, life is 
 quickly over, little things do not really 
 matter, and we ought not to waste our 
 time on petty grievances. We are here 
 " on duty," to make others happy. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 102
 
 XXVII 
 
 Monica found a letter in her post-bag signea 
 " Horticulturist" It was not the correct 
 signature. It should have been "Despot" 
 for all men who have climbed to the top 
 rung of the ladder in India are perforce 
 despots. In the after years they still say 
 " Come" and wonder that you do not 
 " come" and " Go " and think it strange 
 that you stay. But Monica's Despot 
 always smiled, and was wondrous kind in 
 spite of all despotism, and she loved to hear 
 of his gardens in India. 
 
 DEAR Monica, — Having spent many 
 years of my life in India, and having 
 given a good deal of attention to 
 gardening, both in that country and here, it 
 occurs to me that you, who are a zealous 
 horticulturist, may like to hear something 
 about Indian gardens. I will therefore jot 
 down a few notes on two of my Indian 
 gardens, one on the plains, and one on the 
 
 hills. 
 
 103
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 The first of these gardens was situated on 
 the Adyar River, near Madras. The climate 
 there is essentially tropical, and the only 
 plants suited for cultivation are those which 
 can bear tropical heat. For this reason but 
 few English flowers really thrive. Even 
 roses cannot be said to flourish, with the ex- 
 ception of the bright pink " Rose Edouard," 
 brought, I believe, from Mauritius, which 
 flowers freely and has a delicious scent. A 
 good lawn on the plains of India is very 
 rare, except at Calcutta, where the soil, in 
 what is really the Delta of the Ganges, is 
 favourable to the making of velvety turf. I 
 found that it was far better to give one's 
 attention to the numerous flowering plants 
 indigenous to tropical countries, than to 
 attempt to cultivate unwilling English 
 flowers. At Madras there were plenty of 
 the former to choose from. The lawns, for 
 I had more than one, would not pass muster 
 in this country ; but they served as settings 
 to beds of such plants as scarlet Hibiscus 
 {Hibiscus Rosa Sinensis), which took the place 
 of scarlet geraniums ; Allamanda grandiflora, 
 which I grew as a shrub, Pink and White 
 Oleanders ; Clerodendron Balfouri, which was 
 one of our brightest and most ornamental 
 shrubs ; Roupellia grata, from South Africa ; 
 the free-flowering Plumbago Capensis, and 
 
 104
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 Duranta P/umeri, which, with its bright blue 
 flowers and yellow berries, grew well either 
 as a shrub on the lawn or among other 
 shrubs in a shrubbery. 
 
 The Crotons {Codi<eum pictum), which we 
 grow in this country in our hothouses, 
 were at Madras large and very ornamental 
 shrubs. But the most attractive garden 
 plants on the plains of India are the 
 climbers. One of the most effective was 
 the Bignonia Venusta, with its clusters of 
 orange-coloured tubular flowers, drooping 
 amidst bright shining leaves, which grew 
 over an arch in the garden to which I refer. 
 Not less beautiful was the brilliant Ipomcea 
 Rubra ccerulea. This I grew in the follow- 
 ing way. A pole was fixed in the middle 
 of a circular bed from which ropes were 
 stretched. The Ipomcea seeds were sown 
 at the base of each rope, forming, as they 
 grew, a sort of tent covered with enormous 
 sky-blue flowers. 
 
 Other very beautiful climbers which grew 
 in my Madras garden were the Combretum 
 (Poivma) Coccineum, with its racemes of 
 brilliant scarlet ; and Petrcea, with star-like 
 sprays of plum- coloured and grey blossoms. 
 The Thunbergia latifolia, with its flowers of 
 lavender tint, and Antigonon Leptopus, bear- 
 ing clusters of bright pink flowers resembling 
 
 i°5
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 in appearance clusters of tiny grapes, were 
 also among the remarkable climbing plants 
 which flourished at Madras. 
 
 In the plains of India flowering trees, as 
 well as flowering shrubs, have great horti- 
 cultural value, and add greatly to the beauty 
 of the gardens and in some cases of the roads. 
 The Poinciana Regia, with its masses of 
 red and orange flowers, produces a gorgeous 
 effect. The Lager strcemia Regina, with its 
 blossoms shading from pale rose to dark 
 crimson, is found at Madras, as is the 
 Bauhinia Variegata^ somewhat resembling 
 the Judas-tree, with flowers of various shades 
 of rose. At Madras the climate is not 
 sufficiently moist to grow the beautiful 
 Amherstia Nobilis, of which there are ex- 
 cellent specimens at Calcutta, both in the 
 Botanical Gardens and in the garden at 
 Belvidere. 
 
 But beautiful and brilliant as are the 
 flowerings, shrubs, and climbers, and the 
 flowering trees on the plains of India, the 
 true poetry of gardening is to be found on 
 the Hills, and especially on the Nilgiris, the 
 Blue Mountains of Southern India, where 
 many of the flowers of Europe flourish with 
 a semi-tropical luxuriance, almost beyond 
 description. The growth of the Heliotrope 
 is perhaps the most remarkable of any. At 
 
 106
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 Ootacamund, in front of the principal hotel, 
 there used to be two enormous bushes, each 
 of which was ten feet in height and forty 
 feet in circumference. In the Government 
 Gardens at the same place, which are situated 
 on a mountain slope, a broad path ascending 
 the slope is protected on one side by a thick 
 hedge, composed half-way up of Heliotrope 
 and the rest of the way of Fuchsias. 
 
 My hill garden was at Coonoor, which is 
 about 6000 feet above the sea, and 1500 feet 
 below Ootacamund. The climate somewhat 
 resembles that of the North of Italy. It is 
 well suited for many plants indigenous to 
 Europe, and also for various semi-tropical 
 plants. In a shrubbery in my garden the 
 scarlet Poinsettia, a shrub of the Tea-tree 
 (Camellia Theifera), and a white Datura 
 Arborea {Brugmansia Candida) grew in close 
 proximity, the white flowers of the Tea-shrub 
 and of the Datura presenting a pleasant con- 
 trast to the scarlet bracts of the Poinsettia. 
 In this garden there was a wealth of Roses, 
 especially Tea Roses and Noisettes, most of 
 them raised from cuttings, and grown on 
 their own roots. It might be said of this 
 garden that it furnished daily a good supply 
 of flowers for the drawing-room from Jan. 1 
 to Dec. 3 1 . Not far from it there was 
 a sort of wild garden cut out of a wood 
 
 107
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 or sholah which had been partially cleared, 
 but contained a number of very fine Tree- 
 ferns, indigenous to the spot, among which 
 flourished Fuchsias and other European 
 plants ; a mountain stream running down 
 the centre of the garden. I must not omit 
 to mention, in connection with my own 
 garden, a beautiful creeping plant which grew 
 along the banks of a channel running through 
 the garden. It is called the Torenia Asiatic a , 
 or more commonly the " Syspara Creeper." 
 This plant is sometimes found in hothouses 
 here, and, with perhaps the exception of our 
 common English Primrose, is, I think, the 
 most beautiful and most refined wild flower 
 in existence. The flowers are small and bell- 
 formed, in colour pale amethyst, with a large 
 blotch of dark clear purple on the lower 
 lobe, which sparkles like enamel. Its native 
 habitats are the Syspara Ghat and Wainad, 
 from the latter of which localities I intro- 
 duced it into my Coonoor garden. At and 
 about Coonoor there were some very pretty 
 ferns besides the Tree-ferns, among them 
 an Adiantum very much like the Capillus 
 Veneris of Devonshire. Another Adiantum 
 found near Ootacamund on the same hills, 
 was the Adiantum Althiopicum, a very beauti- 
 ful fern which is rarely, if ever, found in 
 English hothouses. Horticulturist. 
 
 108
 
 XXVIII 
 
 A letter in the post-bag contained two long 
 silver leaves from Table Mountain. On 
 one there was a sketch of the mountain 
 and the bay. 
 
 DEAR Monica, — The silver-tree is 
 about 15 or 18 feet high, and grows 
 on the back of Table Mountain 
 (3000 feet). There are but few other 
 places in the world where they will grow. 
 When you have climbed Table Mountain, 
 you have the real thing ; you are back in 
 the days of the Acts of the Apostles, for 
 there live mv Zulus and Kaffirs — at least 
 some hundreds of them — all fighting men, 
 some famous warriors in their day, and now 
 living simple, gentle lives, loving God and 
 loving one another. At the foot of Signal 
 Hill is a large military camp, also an 
 enclosure, with about 1000 Boer prisoners; 
 but up there you are in the days of the 
 early Church. At home we are so overlaid 
 with old growth, old cankery branches ; but 
 
 109
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 up on the top of the mountain, among those 
 brown and black men, the Vine is pushing 
 out new, pure, and fresh shoots, full of sap 
 from the Root. " In that day shall the 
 ' spring ' of the Lord be beautiful and glorious, 
 and the fruit of the land excellent and comely, 
 for them that are escaped of Israel" — a root 
 out of a dry ground indeed, and all the 
 more welcome for its unexpectedness. I 
 have just received a letter from a dear deaf 
 and dumb person whom I knew as a child 
 in America ; for some years I helped to 
 teach her. I can remember her, when about 
 seventeen, shutting herself up in her room 
 and refusing to eat for some time — refusing 
 also to communicate — because a friend had 
 been convicted of some small theft. It 
 seemed to her so awful that a Christian 
 could sin. Now she feels that God has 
 shut her out from the noise of the world 
 in order that she may speak to Him in the 
 silence, and hear Him speaking to her. I 
 expect God opens the closed eyes and un- 
 stops the deaf ears to sights and sounds 
 from which others by these very senses are 
 debarred. Here is a pleasant thing from 
 St. Augustin ; it is almost a pity to spoil 
 it by translating : " The glory of love is 
 alive indeed (yet frost-bound), but the 
 winter holdeth it still. The brave root 
 
 no
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 cherisheth the life, but the withered branches 
 have the semblance of death ; yet in the 
 heart of the tree the sap moveth itself; 
 in the heart quickens already the summer 
 leaves ; already in the heart of it lieth in 
 secret next autumn's fruitage. Oh ! when 
 will summer be here?" I think he means 
 that the Christian life is like the life 
 of a tree — full of immediate and apparent 
 failure, ever slipping back after each rich 
 summer into the barrenness of winter, keep- 
 ing no leaves, no fruit, but little comeliness ; 
 yet which has gathered all the apparent 
 failure into the continuous success of an 
 unbroken growth. So we are willing to 
 let go out of our lives the things which 
 God would have perish, not even wishing 
 to keep the leaves of last summer, since 
 God will cover the earth again with foliage 
 fresh, green, and vivid. English scenery 
 seems somewhat thrifty after South Africa ; 
 but I love nature not to be always upon her 
 high horse, and these little lanes and winding 
 roads, even with the surly limitations of 
 winter, are edged with poetry — northern, 
 not tropical — English, not African — but 
 sincere and good. F. C. P. 
 
 in
 
 XXIX 
 
 On magazine clubs in general and one in 
 particular. 
 
 ARE you really going to start a 
 /-\ magazine club ? Be warned in time. 
 J- ^ We were likewise struck by the 
 splendour of the same thought. Do you 
 really want to know how it was managed ? 
 We began by having a big meeting with 
 a live chairman and everything correct. 
 Pencils and paper galore ! We each handed 
 in a slip with the twelve magazines we 
 wanted written unintelligibly on each. It 
 was a perfectly hopeless task, and eventually 
 we chose the magazines nobody wanted. 
 Then the real work of the winter began. 
 We were only to keep the magazines three 
 days. Fancy reading the Nineteenth Century 
 in three days, when you had already four 
 books on hand. They always managed to 
 arrive when I was away from home, out of 
 pure " cussedness." The whole of my pin- 
 money was swallowed up in fines. I could 
 
 112
 
 From the Heart of the Rosi 
 
 have taken in about six magazines or more, 
 and kept them for ever for the sum I paid 
 in subscription and fines. Then whenever 
 the magazines arrived they were always de- 
 posited under all the other books, and only 
 came to light after the advent of sundry in- 
 furiated notes from neighbours who gloried 
 in greater leisure than fell to my lot in life, 
 and who were sitting aching for the books 
 which failed to arrive from our house. Our 
 vicar was in a still worse plight, for when- 
 ever magazines were forwarded to him a note 
 on some pressing matter was always enclosed, 
 and as he has a habit of never opening par- 
 cels, the chaos in his daily round may be 
 better imagined than described. I verily 
 believe he paid even more in fines than I did. 
 Certainly we paid enough to start a second 
 club, which is always a satisfactory thought. 
 To open a parcel, say, on February 23rd, 
 and find written clearly on each number 
 therein, " Please forward on February 7th," 
 positively reduces one to ashes. Then a 
 note of abject apology and more parcels 
 pour in, only to be hastily repacked and 
 forwarded in a fever of haste. I never 
 attempted to read a word from first to last, 
 fearful lest by accident I should become 
 interested in a story with the awful feeling 
 of the three days' limit hanging over my 
 
 113 H
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 head. Take my advice before it is too late. 
 Under no possible condition allow yourself 
 to be tempted to start or join a magazine 
 club. It is still like a nightmare to me, 
 and I know it was worse than a nightmare 
 to our secretary, who arranged everything so 
 beautifully. I can truthfully assure you it 
 was a sad experience, and I wouldn't go 
 through it again for anything. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 114
 
 XXX 
 
 To one who is very fond of sketching. 
 
 WE have been out sketching to-day, 
 sketching willows in a bog. None 
 of our pictures were in the least 
 alike, and the artists differed too. But we 
 all enjoyed ourselves, and we wished for 
 you. Some of the party simply sat and 
 frivolled, others worked as if their whole 
 life depended on the quantity of paper they 
 covered. This evening, in turning over 
 some papers, I came across a letter which 
 I now send you, for I think it will amuse 
 you, as you, too, are fond of sketching. 
 
 "... My great occupation and amuse- 
 ment, Monica, is what one friend irreve- 
 rently describes as ' paper-staining,' and 
 another as wholesale ' manufacturing senti- 
 mental maps of a country.' I hope you do 
 not at once realise that these descriptions 
 apply to — what kinder folk would term — 
 my ' impressionist sketches.' 
 
 " I am afraid, as a race, that amateur 
 
 115
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 sketchers are a great nuisance to their 
 friends, who are sometimes asked to wait 
 about, cold, wet, and hungry, while the 
 enthusiastic artist is absorbed in agonised 
 effort to reproduce the scene before her. 
 They do not understand the ' hope that 
 springs eternal in the human breast ' of 
 fixing on canvas or paper some brilliant 
 effect of light flashing across sky and land- 
 scape, which might otherwise have been lost 
 for ever. To quote ' Abt Vogler,' ' Gone, 
 gone, never to be again ! ' 
 
 " The sketching fever, once caught, returns 
 with irresistible force whenever its victim 
 finds his or herself in beautiful or pictur- 
 esque surroundings. It attacks old and 
 young alike. Well do I remember an aged 
 aunt, far on in the eighties, as keen as ever, 
 but with so many appliances hung round 
 her waist, that we used to call them the 
 ' Thirty-nine Articles ! ' They were all 
 used in the old-fashioned drawings that 
 appeared to us juveniles neutral and grey 
 in colour, and so laboured in composition ; 
 while she, on her side, called the efforts 
 of the younger generation ' fire and brim- 
 stone,' for red and yellow were they in 
 portraying Italian brightness and Southern 
 glow. So keen were these younger artists, 
 that they could not waste a moment out 
 
 116
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 of their precious time to feed themselves, 
 so sandwiches were popped into their mouths 
 by a kind mother, just as an old thrush 
 stuffs worms down the open beaks of her 
 hungry brood. Sometimes, in London, I 
 have joined clusters of earnest and energetic 
 sketchers following the experienced guid- 
 ance of Mr. Augustus Hare to some pic- 
 turesque spot, trotting meekly after him like 
 the enchanted rats following the Pied Piper 
 of Hamelin. So motley was our crew that 
 a passer-by is reported to have said, ' Not 
 smart enough for a wedding, or sad enough 
 for a funeral. It must be, yes, it must be, 
 a perambulating " Spelling Bee." ' 
 
 " Outsiders are very apt to scoff at a 
 sketching party. They have a way of 
 prowling round and taking stock of every 
 effort, and then saying, ' Now, how can 
 any one possibly guess that all these views 
 are meant for one and the self-same thine ?' 
 Such scoffers should be reminded of the 
 old adage, ' Many men, many minds.' Each 
 mind can only represent a bit of the truth 
 as it sees it, and even that is limited by 
 its technical powers of execution. So we 
 can wander on to another well-known 
 saying, ' It takes all sorts to make a 
 world,' and possibly, if all the sketchers 
 were juveniles together, a truthful but 
 
 117
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 somewhat curious mosaic might be arrived 
 at. 
 
 " Of course, to avoid mistakes, it is well 
 sometimes to write on a drawing, * This is 
 sea/ or ' This is sky,' ' These are trees and 
 not cabbages,' and in the middle distance, 
 ' These objects are not eggs spilt on the 
 road from a market-basket, but a flock of 
 sheep lying about in various stages of ex- 
 haustion.' I have one enthusiastic friend 
 whose sunsets and sunrises are so gloriously 
 unconventional, that it is impossible to know 
 which is the top and which the bottom of 
 the picture. Yet, she is aggrieved if the 
 critic unwittingly holds them topsy-turvy, 
 or demurs to her charitable suggestion, ' I 
 propose sending these to a hospital to cheer 
 up the poor things.' Query — Will it 
 cheer up the poor things to have sketching 
 conundrums put before them that neither 
 they nor any one else can ever hope to 
 solve ? 
 
 " Another annoyance to sketchers are 
 odious purists who object to the sucking of 
 brushes, as if that was not quite the han- 
 diest and most natural way of getting rid 
 of superfluous colour and arriving at a 
 beautiful point. Such people have been even 
 known to quote against the practice these 
 touching, simple lines : — 
 
 118
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 ' Little Boy, 
 Box of Paints, 
 Sucked his brush, 
 With the Saints.' 
 
 But in fact, instead of a deterrent, this gem 
 of a poem acts as a distinct encouragement. 
 Who would not suck his paint-brush if such 
 was to be the consequence, and he could so 
 easily find himself in the excellent company 
 of the knights of yore, who ' arrived ' by 
 quite another fashion ? 
 
 ' Their bones are dust, 
 Their good swords rust, 
 Their souls are with the Saints — we trust.' 
 
 Sketches, now and again, give pleasure to 
 others, and even ' sentimental maps of a 
 country' may have their use in reminding 
 one, perchance, of a cherished home and 
 sweet old-world gardens, beautiful scenes, 
 or ' days that are no more.' . . . Farewell 
 till another day." 
 
 . . . While we are on the subject of 
 painting, I should like to tell you I found an 
 autograph letter signed "Joshua Reynolds 1 '' 
 in A.'s book the other day. It was dated 
 "London, December 3, 1784." I copied the 
 following sentence for you, which, coming 
 from such a great painter, is full of interest 
 and teaching : — 
 
 119
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 " A painter who has no rivals and who 
 never sees better works than his own is but 
 too apt to rest satisfied and not take what 
 appears to be a needless trouble of exerting 
 himself to the utmost, pressing his genius as 
 far as it will go." 
 
 Monica. 
 
 120
 
 XXXI 
 
 To one who advises Monica to belong to the 
 Pure Literature Society. 
 
 T 
 
 HANK you very much for sending 
 me the catalogue of the Pure Litera- 
 ture Society. I trust that I am not 
 one to overrate my own powers, but I 
 venture to think that I am competent to 
 judge what books are fit to read aloud to 
 my husband. — Believe me, I am very careful 
 of his morals, Monica. 
 
 121
 
 XXXII 
 
 Monica wrote her "Nature Notes ''''for "May" 
 but before sending them to her friend she 
 printed them in the " Londoner.'''' 
 
 MAY 
 
 THERE is gladness in the air. It 
 creeps down the bare stems of the 
 trees, it peeps up bravely from the 
 brown mould and stirs the dead leaves, 
 sometimes in its eagerness it actually breaks 
 into blossom, leaving the leaves behind. 
 You can hear it rippling in the song of 
 birds, summer migrants bring it to our 
 land from over the sea. The cuckoo's first 
 note makes my heart beat, our home song- 
 sters sing of the same joy. So do the 
 oxlips in what I call in vain conceit 
 " My Lady's Border " ; they, too, nod to 
 one another, telling the same tale. All the 
 world is gleeful, not only because spring 
 has come, the gladness brings more to our 
 mind than that ; it is because winter has 
 gone. This year the ash is still bare, while 
 
 122
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the oak is stippled in brown against the 
 blue sky, so we may trust to the old proverb 
 and look only for a splash. At the same 
 time proverbs are rather out of fashion, for 
 they do not suit the climate of to-day. 
 Softly and gently spring awakens the life 
 of the world, each little bird has its story 
 to unfold, its tiny task to fulfil. Sometimes 
 a shower comes and a rainbow circles the 
 view, for in spring even raindrops reflect 
 gladness, while a little child asks " Where 
 do the rainbows go to, mother ? " and the 
 mother answers, " To the land where the 
 spring comes from," and the child is satis- 
 fied. " Every vein of earth is dancing with 
 the spring's new wine," and the sunbeams 
 come racing to meet the budding land, 
 simply overflowing with joy to feel the 
 green breath of the land. Down by the 
 river kingcups shine in the sunlight, in 
 the wood primroses are peeping in patches, 
 and here and there a bluebell begins to 
 ring a peal. Strange and wonderful are the 
 buds and blossoms of the trees. The larch, 
 with its little tassel of emerald green and 
 crimson flower. The beech's long trans- 
 parent brown bud, through which the green, 
 fan-shaped bunch of leaves creep. Tufts 
 of oak-leaves on knotted twigs, with its 
 tiny green flower. Slender, pencilled birch 
 
 123
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 stems, with the long pale green catkins 
 spotted with brown. All the fir-trees have 
 different flowers ; some boast of clusters of 
 miniature gold fir-cones, and some crimson ; 
 while the modelling of the Spanish chest- 
 nut's baby pointed leaves is perfect. The 
 horse-chestnut has great fat buds, a trifle 
 vulgar in shape and size. Here and there 
 the red flower of the elm shines against the 
 blue, and all the while Budland is to some 
 an undiscovered country worthy of note. 
 Let the Londoner follow my advice when 
 the week's work is over, and he leaves desk 
 and pen and paper behind, and study for 
 himself. In the air swallows are sporting 
 in companies, having crossed " the vast and 
 pathless ocean," from Africa and Asia, yet 
 they find their way straight to old haunts, 
 dancing over the same village green, flying 
 over the very same garden, and building 
 in the barn where he built last year. 
 Bishop Stanley tells us " a pair of swallows, 
 no doubt those of the preceding year, on 
 their arriving, found their old nest already 
 occupied by a sparrow, who kept the poor 
 birds at a distance by pecking at them with 
 its strong beak whenever they attempted to 
 dislodge it. Wearied and hopeless of re- 
 gaining possession of their own property, 
 
 they at last hit upon a plan which effectually 
 
 124
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 prevented the intruder from reaping the re- 
 ward of his roguery. One morning they 
 appeared with a few more swallows, their 
 mouths distended with a supply of tem- 
 pered clay, and, by joint labour, in a short 
 time actually plastered up the entrance hole, 
 thus punishing the sparrow with imprison- 
 ment and death by starvation ! This year 
 the chiff- chaff arrived on April 5th, and 
 dear master cuckoo on the 19th. These 
 two birds always mark the coming of spring. 
 " Don't sow your best flower-seed till you 
 have seen two swallows," is an old gardener's 
 advice, for after all one swallow does not 
 make a summer. " Ay, spring has come, 
 for didn't yer hear that there chiff-chaff 
 yesterday ? " And the cuckoo ? Why, every 
 one hears the cuckoo, and tells every one else 
 they have heard it. It is glad news. Night- 
 ingales this year are more numerous than 
 ever, and answer each other all night long, 
 never moving from a tree when a human 
 listener pauses to hear the beautiful song. 
 The wood wren is heard all day long ; he is 
 an odd little chap, for the two parts of his 
 song are so utterly distinct from one another. 
 Nobody would imagine that the rather harsh 
 trill which the bird utters repeatedly was made 
 by the same voice that produces those half- 
 dozen mournful notes which make one feel 
 
 125
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 inclined to sit down and cry. He first trills 
 many times over, then runs through the sad 
 passage, which is the same note repeated 
 several times in a minor key, then back 
 again to the trill. In the garden the black- 
 cap is very noisy, flying from bush to bush. 
 Naturally, he is scarcely ever silent, he has 
 so much to say, for he too feels the glad- 
 ness of springtime. The thrush does not 
 pine for the hot days like the blackbird does. 
 He sings in sunshine or shower, and pays no 
 heed to a late frost. His mate has built her 
 nest in the clematis on the house, close to a 
 window, and, notwithstanding her trust, feels 
 just a little shy, for she leaves her nest when 
 any one passes by. Some say that the missel- 
 thrush or storm-cock, as its name implies, 
 sings best in the roughest weather, or just 
 before a storm. This year he has earned his 
 soubriquet, for he has been a veritable baro- 
 meter, for whenever the weather changed or 
 the glass began to fall he at once began to 
 sing. Frogs by the riverside are keeping 
 folk awake, and can be heard half-a-mile 
 off, croaking out their love to one another. 
 They are like an accompaniment of castanets 
 to the song of the nightingale, and at first 
 they sounded like the night-jar whirring in 
 the wood. Was ever the world so fair ? 
 Gladness peeps out in the gold of the gorse, 
 
 126
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 in the white may-blossom, in the blue gentian, 
 in the young life of nature. Children run 
 out of doors in glee to catch the sunbeams, 
 lambs frolic in the meadows, nestlings chirp 
 in the nests, and the old folk catch sight of a 
 flower-bud or sound of a song of a bird, 
 and smile as they say " I remember," think- 
 ing of some " Merry May " in the treasured 
 long ago. 
 
 127
 
 XXXIII 
 
 Monica read a letter from a pretty niece and 
 smiled. Then she went indoors and took a 
 letter out of the oak bureau, and, after 
 reading it, she smiled again. Afterwards 
 'she compared the two. The writers were 
 of the same age — the dates were different. 
 
 1841 
 
 I INTENDED to have written yesterday 
 in return for your letter which I re- 
 ceived that morning, but we went out 
 for a long walk, and I was so enraged at 
 spoiling my new india-rubbers, by losing 
 them in a muddy turnip-field, that I put it 
 off till to-day. Amelia and I have trimmed 
 our pellerines and sleeves with crepe, a la 
 vieille, but you have no pellerine. It is 
 indeed very disagreeable to think of these 
 things, the best way is to consider them 
 matters of necessity. I had a letter from 
 my dear Elisabeth this morning, I feel that 
 I love her better than ever. I am so glad, 
 my own dear love, that you are so happy. 
 
 128
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 What a charming girl Emilia seems to be. 
 I think we are very lucky in our friends. 
 Really I have nothing much to tell you 
 about home. We go on entirely in our 
 usual routine. Mary and I, as soon as 
 we have done our reading, rush to our 
 drawing in the studio. Mary draws hideous 
 skeletons, and I paint ugly pots and pans, 
 Rosina reads Spanish, Adela is very diligent 
 with her German. Then we take regular 
 walks every day when the weather permits. 
 Yesterday Emily and Maria called, but they 
 do not appear to have had any very brilliant 
 conversation. We are going to send up 
 some music to change to-morrow ; I have 
 sent back your two English songs, and like- 
 wise those duets you never sing out of 
 Don Pasquele and Sappho. I hope you will 
 approve. I have sent for the opera of 
 ' Guillaume Tell,' and ' Oberon.' Miss 
 Wedgewood has given me a lovely song 
 from the oratorio of ' Abram.' I told 
 Adela, when she was pondering for some- 
 thing more to write to Blanche, that it was 
 a sign of a strong mind to be able to shut 
 up one's letter as one's brains began to drop 
 their contents instead of pouring them. 
 Mine are decidedly on the ebb, so I had 
 better stop, and not give you the very dregs, 
 particularly as the wine, though decidedly 
 
 129 1
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 ' Ordinaire ' all along, might disturb your 
 sobriety. — Ever then, dearest comate, your 
 most veraciously affectionate F. M." 
 
 1901 
 
 " It is awfully good of you to ask me down 
 for the week-end ; I should simply love to 
 come, but I can't ! I have left undone a 
 good many things that I ought to have done, 
 but I have undertaken to do a good many 
 more things that I ought not to have done. 
 It's like this. On Fridays I go to the Gym 
 with Leah and Ethel, and that tiresome Mrs. 
 
 wants me to go to an orchestra practice 
 
 in the afternoon to do the muffled drum 
 thing, but I simply can't, as I am due at the 
 Guildhall for my lesson at four to five. On 
 Saturday we do Chaucer. It is simply lovely, 
 but really too funny for words, exactly like 
 the ' Alice ' book, you know, ' 'Twas brillig 
 and the slithy tones.' We did Hamlet last, 
 and I liked that awfully, as one seems to 
 know more about Hamlet than most things. 
 Ethel was awfully funny. She read a bit 
 about the ' omnibus horse,' meaning the 
 ' ominous house,' I suppose. Of course she 
 declares she didn't say anything of the sort. 
 I have promised to go on Saturday with 
 Elsie to the Pop, and in the evening we play 
 
 130
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 at a show somewhere down by Wapping, 
 Father Somebody's temperance meeting. I 
 haven't taken the pledge, for though I 
 never drink anything but water, 1 like brandy 
 chocolates. We are doing the 'Dead March' 
 and a bit of the ' Meister Singers.' 
 
 " I should love to come down some other 
 time when I have a spare day. Daisy and I 
 are going for a tour at Whitsuntide ; can 
 you put us up for a night ? Put us and the 
 bikes in the loose-box if you are full up. 
 
 Gladys. 
 
 " P.S. — I haven't seen you since the year 
 blob." 
 
 l 3 l
 
 XXXIV 
 
 To Luciole, who is ill, and asks to be amused. 
 
 I AM so glad you are getting better. Have 
 a little patience and any amount of hope 
 and you will pull through all right. 
 Courage is needed in illness more than any- 
 thing else, and the will to get well. If you 
 could only fix your thoughts on the Power 
 of love and healing, and not on your ailments 
 and symptoms, you would quickly recover. 
 But you bid me amuse you, and in my foolish 
 way I begin to moralise ! The moment I 
 try to think of something amusing I feel as 
 dull as ditch water. Let me think what has 
 happened. A week ago I presented Miss 
 Benner with one of my books. Yesterday 
 when I went to see her I found her beaming. 
 She told me that she liked my book so very 
 much. I began to glow all over. She went 
 on to say she liked it for two reasons. I 
 glowed again. Guess what the reasons were ? 
 " Because the print was large, and the book was 
 short" You can imagine my feelings. My 
 
 132
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 pride dropt below zero. You remember 
 Selina ? We were staying with her the other 
 day, and she began life by apologising for 
 not having my books on the table. "You 
 see, dear Monica," she said sweetly, " we 
 have so few books at present, and so many 
 visitors, that I am obliged to buy readable 
 books first." Wasn't that delicious ? We 
 have nothing exciting going on here now. 
 To-day I have my Shrimp Tea. It really is 
 a work-party for the S.P.G., but I think it 
 sounds more friendly to call it a Shrimp 
 Tea. We always have shrimps, so it is not 
 a "pretending" Shrimp Tea, as Dick would 
 say. To-morrow we are going to have a 
 dinner-party. Twenty-two in the dining- 
 room, and music to follow. Don't scream. 
 Of course you would say six ought to be 
 our limit, but you never know what you can 
 do at a pinch. It really is the village drum- 
 and-fife supper. We make the table very 
 pretty, and pile all the lamps and candles on 
 it. I don't mean to convey to you that we 
 feed our guests on oil and grease, but I like 
 the room to be very cheerful. The first time 
 we gave a supper one of the men said 
 next day it was like going into heaven. I 
 could not help smiling, for crackers, oranges, 
 and coloured muslin decorated with holly is 
 not one's idea of heaven. Of course coming 
 
 i33
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 out of the dark wood into the glare of light 
 was what he felt. When we were dining with 
 the Merrimans I sat next a man at dinner 
 who asked me where we lived. I mentioned 
 Farnham, and the Castle, and Moor Park, 
 " where Sir William Temple lived, you 
 know ! " " Does he live there now ? '' he 
 asked. I returned baffled to my pudding, 
 murmuring, " No, not now ... I hardly 
 know where he lives now" Have I written 
 you enough nonsense ? Oh ! no, here is 
 one more story. Willie Howard came 
 over to see us from Aldershot not long 
 ago ; we like him so much. In the course 
 of the afternoon, when we were sitting on the 
 lawn, we got on to the subject of books and 
 then papers. We asked him if he ever read 
 the Spectator ? Constance was staying with us, 
 and as you know she and I have often written 
 for that much-valued paper, so we were in- 
 terested in hearing of it always, and how 
 much it was appreciated. He shook his 
 head at once. " Oh ! no, thanks," he said, 
 "even the words are much too long for me, 
 the sense is far beyond me. There was one 
 man once in the regiment who pretended to 
 read it, but he died long ago. Just fancy 
 buying the Spectator, Mrs. Monica, when you 
 could get six copies of Pick-Me-Up for the 
 same money!" Oh! how we laughed! Of 
 
 i34
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 course he did not realise the joke as we did. 
 A friend has just told me that she went 
 to visit a cottager that I know well, and 
 knocked cheerfully at the door. The 
 woman opened it with the greeting, " Oh ! 
 ma'am, I thought you were the coffin ! ' 
 There had been a death in the family. My 
 friend retreated gracefully, yet quickly; she 
 had no curiosity to " view the corpse." 
 
 Get well quick and then come here in the 
 summer and lie in the garden on my long 
 chair, and I will cover you with roses. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 i35
 
 XXXV 
 
 Is chivalry dead ? A question for every one 
 to answer. 
 
 WE have had tremendous discussions 
 lately as to whether chivalry is 
 dead or not. I asked H., and he 
 writes: "Taking the word in its original 
 sense" (he always likes to go to the root of 
 everything, bless him !) " ask yourself, ' Has 
 the necessity for the order of chivalry 
 ceased ? ' I say it has. In the old days 
 mankind, generally speaking, was un- 
 chivalrous ; it is now, through the process 
 of civilisation and the march of time, be- 
 come quite chivalric. The soldier of to-day 
 no longer thinks of carrying off women as 
 part of his spoil, he no longer treats them 
 in a brutal or barbarous fashion, it is 
 no longer necessary to maintain an order 
 of knighthood to protect the oppressed. 
 Taking the word ' chivalry ' in a broader 
 sense, symbolical of deep outward respect of 
 women, or a feeling of romance, then, I 
 
 136
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 think we may certainly say we are not so 
 courteous as we were of old, nor are we so 
 romantic. I very much doubt whether now- 
 adays you would get many men to run in a 
 race were the prize but a wreath of laurel. 
 Everything we have, all that we strive to 
 gain, must have its commercial value. This 
 is the tone of feeling nowadays, and as 
 romance and courtesy cannot be bought or 
 sold, they have ceased in great measure to 
 exist." I think I agree with H. He hits 
 the right nail on the head when he talks of 
 the race for the laurel crown. I wish the 
 young men of to-day were as courteous as 
 our fathers were. The very young ones are 
 apt to turn their wives into squaws, and I 
 resent it, for it is so bad for the man. I 
 think women are a great deal to blame for 
 men's bad manners, for you will never get 
 what you don't expect ! " Be courteous." . . . 
 St. Paul was such a gentleman ! I had 
 another letter on the subject from Sir A. 
 Here it is : — 
 
 " You ask me ' Why is chivalry dead ? ' 
 My answer is that chivalry in the old 
 acceptation of the word is not dead. 
 Chivalry, as it is generally understood, means 
 physical courage, consideration for others, 
 and specially consideration and deference for 
 
 i37
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the weaker sex. On all these points men of 
 England at the present time compare by no 
 means unfavourably with those we read of 
 as having lived in the age of chivalry. Our 
 soldiers and sailors, during the present war, 
 both officers and men, have done numberless 
 deeds which must be regarded as chivalrous 
 in a very high sense. From the highest to 
 the lowest they have cheerfully given their 
 lives for their Queen and country. These 
 are the actions which used to be called 
 chivalrous in the olden times. The question 
 is whether, with the advance of civilisation 
 and the greater refinement of manners, we 
 might not reasonably expect a greater and 
 more general abnegation of self in the 
 ordinary affairs of life. This is specially the 
 case in political life. If our statesmen and 
 our politicians generally possessed as much 
 of the quality of moral courage as our 
 soldiers and sailors possess of the quality 
 of physical courage, then I think we might 
 fairly assert that the Age of Chivalry not 
 only has not died, but that it lives, and has 
 reached a higher standard than ever. If our 
 political parties and political men would 
 sacrifice what they deem to be their own 
 personal interests as readily and as cheerfully 
 as our soldiers and sailors sacrifice their lives 
 in battle, then I should say that the Present 
 
 138
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and not the Past is the Age of Chivalry. 
 But this is an ideal which has not yet been 
 attained." . . . 
 
 What do you say? I am sure you will 
 agree that good manners are a token of the 
 order of chivalry. Monica. 
 
 i39
 
 XXXVI 
 
 How Monica got her own way with an Editor. 
 
 I. 
 
 D 
 
 EAR Sir, — I fear I cannot write you 
 a paper on Greek customs. — Yours 
 faithfully, Monica. 
 
 2. Dear Sir, — I am obliged for your 
 letter and renewal of offer, but I make it a 
 rule (however absurd you may think it) 
 never to write on a subject about which I 
 am entirely ignorant. — Yours faithfully, 
 
 Monica. 
 
 3. Dear Sir, — It is impossible for me 
 to accede to your request, for I am unable 
 to invent Greek customs to order. I only 
 write about birds and flowers. — Yours 
 faithfully, Monica. 
 
 4. Dear Sir, — Thank you for your 
 letter, but I cannot write of Greek birds 
 and flowers, &c. — Yours faithfully, 
 
 Monica. 
 140
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 5. Dear Sir, — As you have given up 
 the Greek idea, I shall be delighted to 
 write you a paper on charcoal-burning. - 
 Yours faithfully, Monica. 
 
 141
 
 XXXVII 
 
 On sending flowers to the sick. 
 
 1WILL certainly send your sick friend 
 some flowers. I rather pride myself on 
 the way I pack them. Jessica taught 
 me how to. I put wet blotting-paper at 
 the bottom of the box, and over the flowers. 
 I pack them very tight {after they have been 
 in water), and do the box up in brown paper 
 to keep the air out. They are bound to 
 arrive fresh. Roses do not travel well un- 
 less in bud, and then you must wrap each 
 bud in silver paper. Sweet peas go well, 
 carnations best of all. What a pity it is 
 some of the money spent on wreaths after 
 the friend is dead is not expended on flowers 
 beforehand, and sent to cheer the sick-bed. 
 I often spend would-be wreath money on 
 some permanent thing and give it in 
 memory of my friend to some charity or 
 church. Then the wreath lasts. I should 
 like bunches of flowers thrown by loving 
 hands on my grave all the same, but not 
 
 142
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 expensive wreaths. I am convinced that 
 flowers help one to get well. When I was 
 very ill years ago, my room used to be 
 quite full of flowers, I can see them all 
 now. Flowers were the talisman which 
 gave me courage and faith. Flowers 
 whispered of hope, along the path of pain 
 and suffering. First came the snowdrops, 
 then primroses, and a glorious bowl of cow- 
 slips, and I never had so many lilies of the 
 valley before or since. I remember one 
 evening when even hope was tired out, 
 some one came into my room with a bunch 
 of fresh lilies and a bundle of white lilac. 
 Sweet peace came again. Heather from a 
 Scotch moor brought a fresh breeze, and 
 helped me through the heat of a July day 
 in London. Wild flowers made me dream 
 of the hedges, and set me wondering if I 
 should ever pick a spray of honeysuckle 
 again. A branch of yellow roses made me 
 determine to be well again by another 
 summer. I should like to send this message 
 to every one who has a garden and who 
 does not send flowers to some sick friend 
 ... or foe ! (If such a person exists, 
 which I rather doubt.) "You who have 
 flowers, share them with the sick and suffer- 
 ing ; you who have flowers, send them to 
 the sad and sorrowing. Do not tarry on 
 
 143
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the way, but send them, and reap blessings 
 for the kindly deed. They are the King's 
 jewels ; each blossom blooms in answer to 
 His Will, and surely for some good purpose. 
 They are entrusted to your care, a precious 
 trust for the sake of others. You who have 
 health may not understand so well, but I 
 have suffered . . . perhaps that I might 
 tell you what a blessing flowers are. One 
 flower may breathe hope, another courage, 
 another patience — you can never know, 
 only send them ? " 
 
 I want to tell you that this morning a 
 great black cloud hung like a pall over the 
 garden, when my curtain was drawn, and, 
 as I was anxious, I thought at once it be- 
 tokened sorrow. At the same moment 
 from the heart of the cloud (but invisible 
 to me) a lark literally burst into song. I 
 never heard such a splendid throbbing 
 torrent of joy. As I fixed all my thoughts 
 on the song, the cloud slowly rolled away 
 and once more the sun shone. Monica. 
 
 144
 
 XXXVIII 
 
 Monica was just going to write her August 
 Nature letter when she opened her post-bag. 
 There she found an account of a walk in 
 the north, and she knew it was better than 
 anything she could write, so she sent it on 
 to her friend instead of writing herself. 
 The pages brought a breath of pure fresh 
 air ; and such a glimpse of nature's love- 
 liness made one forget there were such 
 things in the world as sorrow and war and 
 partings. 
 
 Westmoreland, August I. 
 
 THERE is so much to tell you, 
 Monica, from here, that I don't 
 know where to begin. This odd 
 little corner of Westmoreland, wedged in 
 between two bits of Lancashire, is about 
 the sunniest place in the north of England, 
 and very mild it is too, as Morecambe Bay 
 runs in so close. The hills are limestone, 
 and parts of the valley are a sort of slate. 
 The 'mosses' towards the sea are rich 
 
 145 k
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 black peat, so you can imagine what a 
 happy chance it gives one of seeing and 
 finding many birds and flowers. To-day 
 I had a delightful ramble, and saw so much. 
 I can't remember half of it, but I long to 
 tell you all ; the country is so delightful that 
 once out, the joy of life thrills one through 
 and through, and makes one feel quite young 
 again ! Starting through a hazel coppice, 
 amongst which were many little wild straw- 
 berries now ripening fast, the track leads 
 into an open wood, where one can still hear 
 a chiff-chaff or a wood- wren. There is a 
 thick undergrowth of brambles growing up 
 round the grey rocks, and wood-sage, up- 
 right St. John's wort, a few foxgloves, and 
 here and there a mullein. When the rocks 
 are hot in the afternoon sun, butterflies 
 come and sit on them for half-an-hour at 
 a time — peacocks, red admirals, and a 
 spotted one which I think must be a fritil- 
 lary. There is a plant in this wood which 
 the people here call frankincense, a dull- 
 coloured composite flower which grows a 
 little like tansy, with a strong, bitter smell. 
 The path ends in a big field of rough grass, 
 dotted with bushy junipers, thyme, and the 
 yellow common rock -rose. I always put 
 up larks crossing this field, and seldom 
 pass without seeing common blue and small 
 
 146
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 copper butterflies if the day be bright. The 
 pasture runs to the edge of a little bluff 
 about thirty feet high — the old coast-line, 
 where the sea came up over the peat-bogs. 
 Now yews grow in all possible crevices of 
 the cliff, clinging wonderfully close. I 
 turned to the right over a wall into a thick 
 wood, to find a track down the little cliff. 
 Standing among the larches I heard wood- 
 pigeons cooing, then to my joy a family 
 of tits passed just below me — blue, marsh, 
 and great tits — murmuring and twittering 
 happily as they came along the tops of 
 some firs and birches which grew at the 
 foot of the bluff. A tree-creeper was very 
 busy near by, and let me have a beautiful 
 view of him. There are often long-tailed 
 tits here too, it is so sheltered and sunny. 
 A scramble down the side of the rocks and 
 over another wall brings one to a narrow 
 lane, bordered on the far side by an old 
 thorn hedge, which is a tangle of clematis, 
 brambles, and honeysuckle. Meadow cranes- 
 bill is out now, and close by a mass of 
 common thistles, where there is a wonderful 
 show of red admirals and peacocks flying 
 lazily round, then perching again with out- 
 spread wings, like living jewels. From here 
 I made a bee-line across the mosses to the 
 river. At the edge of the moss, where the 
 
 i47
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 peat has been dug out for some time, 
 there is a mass of rose-willow herb, and 
 close to it some tall St. John's wort. 
 Past it there are willows and sweet bog- 
 myrtle, bog-asphodel in flower, and ling, 
 tall, beautiful, and bushy ; it grows three 
 feet high and more, far more luxuriant than 
 I have ever seen it elsewhere. One may see a 
 grouse or two, but the little heather birds do 
 not come down here ; perhaps it is too wet for 
 them. The boggy track leads one straight 
 across the moss to the far side, where there are 
 more willows and more peat, and then a crop 
 of oats grown on reclaimed land, scarlet 
 pimpernel and camomile flowering at their 
 feet. From this point I got into the holmes, 
 big pastures by the riverside, and disturbed 
 some green plover and an old heron. The 
 irrigation ditches are full of rushes and fig- 
 wort, tall weeds, loosestrife in flower, and 
 masses of toadflax covered with bloom along 
 their banks. One day I found a purple 
 columbine in flower, its grey green leaves 
 already beginning to turn red. I am told 
 it is not a genuine wild flower, but it must 
 have strayed a long way from a garden here. 
 Great flights of gulls come in from the Bay 
 and mix with rooks in looking for grubs ; 
 they seem mostly to be the small black-headed 
 gulls in various stages. In the winter there 
 
 148
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 arc wild-fowl of all kinds about here, even 
 swans, and now one may see coot, moorhens, 
 and wild duck on the little tarn through which 
 the river runs. A footpath took me by the 
 river bank on to the Windermere road, and 
 crossing Blayoragg bridge brings one into 
 North Lancashire, that curious detached bit 
 which used to be connected with Lancaster, 
 by a most perilous way, across the shifting; 
 sands of Morecambe Bay. The road leads 
 over rough land to the foot of the hills. 
 Oh ! Monica, what a delight it would be 
 to you. By it, or close to it, there is now 
 bracken, whin, ling, and bell heather, rag- 
 wort, yarrow, harebells, wild pansies, greater 
 knapweed, other little hard heads, common 
 thistles, betony, eyebright, yellow toadflax, 
 two kinds of scabious, agrimony, mint, 
 golden red brambles in flower and their 
 fruit setting, raspberry canes covered with 
 excellent raspberries, and one or two goose- 
 berry bushes. All these in less than a mile 
 from the bridge. Last but not least, a 
 curious woody St. John's wort, with hand- 
 some leaves and a small pale-yellow flower, 
 from which a mass of feathery stamens stand 
 out almost three quarters of an inch. I 
 come constantly to see that no tripper has 
 touched this precious plant, and so far it 
 is quite safe. Perhaps it is a rough road 
 
 149
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and not attractive to bicyclists. Turning 
 homeward there is a glorious view up the 
 valley of the distant hills, for the Lakes are 
 only ten or twelve miles away, and Coniston 
 Old Man and Langdale Pikes are quite near. 
 Within a walk one can find the limestone 
 polypody, English maidenhair, wall -rue, 
 hartstongues, and other commoner ferns ; 
 and there are many shrubs, mosses, and 
 fungi which are quite strange to me. To- 
 day I saw a bully and many chaffinches, 
 yellow-hammers, and common buntings in 
 the hedgerows after crossing the river into 
 Westmoreland. A weasel met me playing 
 by the side of the road, apparently frisking 
 for pleasure, but fled at the sight of me. 
 My way in led me through a big coppice 
 which must have been carpeted with prim- 
 roses and violets in the spring ; now there 
 is little but a yellow flower not unlike 
 cow-wheat, whose name I know not. Plenty 
 of jays and a few magpies live about the 
 taller trees here, one can be sure of see- 
 ing or hearing one if not both. There 
 is an enormous amount of nuts this 
 year, and they are already tipped with 
 pale pink, like the faintest possible blush. 
 Through an orchard, and past a dear 
 old-fashioned farm, shaded by a splendid 
 walnut-tree, one reaches the road close to 
 
 150
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the gate of home. Ivy grows all over the 
 walls here just like Devonshire, mixed with 
 polypodys and herb-robert, which seem to 
 grow happily out of the smallest crevices. 
 Great tutsan has seeded itself all along the 
 drive, and is still flowering ; while squirrels 
 and rabbits are already enjoying life in and 
 under the trees. They know they are safe 
 and will not be hurt. When I tell you I 
 can see all this and much beside in an 
 hour and a half, or a walk of four miles, 
 you can guess what a delightful country it 
 is. I do wish you were here, Monica ; one 
 longs for some one in love with nature 
 to share it with. This old house used to 
 be called ' Hell Cat,' a much more pictur- 
 esque name than Halecote, which is modern 
 and uninteresting. The cottagers burn peat 
 from the mosses. It is a country of border 
 towers, I would have you know, old farm- 
 houses in which yeoman farmers have lived 
 from father to son for four, five, and six 
 generations : a country full of traditions 
 of '15 and '45. It was once upon a time 
 mostly forest, where outlaws lived for years 
 without being caught, particularly in the 
 Wars of the Roses. Some of the fells are 
 carboniferous limestone, and have taken 
 wonderful shapes, strange big slabs, fissures 
 eight and ten feet deep, where a sheep may 
 
 151
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 fall down and die of starvation. There are 
 a few straggling red deer on the wildest 
 fells, hawks and curlews on the hills. I 
 can tell you no more to-day, though I feel 
 I have not told you the half I want you to 
 know and see. . . ." 
 
 152
 
 XXXIX 
 
 In answer to a question. 
 
 WHAT is the good of minding what 
 anybody says? It only results in 
 making oneself miserable, and if 
 you try and please everybody you will succeed 
 in pleasing nobody. The only thing in life 
 (as I have so often said) is to do one's best, 
 and to do it in your own way. God pat- 
 terns each one of us separately. Aim high, 
 and make up your mind never to reach 
 your ideal, simply because the higher one 
 gets the higher one's ideal becomes. I 
 heard the other day this saying, " He who 
 makes no mistake makes nothing." Take 
 that to heart ; one cannot always succeed, 
 and in trying to work one must therefore 
 make mistakes ; but it is, after all, much 
 better to try than to sit still and do 
 nothing. . . . Monica. 
 
 l 53
 
 XL 
 
 In the post-bag Monica found a letter from a 
 man of law which interested her intensely. 
 It set her thinking, and — though it made 
 her sad, it made her glad too. 
 
 M 
 
 Y lack of leisure has been mainly 
 due to absorption in a most in- 
 teresting case. Here is an out- 
 line of it. At the beginning of last century 
 
 one William , probably a farmer's son 
 
 in the Lake country, entered the Cumberland 
 
 Militia. In 1805 he married Isabella 
 
 at Newcastle, and a little girl, Margaret, 
 was born. In 1808 poor Isabella was put 
 on her trial for stealing some gingham and 
 a coin. She was sentenced to seven years' 
 transportation. A son, William, was born 
 immediately after her conviction. Her 
 husband left the militia (we have found 
 the record — he was given 16s. 6d. for his 
 fare to Whitehaven), and either accom- 
 panied or followed his wife to Australia. 
 
 iS4
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 The boy William was taken with them. 
 The girl Margaret was left behind. 
 
 In Australia the number of the family 
 was increased to nine, including a son James, 
 who died the other day, unmarried, and 
 without a will, leaving from two to five 
 million pounds. The problem is to find the 
 missing sister Margaret, for she (or her de- 
 scendants) is entitled to one-ninth of the 
 estate, i.e. many thousands of pounds, and 
 three distinct families (at least) come forward 
 and declare that their mother was that par- 
 ticular Margaret left in England so many 
 years ago. 
 
 So for months past I have been sitting 
 over papers full of legends of the innumer- 
 able race, and trying to piece together 
 
 family pedigrees from the records of births, 
 marriages, and deaths from many a town and 
 village of the Lake country, if, perchance, I 
 may track the lost home of the old Cumber- 
 land militiaman who died in Australia in 
 1827, aged 45. You can have no idea, 
 Monica, how fascinating these copies of the 
 mouldy old church records become. One 
 sits over them by the hour, and little by 
 little the old, obscure, long-forgotten village 
 history (and scandals) live before one. Here 
 for instance is the entry of the marriage of a 
 
 John to Elizabeth . I turn to the 
 
 i55
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 baptisms and find : " Nov. 17, Ann daughter 
 of Elizabeth W d ." Why Widow ? I turn 
 to the deaths, and there is : " Nov. 16, John 
 ." A whole little village tragedy com- 
 plete ! The child baptized the day after its 
 father's death, perhaps carried to the font 
 by Elizabeth the "w d ." past the new-made 
 grave. It all happened a century ago, and 
 was buried — seemingly for ever — in the 
 sands of time. Yet a chance led a barrister 
 to piece those three short separate entries 
 together — guided by that "w d ." which it 
 pleased some old parson or clerk to record — 
 and the sorrows of Elizabeth, are rescued 
 — momentarily, at any rate — from the ob- 
 livion that has veiled millions who lived 
 and loved and married and wept where she 
 did, in the villages of England. The par- 
 ticular claimant whose title we are now 
 investigating declares that her mother Mar- 
 garet went to Liverpool and married a 
 
 bricklayer named . Apoplexy ended 
 
 his life in an asylum, and this claimant to 
 enormous wealth was known as "No. 100" 
 in a Liverpool orphanage. ... I have now 
 got the actual copy of the charges on which 
 
 Isabella was sentenced to seven years' 
 
 transportation in 1808. A portion of it 
 may interest you, Monica : — 
 
 "The Jurors for our Lord the King upon 
 
 156
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 their oath present that Isabella the wife 
 
 of William , on the 25th day of March 
 
 in the 48th year of the Reign of our Sovereign 
 Lord George the 3rd by the Grace of God 
 of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and 
 Ireland King Defender of the Faith with 
 force and arms at the parish of Wakefield in 
 the West Riding of the County of York one 
 leather purse of the value of six pence, one 
 piece of silver of the current coin of this 
 Realm called a shilling of the value of two 
 pence and one piece of silver of the current 
 coin of this realm called a sixpence of the 
 value of two pence of the Goods and Chattels 
 of one Mary Brettener then and there found 
 did then and there feloniously steal take and 
 carry away against the peace of the said 
 Lord and King his Crown and Dignity." 
 A second count repeats most of this palaver 
 and charges her with stealing "23 yards of 
 Cotton commonly called Gingham of the 
 value of ten pence." 
 
 Cannot you imagine poor Isabella standing 
 in the dock, waiting in bewilderment while 
 all this jargon was being buzzed in her ear — 
 waiting for the sentence, which was the only 
 thing that interested her ? Much of this 
 quaint formality survives in our criminal 
 trials. I have often felt the irony of it all, 
 the wigs, the robes, the Court Crier with 
 
 *57
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 his antiquated proclamations, the legal argu- 
 ments, the impassive faces of the warders, 
 the unsympathetic rigidity of it all, and, 
 caged in the dock, the human creature wait- 
 ing for the fate that is to emerge from all 
 this incomprehensible rigmarole and cere- 
 mony. Tolstoi's "Resurrection" contains 
 a wonderful description of a Russian trial. 
 We are not quite so bad as that, but there 
 is much that reminded me of what I have 
 seen in English courts. There is so much 
 that is, and perhaps must be, I will not say 
 z/muman, but raw-human and mechanical 
 about it all, and, where the case is not 
 obviously sensational, this seems to over- 
 whelm the rest. One looks round the 
 court at the watching faces, and there seems 
 so little imagination, so little sense of the 
 tragedy underlying the scene, of the wrecked 
 life, of the possible temptations which " but 
 for the grace of God " might have landed 
 us in that same dock. Worst of all are the 
 women spectators with their opera-glasses 
 who crowd to a sensational case with the 
 same vulgar hope of excitement as takes 
 them in shoals to a fashionable wedding, 
 or a war in South Africa, or the latest 
 "improper" play. It is said that counsel 
 once applied that all ladies should be re- 
 quested to leave the court. "I think," 
 
 158
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 retorted the judge, gazing hard at a bench- 
 ful of women, " that all ladies have left 
 it already." Of course, with judges and 
 counsel and court officials there is a natural 
 tendency, as time goes on and the dreary 
 procession of criminals lengthens out, to 
 yield to the influences of routine and sink 
 the man in the professional. It is a con- 
 stant temptation, against which one has to 
 be on one's guard, just as, with the doctors, 
 there must be a tendency — to which the 
 finer spirits do not succumb — to lose real 
 sympathy with pain, and substitute merely 
 such a professional manner as is useful for 
 business purposes. I have heard of a learned 
 judge who tried a murder case. The jury 
 retired to consider their verdict. The judge 
 retired to his room to await the event, and, 
 whilst there, began a funny story. He was 
 interrupted by a summons to the court. 
 The jury had found the poor wretch guilty. 
 The judge passed sentence with a most 
 impressive speech, imploring the convict to 
 make his peace with his Creator while there 
 was yet time. Then the prisoner went out 
 to await the day when he should be " hanged 
 by the neck till he was dead," and the judge 
 went out and completed his funny story. 
 
 But please don't think, Monica, that we 
 are all like that. 
 
 i59
 
 M 
 
 XLI 
 
 To one who thinks she is in love. 
 
 Y dear, how can I possibly tell you 
 whether you love the man or not ? 
 Are you ready to give up every- 
 thing, casting aside the fallacy of the 
 moment that he will give up everything 
 to you ? Are you ready to be an angel in 
 the house, a maid-of-all-work, and — a good- 
 tempered woman ? But, seriously, you can't 
 be in love if you can pause to put the ques- 
 tion down in black and white. And I pray 
 of you never to marry if you are not over 
 head and ears in love. I send you a little 
 poem, which I give you full leave to call 
 sentimental and — if you like — even silly. 
 At the same time it is utterly — irrevocably 
 true. 
 
 It cannot be love, my darling, 
 If one dream of life is your own ; 
 It cannot be love, if ever 
 You're thinking of bearing alone. 
 160
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 It cannot be love — I tell you — 
 If self is not dying — no, dead ; 
 It cannot be love if sunshine 
 Is not idling the heart instead. 
 
 It cannot be love if Heaven 
 
 Has not woven the pearl-link'd chain ; 
 
 It cannot be love, if in losing 
 
 You but count it an endless gain. 
 
 It cannot be love, if doubting 
 Ever touches the priceless trust ; 
 It cannot be love, but spending 
 You feel to be spent you must. 
 
 It cannot be love, if living 
 Is not part of a love entwined ; 
 It cannot be love, 'less willing 
 You bend to the master mind. 
 
 Does that find an echo in your heart ? 
 
 Monica. 
 
 161
 
 XLII 
 
 In the month of January. 
 
 SO you really want me to write you 
 what it pleases your majesty to call 
 a "Nature letter" every month, 
 straight from the lips of the garden, this 
 garden of Peace which you love and I love ? 
 Must I babble to you of flowers and birds ? 
 The blame, surely, will rest on your own 
 shoulders if I bore you intensely, for it is 
 difficult to put a drag on one's pen when 
 one is writing of what one loves best. But 
 I suppose, as you live all the year round in a 
 town, you want the songs of my birds and 
 the scent of my flowers to reach you. Even 
 in mid-winter you must long for a clear ray 
 of sunlight and a white patch of snow. 
 
 At this present moment the snow is deep 
 on the ground, and weighing down the 
 rhododendrons and shrubs. Outside my 
 window the holly-tree, with scarlet berries 
 shining in the sun, is covered v/ith birds. 
 Blackbirds and missel-thrushes and every- 
 
 162
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 day thrushes. I peep round my curtain and 
 watch them as they cling to a small branch 
 and feast. Our minds are wholly occupied 
 in the feeding of birds and then in watching 
 them feed. Hanging from the verandah are 
 our four Venetian buckets full of hemp- 
 seed for the titmice, also walnut-shells full 
 of lard are hung upside down by a thread. 
 On a table in the snow we put nuts for nut- 
 hatches, and a little way out on the grass we 
 clear a patch in the snow and cover it with 
 wheat and different seeds. An old cock 
 blackbird with a golden beak has appointed 
 himself (without so much as " by your 
 leave ") keeper of the ground, and at first 
 he warned off all intruders in a surly, 
 exclusive manner ; but good food and 
 plenty has improved his temper, and now 
 he even welcomes strangers. When a dear 
 pair of hawfinches arrived, the garden 
 birds looked a trifle askance at them 
 and wondered who they were, but their 
 manners proved them to be quite gentle- 
 folk, so they were allowed to stay. We have 
 wagtails and yellow-hammers from " out- 
 side the garden " and from inside robins, 
 thrushes, blackbirds, all the titmice family, 
 eleven chaffinches, green linnets, starlings, 
 hedge - sparrows, and of course common 
 sparrows. After the hawfinches I look on 
 
 163
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 bramblings as our most honoured guests. 
 They are such handsome, well-groomed birds, 
 with distinct red marking on the wings of 
 the cocks. We have sixteen different kinds 
 of birds in all. Of course they quarrel a 
 good deal, but they never sulk, and seem very 
 grateful for all our attention. A day or two 
 ago one other visitor, a distinctly uninvited 
 guest, came to the repast — a huge old brown 
 rat. The birds were rather upset at his 
 appearance, but did not move off altogether, 
 only looked at him suspiciously and gave 
 him a wide berth. Alas ! he paid for his 
 breakfast with his life. We sent for a man 
 and a gun, and " the subsequent proceedings 
 interested him no more ! ' Birds are just 
 beginning to sing, and we have a starling 
 mimicking the cry of a sparrow-hawk. " He 
 only does it to annoy, because he knows 
 it teases." I have nothing else to tell you 
 except that partridges have paired. They 
 ought to have waited for the blessing of St. 
 Valentine, but I suppose they too have heard 
 that all old traditions are out of date. I 
 saw a squirrel digging on the lawn just now ; 
 suddenly a jay screamed on the other side 
 of the wall in the wood, and instantly 
 Mr. Squggy raced off in alarm. Do you 
 think squirrels are afraid of jays ? or do you 
 think he took the scream for warning of the 
 
 164
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 approach of an enemy ? I can't make up 
 my mind on that point, and I feel positively 
 certain you will not be able to solve the 
 problem. You will perhaps remember a 
 passing incident last year ? We showed you 
 a nest in a tree down the hollow, and know- 
 ing you knew nothing of natural history, 
 we told you it was a squirrel's nest. If my 
 memory fails me not I think you asked eagerly 
 if we should find any squirrel's eggs therein ? 
 Perhaps, I dreamt the whole tale ! — and 
 perhaps I did not ! Rooks pass out over the 
 garden every morning at eight o'clock, on 
 the way to their feeding-grounds, and return 
 at five o'clock. They are never a minute 
 late. 
 
 I will tell you no more to-day, for I may 
 weary you. Monica. 
 
 165
 
 XLIII 
 
 On the character of a servant. 
 
 DEAR Madam, — I have received your 
 letter asking me for the character of 
 my parlour-maid. I fear she will 
 not suit you. You ask " if she is absolutely 
 good-tempered, an early riser, perfect in 
 all her duties, good-looking, healthy, will 
 never entertain followers, Church of Eng- 
 land regular communicant, plain dresser, 
 very quiet and respectable, a non-breaker, 
 good needlewoman, clean, tidy, a total ab- 
 stainer, and member of the G. F. S." I 
 thought you advertised for a maid, I did not 
 realise you wanted an archangel, or that 
 you required her for a place in paradise. — 
 Yours truly, 
 
 Monica. 
 
 166
 
 XLIV 
 
 To a friend interested in many subjects, with 
 copies of letters from W. Farren, Catherine 
 Blake, and John Linnell. 
 
 I WISH you could have seen A.'s book of 
 autograph letters. I felt obliged to turn 
 each leaf with the utmost reverence. The 
 first I came to was signed " Amelia Opie," 
 and I was filled with delight. Was she not 
 an ancestor of my very own, an authoress, 
 the wife of a celebrated painter, and — a 
 Quaker ? The letter began with " thee " and 
 " thou," and I determined to copy it out for 
 you. Alas ! she only wrote to ask one — 
 Robert Nasmyth — the strength of saltpetre, 
 and how much she mig;ht take without 
 making herself seriously ill ! Hastily I 
 turned the leaf ! The next letter was signed 
 " W. Farren," and was from the actor. Was 
 he the son of Eliza Farren, who appeared as 
 Miss Hardcastle in 1777 at the Haymarket 
 Theatre ? Here is the letter : — 
 
 167
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 "My dear Harry, — I write this in my 
 dressing-room on a scrap I found in the 
 Book of ' Ivanhoe,' which I have read during 
 the pantomime. I am astonished that I play'd 
 " Isaac " seventeen years ago ! but being 
 seventeen years older, and, I trust, wiser — 
 there is nothing to do in it, and what there 
 is, I cannot do now — if I ever could — 
 Tragedy — pray say so to Mr. Osbaldiston. 
 — Yrs. truly, W. Farren." 
 
 The next letter I read was signed "Catherine 
 Blake" (14th Sept. 1800), the wife of William 
 Blake, poet, painter, engraver. Born in 
 London, 1757. Even as a child he is de- 
 scribed as " dreamy and visionary ! " In 
 1789 he published his "Songs of Inno- 
 cence," written, printed, and illustrated by 
 himself with his wife's help. Here is her 
 letter to Mrs. Flaxman : — 
 
 " My dearest Friend, — I hope you will 
 not think we could forget your services to us, 
 or any way neglect to love and remember 
 with affection even the hem of your garment. 
 We indeed presume on your kindness in 
 neglecting to have called on you since my 
 husband's first return from Felpham. We 
 have been incessantly busy in our great 
 removal, but can never think of going with- 
 
 168
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 out first paying our proper duty to you and 
 Mr. Flaxman. We intend to call on Sunday 
 afternoon in Hampstead to take farewell, all 
 things being now nearly completed for our 
 setting forth on Tuesday morning. It is 
 only sixty miles, and Lambeth was one hun- 
 dred, for the terrible Disart of London was 
 between. My husband has been obliged to 
 finish several things necessary to be finished 
 before our migration ; the swallows call us 
 fleeting past our window at this moment. 
 O how we delight in talking of the pleasure 
 we shall have in preparing you a summer 
 bower at Felpham ; and we not only talk, but 
 behold the angels of our journey have in- 
 spired a song to you. 
 
 'To my dear Friend, Mrs. Anna 
 Flaxman 
 
 ' This song to the flower of Flaxman's joy, 
 To the blossom of hope for a sweet decoy, 
 Do all that you can or all that you may 
 To entice him to Felpham and far away. 
 
 Away to sweet Felpham, for Heaven is there, 
 The Ladder of Angels descends thro' the air, 
 On the Turret its spiral does softly descend, 
 Thro' the village then winds, at thy cot it does end. 
 
 You stand in the village and look up to Heaven, 
 The precious stones glitter in flights seventy-seven, 
 And my Brother is there, and my Friend and Thine 
 Descend and ascend with the Bread and the Wine. 
 
 169
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 The Bread of sweet Thought and the Wine of Delight 
 Feeds the village of Felpham by day and by night, 
 And at his own Door the blessed Hermit does stand, 
 Dispensing Unceasing to all the whole Land. 
 
 «W. Blake.' 
 
 " Receive my and my husband's love and 
 affection, and believe me to be yours affec- 
 tionately, Catherine Blake." 
 
 How prettily and gracefully they wrote 
 in the old days ! Now if we want a friend 
 to spend the day with us, we send a post- 
 card or a sixpenny telegram ! We have no 
 time to be tenderly civil, though at heart 
 we are as loving as ever. 
 
 The third letter I copied for you was 
 still more exciting. It was John Linnell's 
 most interesting letter to Bernard Barton, 
 1830, in reference to William Blake. 
 
 " To Mr. Barton, 
 
 of Woodbridge, Suffolk. 
 
 " Porchester Terrace, 
 Bayswater, April 3, 1830. 
 
 " Dear Sir, — I thank you sincerely for 
 the very beautiful sonnet, but as it is not 
 applicable to me, I hope you will not upon 
 any account publish it with my name, or 
 with any hint that it is intended for me, for 
 I assure you I have not the least claim to it ; 
 and even if I had, I should equally dislike it, 
 
 170
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 for if ever I have the happiness to be of any 
 service to a friend I should avoid the public 
 praise of men, that the Pharisee's reward 
 might not be my lot. I do not see, however, 
 why the sonnet may not be published with- 
 out the name of Mr. Blake or myself, but 
 simply addressed to the ' Friend of neglected 
 genius ' or something like that. 
 
 " I am very glad you were so kind as 
 to send me a copy before publication, because 
 it gives me the opportunity of correcting 
 a mistake, which is a sufficient reason why 
 the names should not be mentioned ; it is 
 that Mr. Blake never was reduced to live 
 in a garret as asserted in the memoir, and 
 I am sorry Mr. Cunningham did not avail 
 himself of the information I offered him, as 
 he might have made his very interesting 
 memoir still more instructive and far more 
 creditable to Mr. Blake by the alteration of 
 some things and the addition of others with 
 which I could have furnished him. 
 
 "When I first became acquainted with 
 Mr. Blake he lived in a first floor in South 
 Molten Street, and upon his landlord leav- 
 ing off business and retiring to France, he 
 moved to Fountain Court, Strand, where he 
 died. Here he occupied the first floor ; it 
 was a private house kept by Mr. Banes, 
 whose wife was sister to Mrs. Blake. It was 
 
 171
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 here that he began to feel the want of 
 employment, and before I knew his distress 
 he had sold all his collection of old prints 
 to Messrs. Colnaghi and Co. After that I 
 represented his case to Sir Thomas Laurence, 
 Mr. Collins, R.A. and some other members 
 of the Royal Academy, who kindly brought 
 it before the Council, and they voted him 
 a donation of ^25, which was sent to him 
 through my hands, for which he expressed 
 great thankfulness. This, however, was not 
 enough to afford him permanent support, 
 and it was in the hopes of obtaining a profit 
 sufficient to supply his future wants that 
 the publication of ' Job ' was begun at my 
 suggestion and expense ; but as I had also 
 the expectation, and have still, of remunera- 
 tion (the plates being my property), I have 
 no claim to any notice upon that account ; 
 and though we were both disappointed in 
 our expectations as to the extent of the sale, 
 yet a few buyers of the work being the 
 most distinguished for taste and learning, 
 we were sufficiently encouraged to commence 
 another work which Mr. Blake did not live to 
 complete. It was the illustration of Dante. 
 He made one hundred folio drawings, some 
 of which are highly finished, and began seven 
 plates (all in my possession). This work, 
 
 however, answered the purpose of furnishing 
 
 172
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 him with the means of comfortable sub- 
 sistence to his death. 
 
 " I have thought this would not be un- 
 interesting to you, and could add much 
 more, but I am not able to write long. 
 There is one thing I must mention — I never 
 in all my conversation with him could for 
 a moment feel there was the least justice in 
 calling him insane; he could always explain 
 his paradoxes satisfactorily when he pleased, 
 but to many he spoke so that ' hearing they 
 might not hear ' ; he was more like an ancient 
 pattern of virtue than I ever expected to 
 see in this world ; he feared nothing so 
 much as being rich, lest he should lose his 
 spiritual riches ; he was at the same time 
 the most sublime in his expressions, with the 
 simplicity and gentleness of a child, though 
 never wanting in energy when called upon. 
 
 " If you are in London and will favour 
 me with a visit, I shall be most glad to 
 show you his works in my possession, and 
 communicate what I know respecting him. 
 — I am, dr. Sir, yours respectfully, 
 
 "John Linnell. 
 
 " P.S. — I have sent a plain copy of the 
 'Job' for your inspection; the price to 
 you will be the same as the trade price — 
 £1, 12s. 6d. 
 
 i73
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 "The print you are so good as to offer 
 me I must decline. I do not collect 
 modern prints, and indeed I have left off 
 buying any, as my family is large and the 
 work of ' Job ' not yet having paid its 
 expenses. 
 
 " You are welcome to keep the book for 
 a fortnight, perhaps some friend may like 
 to have it if you do not purchase it ; at 
 any rate you are perfectly welcome to the 
 perusal of it." 
 
 This letter, coming from the great artist 
 John Linnell, gives us a pathetic insight into 
 the life of William Blake, " poet, painter, 
 engraver." Alas ! nowadays, too, artists have 
 a bitter battle to fight against the enemy 
 " Poverty." I heard the other day of a poor 
 artist who sold his masterpiece, into which he 
 had painted his very soul, for the paltry sum 
 of £$ — to save his wife's life ! If he could 
 have waited, the picture, doubtless, would 
 have been hung at the Academy and sold 
 for a large sum, and the artist's name would 
 have been made. The rich men of to-day 
 do not encourage modern art. If pictures 
 are not sold, artists cannot afford models 
 or foreign travel, and they have to starve 
 at home, painting " pot-boilers " to keep 
 body and soul together. Men give several 
 
 i74
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 hundred pounds for an old paper edition 
 of a book they will never read. I plead 
 for the modern art of England ; if en- 
 couraged it will improve, and the rich men 
 will reap their reward. Monica. 
 
 '75
 
 XLV 
 
 To a nephew in South Africa^ after a visit 
 to the sea. 
 
 DID I tell you, dear boy, that we have 
 been to Margate? At first I felt 
 a little ashamed to confess this fact, 
 for whenever I told my friends where we 
 were going they always drew themselves up, 
 and with just a suspicion of a gasp said, " Oh! 
 — Margate" as if we were already almost 
 beyond the pale for even suggesting such a 
 place. Now I don't mind one bit, for Mar- 
 gate is the best seaside place in England, and 
 has quite made Dick strong again. The 
 sands are so splendid (at the right end) and 
 the air fills one with life. We were almost 
 outside Margate, beyond the range of the 
 pier and "the vulgar little boy." Oh! it 
 was fun. We had a little tent on the sands, 
 and there we sat all day drinking in the air 
 and watching humanity. Humanity really 
 is a most amusing study at such a place. 
 I don't mean the painted ladies with golden 
 
 176
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 hair done in a wonderful way, or the smart 
 women of fashion, they hardly ever came to 
 our Bay, but families of cockney tourists who 
 said, " It's a lovely dye, do come and ply," 
 and " Oh ! I sye, look at Dysie, she's filled 
 the bybie's mouth with sand." Then the 
 group who have come for the day and who 
 always bring a funny man with them. He 
 picks up the long streaming sea-weed and 
 holds it on either side of his face, then 
 taking little dancing steps, strikes an attitude 
 and exclaims in tragic tones, " 'ere's tresses of 
 'air for you, gals." Bathing of course was a 
 great amusement, and everything is worked 
 on the general principle that " nothing 
 matters at Margate." Oh ! the cruelty of 
 the mothers at Margate. They made all the 
 babies bathe, and all the babies screamed, and 
 the mothers only laughed and thought it a 
 great joke. Once or twice I tried to remon- 
 strate, but it was no good; and after all, as 
 H. observed, the babies were theirs to do 
 what they liked with, not mine. We called 
 it " the sad sea wail." Children are always 
 disobedient on the sands, but that did not 
 seem to matter either. " Come along, my 
 dottie 'ittle sunbeam, come to your Mummy 
 Mum " ; but the dottie 'ittle sunbeam edged 
 its fat little body farther and farther into the 
 sea, and the mother went on with her 
 
 177 M
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 knitting quite unperturbed. I really did lose 
 my temper one day when a nursery-maid dug 
 a hole in the sand and made her charges bury 
 thirty live crabs in it, " for fun," and then 
 jump on them. I stormed at that nursery- 
 maid. We should have made a picture for 
 Punch. She was very fair, small, and half- 
 starved, clad in a thin scanty old black frock 
 which was tucked up above her long bare 
 legs, and her wisp of hair tucked into a tight 
 knot under her sailor hat, which was cocked 
 on one side. Though I literally towered 
 above her, she bravely stormed back at me 
 and told me in language which I refrain 
 from repeating, that I might mind my own 
 business. I appealed to her womanhood, but 
 that was useless, she possessed none ; I sup- 
 pose, poor child, that had been worked out 
 of her long ago. Words had no effect, and 
 I left her with an appeal to the assembled 
 groups around to rescue the poor crabs. 
 From behind a rock in the distance I saw to 
 my joy that force of numbers prevailed, and 
 the prisoners were restored to the sea. As I 
 returned home and was walking majestically 
 past the nursery-maid and her charges, she, 
 thinking to impose on me, jumped up and 
 began dancing a war-dance on the sand-heap 
 over (what she hoped I imagined) the buried 
 crabs. I took no notice, and turned a deaf 
 
 178
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 ear to her insulting remarks. I was content, 
 I had saved the crabs. 
 
 Most of the people bathed from tents in 
 a far-away bay, but some dug holes in the 
 sand and undressed there, a mode of pro- 
 cedure much resembling the ostrich. Some 
 hid behind a sheet elegantly pinned to the 
 cliff. There was an unwritten code of 
 honour that we should all sit with our faces 
 seawards. We got Dick half into the sea 
 one day, but it was cold, and he cried. 
 " You should really have had the water 
 warmed, mother," he gasped, as I drest him 
 quickly. I can't describe the other figures 
 bathing, they were too funny, and some 
 were too fat, and pale pink flannelette is not 
 an ideal material for bathing costumes. We 
 all paddled — it may sound strange to you, 
 but we did — and I kodaked every one, and 
 you shall have some of the weird photo- 
 graphs I took. Some of them are — well, 
 perhaps, not quite. Aunt Monica. 
 
 P.S. — I do not suppose an aunt ought 
 ever to paddle, but then, remember, "nothing 
 matters at Margate." 
 
 179
 
 XLVI 
 
 Midsummer in a garden. 
 
 1CAN only write of the heat this month. 
 Even the roses are weary and droop 
 their heads, and all the flowers are 
 tired out by the sun. We try to water, but 
 the task is hopeless. I think evening is the 
 best time, for we can sit out in the middle of 
 the parched lawn and listen to the weir or 
 the purr of the puckridge, or watch the 
 stars. All the other birds are silent this 
 month. At the beginning we heard the 
 chiff-chaff and the whisper of the black- 
 cap's song, but they have entirely ceased 
 now. The only prominent note is the 
 greenfinch, he really loves the heat, and it 
 makes me realise how hot the day is when I 
 hear the long jarring note over and over 
 again. He has never once stopped singing 
 all the month. Now and then the wood- 
 pigeon and the turtle-dove remind us of 
 their presence by a " coo " and a " purr" in 
 the trees, and we have heard the meadow-pipit 
 
 1 80
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 and the lark in the field, and now and then, 
 as we have wandered over the common, a 
 stonechat has snapt at us from a gorse-bush, 
 but beyond these few birds we have not heard 
 a sound, and we miss their evening hymn 
 more than words can say. I am sorry birds 
 are so silent in July, for, being the month we 
 sit out of doors all day long, we could listen 
 to their songs more perfectly, and judge, 
 undisturbed, of their merits. Now and 
 again at night we hear the owls as they fly 
 over the rose garden quite close to the 
 house. Fly-catchers were still feeding their 
 young, early this month, up till nearly eight 
 o'clock in the evening. We found some 
 pretty wild flowers at Newtown by the river. 
 "Touch-me-not" was a new flower to me, 
 with its curious orange flower. You know 
 the seed-vessel explodes at the slightest touch, 
 scattering the seed to a great distance. The 
 mimulus grew there, and the white and mauve 
 comfrey with their bell-shaped blossoms, and 
 many others. We used to watch the trout 
 feeding, and one day we surprised a snake, 
 who was so frightened at seeing us that he 
 straightway took a header into the stream 
 and swam across. I wrote an account of 
 that walk by the river for The Sun-Children s 
 Budget. Do you know that charming little 
 quarterly? (published by Wells Gardner, 
 
 181
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 Darton, & Co.) It is all about Botany, and 
 its object is to create the love of flowers 
 in children's hearts. Not only a love for 
 flowers, but a reverence for and knowledge of 
 God's treasure-house. I quote one sentence 
 in the October number : " The more we know 
 the more there is to learn, for the last page 
 of Nature's book can never be turned, and 
 we shall find new beauties in God's beautiful 
 world till the time comes when we shall cull 
 for ourselves flowers in Paradise." We stayed 
 at the Grange on our way home. I must 
 tell you of a flower-border there, for it was 
 simply a dream. It was in front of an old 
 wall covered with roses, magnolias, winter- 
 sweet, and rare vines. Towering at the back 
 was a row of tall white Nicotiana syhestris, 
 then came rose Lavatera Trimestris. In front 
 of these crimson malope and pink cosmos, 
 and then the white star Nicotiana affinis and 
 pink clarkia. Nearer still a line of dark 
 crimson antirrihinum and two shades of 
 godetia, the last being gloriosa, a very 
 brilliant crimson colour, and at our feet 
 a broad edge of thyme. It was a mass 
 of crimson-pink and white, the daintiest, 
 prettiest border I have ever seen. There was 
 a dark yew-hedge on the other side of the 
 walk bordering the rosary, and a quaint 
 
 white high-latticed gate at the farther end. 
 
 182
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 There was another broad yellow border there 
 of every shade. Nasturtiums were trained 
 up a rustic trellis at the back, then pale 
 primrose sunflowers stood in a royal row with 
 their faces to the sun. Tall mulleins were 
 there, snapdragon, tagetes, musk. I cannot 
 remember all the flowers, but all I know is 
 that it was most effective and quite a work 
 of art. But then the lady of that garden 
 excels in the arrangement of her flower- 
 borders, and she is proud of her lavender 
 edging and masses of bloom. 
 
 Oats are nearly cut round here, which makes 
 me sad. I love to see the golden fields waving 
 in the breeze, and the shadows of a passing 
 cloud across the corn. Hay is nearly all in, 
 only a few loads caught by the rain waiting 
 patiently to be stacked. If it is hot here, 
 what must you feel shut up in a town ? As 
 I sit in the garden writing at sunset, and the 
 fierce sun has sunk behind the firs, leaving 
 only the golden glow, I long to have you 
 here. 
 
 Is all well with you ? 
 
 Monica. 
 
 183
 
 XLVII 
 
 Verses from over the sea by Dr. Batters on. 
 
 I HAVE had a letter from New York 
 this morning from an unknown friend. 
 He has sent me his book, and I have 
 sent him mine, so our pens have forged a 
 chain reaching across the sea. He tells me 
 the average American cares nothing for 
 flowers and trees and birds, and that " the 
 Almighty Dollar " means a vast deal more 
 than appears on the surface. He sends me 
 some lovely verses, which I know will com- 
 fort and teach many, as they have helped 
 me. I bless him for the gift. 
 
 " If any little word of ours 
 
 Can make one life the brighter, 
 If any little song of ours 
 
 Can make one heart the lighter ; 
 God help us speak that little word, 
 
 And take our bit of singing, 
 And drop it in some lonely vale, 
 To set the echoes ringing. 
 184
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 If any little love of ours 
 
 Can make one life the sweeter, 
 If any little care of ours 
 
 Can make one step the fleeter ; 
 If any little help may ease 
 
 The burden of another, 
 .God give us love and care and strength, 
 
 To help along each other. 
 
 If any watchful thought of ours 
 
 Can make some work the stronger, 
 If any cheery smile of ours 
 
 Can make its brightness longer ; 
 Then let us speak that thought to-day, 
 
 With tender eyes a-glowing, 
 So God may grant some weary one 
 
 Shall reap from our glad sowing." 
 
 After all, little kindnesses are best ; noble 
 deeds are not given to every one to do, but 
 we can follow the heart's lead and make 
 " some life the brighter." Monica. 
 
 is.
 
 XLVIII 
 
 There was a letter in the post-bag for the boy, 
 from an uncle in Australia. It gave a 
 vivid picture of the life there, and seemed 
 to span the broad space between one garden 
 and another. 
 
 SOME day, little Dick, I suppose you 
 will be a soldier, and I can imagine 
 the Boers running from you when 
 they hear you play the drum ! A lot of 
 our young Australian lads have gone to 
 the war, and I hear make good soldiers, as 
 they are used to roughing it and camping 
 out, and watching at nights their flocks and 
 herds against wild natives, or wild dogs, 
 called " dingoes." I wish you and father 
 and mother could come out to Queensland 
 and see all the wonderful things here. 
 Parrots of all colours, and cockatoos in 
 thousands often flying about, and at night 
 great big bats, called flying foxes, come in 
 countless numbers, and feed on the blossoms 
 
 186
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 of the trees and on any fruit that may be 
 in their neighbourhood. In the daytime 
 they all sleep, hanging head down by their 
 feet, in some quiet, out-of-the-way place, 
 where they collect in countless numbers, and 
 are supposed to be asleep ; but any one 
 getting near them can hear some of them 
 screaming at each other, apparently quarrel- 
 ling as to who has the best right to the 
 particular branch they are hanging on, and, 
 if the wind happens to blow from them to 
 you, their "colony" (as it is called) is 
 easily located ! Then, from the verandah 
 of our house you will see all sorts of 
 curious fish swimming about or jumping 
 out of the sea, perhaps only a hundred 
 yards away, just like porpoises playing 
 about, or darting like lightning after smaller 
 fish ; then comes a huge school of mullet 
 fresh from the sea, and you see hundreds 
 of these beautiful silvery fish leaping six 
 to eight feet out of the water in pure 
 sport, each fish apparently seeing who 
 could jump the highest, until a shark or 
 savage kingfish or sailor comes along, and 
 then there is such a "How do you do" to get 
 out of his or their way, and the water is 
 soon like a boiling caldron made by the 
 efforts of the multitude of smaller fish 
 trying to escape. Many of course are 
 
 187
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 caught by their savage pursuers, but many 
 escape, to be caught perhaps another day 
 by the fishermen in their nets. Then 
 perhaps, if you are still looking out, you 
 will see a huge round fish jump bodily out 
 of the water, and after a whisk of his tail 
 in the air come down flop, making a great 
 splash. Once when I was cruising about 
 Torres Straits in a small steamer, a big fish 
 (a bonito) jumped clean over the ship and 
 hit me on the back as he passed ! Your 
 father will say this is a tall yarn, but it is 
 true ! . . . When you are tired of paddling 
 in the sea, you can get on one of our little 
 ponies and ride out into the bush and see 
 kangaroos and wallabies hopping about, 
 some likely enough carrying their little 
 ones about in a bag, with only their wee 
 heads peeping out. But you must be on 
 the look-out, or you might tread on a 
 nasty brown snake or run against a green 
 tree-snake that has climbed into the bush 
 you are riding by. A little farther on, you 
 will come to a settler's house and the 
 owner will be glad to see you, and will let 
 you pick as many ripe oranges as you like, 
 his trees being literally covered with big 
 orange-fruit. How you would enjoy them. 
 I forgot to tell you about the pelicans that 
 float about, quite close to our house look- 
 
 188
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 ing out for fish, which, when they see within 
 reach, down goes their great big beak and 
 up it comes, and with a big gurgle and gulp 
 down goes poor fish. Good-bye, Dick ; be 
 good to your mother, who was very good 
 to me. . . . H. M. 
 
 1S9
 
 XLIX 
 
 To Little Mary, who made a request. 
 
 I HAVE no time to sit down and write 
 a " real piece of poetry " for your book, 
 but I enclose two verses with my love, 
 which came to me as I looked out of the 
 window this morning, and saw swallows pass- 
 ing overhead in goodly companies. 
 
 Swallow, Swallow, carry me 
 Over land and over sea ; 
 Take me where the roses give 
 Blossoms ev'ry day we live. 
 
 Swallow, Swallow, carry me 
 Where the sunbeams circle thee, 
 Where the sky is ever blue 
 And the world is ever true. 
 
 Tell me if I am to write more. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 190
 
 To one interested in history. 
 
 TO-DAY we drove up on to Wash 
 Common, the high ground overlook- 
 ing the town of Newbury, to see the 
 Falkland Memorial. It was a glorious day, 
 and the air seemed to breathe peace on the 
 very spot where the first battle at Newbury 
 was fought in 1643. I suppose you know 
 all about Falkland, " the purest of martyrs," 
 as Dr. Arnold calls him. This obelisk was 
 erected in 1878 by the late Earl of Carnar- 
 von, in memory of Lucius Carey, Viscount 
 Falkland, and of the other Cavaliers who fell 
 in this battle. Four inscriptions have been 
 carved on the obelisk, one on the north 
 side in English, describing the object with 
 which the memorial was erected. On the 
 west, south, and east are extracts from 
 Burke, from Livy, and from Thucydides, 
 all extremely well chosen, and all containing 
 sentiments from which no good man, what- 
 ever be his politics, could reasonably dissent. 
 
 191
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 From the steps you see a very picturesque 
 view, including the woods of Highclere and 
 the Hampshire Downs beyond. To-day a 
 row of tiny children sat in a solemn row 
 there while a child, not older but a trifle 
 bolder, stood in front of the others giving 
 them a singing lesson. Their baby voices 
 were shouting " Soldiers of the Queen," 
 little dreaming of the soldiers who died 
 on that very spot, and the hearts broken. 
 Would they in their turn, poor little mites, 
 grow up and fight for the King ? At any 
 rate the battle of life was before them, and 
 they must perforce win — or lose. When 
 we returned, our host, who is brimful of 
 all knowledge, told us all about Falkland, 
 for I must own to a very hazy recollection 
 of the man. As you know, he and Hamp- 
 den were the two most eminent men who 
 took part in the Civil War of the seven- 
 teenth century. By the year 1643 Falkland 
 was "weary of the war." We read that 
 when he was among his friends, after a 
 deep silence and frequent sighs, he " would 
 with a shrill and sad accent ingeminate the 
 word ' Peace ! Peace ! ' and would passion- 
 ately profess that the very agony of war, 
 and the view of the calamities and desola- 
 tion which the kingdom did and must 
 
 endure, took his sleep from him, and 
 
 192
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 would shortly break his heart." And in 
 another book I found, " As he could not 
 heal his country's disease, he longed for 
 death, that he miofht cease to be a witness 
 of her agonies. At Gloucester he exposed 
 himself in vain to danger. On the morning 
 of the battle of Newbury, September 20, 
 1643, he knew the desired hour had come. 
 He was weary of the times, he said, but 
 he would ' be out of it ere night.' Placing 
 himself as a volunteer under Sir John Byron, 
 he chose his opportunity. Riding at a gap 
 in the hedge through which the enemy's 
 bullets were pouring, and from which all 
 his comrades stood aloof, he was struck 
 down in an instant. By a death which is 
 scarcely distinguishable from suicide, Falk- 
 land closed his eyes to the horrors which he 
 loathed ... his heart was even greater than 
 his mind ! " Poor Cavalier ! Soldiers should 
 be made of tougher stuff than he. Yet 
 we would fain wish that all men possessed 
 his tender heart. He was thirty-four years 
 of age, cut off in the splendour of his man- 
 hood, and glad to die. It is a pathetic 
 story. John Hampden, the Roundhead, 
 was only forty-nine when he fell at Chal- 
 grove ; he has a rival monument there, 
 right richly deserved. I send you the 
 quotation from Burke. "The blood of 
 
 193 N
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 man is well shed for our family, for our 
 friends, for our God, for our country, for 
 our kind ; the rest is vanity, the rest is 
 crime." Falkland's " purity and sensitive- 
 ness of character made him incapable of 
 being a partisan, and also unfitted him for 
 action in such stormy times." I think 
 myself he died of a broken heart. 
 
 Monica. 
 
 P.S. — There is a pathetic custom in 
 America, which doubtless will be carried 
 out in South Africa, that in a given week 
 people visit the cemeteries and lay wreaths 
 on the tombs of those who returned to 
 die from wounds ; while in the South, 
 wherever a soldier lies buried (without a 
 thought as to the side on which he fought), 
 the grave is decorated. Controversy is 
 swallowed up in the Eternal Peace. 
 
 194
 
 LI 
 
 On the growing of auratum lilies. 
 
 I SAW the most beautiful auratum lilies 
 the other day. They were quite eight 
 feet high, and some had fifty blossoms 
 or more. I simply ached to know how to 
 grow them, and at last I have learnt the 
 secret. Let me whisper it to you. First 
 get your bulbs, and then dig a hole eighteen 
 inches deep and place a bulb at the bottom. 
 Then fill up the hole with peat mixed 
 with plain cow manure. If you cannot get 
 peat, mix loam leaf-mould and cow manure. 
 Please remember all the roots of the lily 
 grow out of the stem, and not under the 
 bulb, so they must be nourished accordingly. 
 You must grow them in sheltered places, 
 and they do beautifully among azaleas or 
 rhododendrons, and I like them to have a 
 dark background, when possible. We ought 
 all to grow lilies in the open more than 
 we do. Monica. 
 
 !95
 
 LII 
 
 On the growing of bulbs for winter cheer. 
 
 I WISH you could see all my bulbs in 
 the drawing-room. Some are already 
 in flower, and the others are growing 
 beautifully. I fill every china bowl and 
 glass or pottery bowl I can find. The more 
 the merrier. I begin about the end of 
 September. This year I have narcissus, and 
 I often have scillas, but hyacinths are the 
 best after all. First put a thick layer of 
 moss, tolerably firmly pressed down, and 
 lay the bulbs thereon. Then keep putting 
 more moss between and around until the 
 basin is almost full. You must press the 
 moss in, not in little short wads, but in 
 long pieces so that one piece will bind in 
 with another ? I keep the bowls about a 
 month in the dark, in an airy cupboard if 
 you have no room you can shut up, and 
 when they have made plenty of roots I put 
 them in some light window. They must 
 
 be watered about once a week, above all 
 
 196
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 they must never be allowed to get dry. 
 When you water them turn them on one 
 side, so that all water which is not absorbed 
 by the moss may run out. Remember there 
 is no drainage in your pots. Of course, if 
 you are fortunate enough to possess a green- 
 house you can put them there after their 
 sojourn in the dark, and then they will come 
 on quicker. White hyacinths and the palest 
 pink are my favourites, and I much prefer 
 the single ones. They all look lovely in 
 the green bowls made at our Wrecclesham 
 Pottery. Robert Sydenham of Birmingham 
 tells you to grow them in fibre and char- 
 coal, &c, but I find moss is quite enough, 
 if kept damp and not wet. Monica. 
 
 197
 
 LIII 
 
 One day Monica went to see the little pottery 
 at Wrecclesham, within easy distance of 
 her home. She loved to see the real old 
 potter's-wheel at work, and the wet clay 
 moulded so cleverly, and the pretty green 
 pottery lying on the floor of the wooden 
 shed which serves as showroom. It was 
 a joy to climb the rough ladder and watch 
 the kiln being packed, and to realise that 
 every pot and pan " must be tried by fire." 
 When she came back she found a letter 
 lying on her desk from Staffordshire. It 
 was a strange coincidence, and the com- 
 parison raised thereby was full of interest. 
 
 DEAR Monica, — You have no doubt 
 noticed the war which is being waged 
 in the House of Commons and else- 
 where over Amended Special Rules which 
 should become law for the Potting Industry 
 on ist July next. The difference has arisen 
 on the proposed " standard of insolubility," 
 the manufacturers demanding the right to 
 
 198
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 use a five per cent, standard, and even this 
 only for white and light-coloured glazes, 
 whilst the Home Secretary (on expert advice) 
 requires a two per cent, standard of insolu- 
 bility for all glazes. We are told that ruin 
 stands before us if this standard is enforced, 
 and except for the historical fact that these 
 predictions have been made whenever any 
 measure of reform has been wrung from the 
 manufacturers, we might be daunted by their 
 determined attitude. I think I can see 
 matters from their point of view ; competi- 
 tion between them is very keen, and whilst 
 one is making experiments in glazes, another, 
 who is less scrupulous, may get all the orders. 
 Many manufacturers are far from scientific, 
 and, having adopted a useful working for- 
 mula for glaze and body of ware, they are 
 satisfied. Raw lead is a cheap and con- 
 venient material for glaze, if put on in lumps 
 almost it would flow to a smooth surface in 
 the oven. You can hardly go wrong with 
 it, and it takes less fire than any other glaze. 
 There is the other side of the question — the 
 suffering and death from its use. But many 
 large manufacturers live in the country, and 
 small ones don't care, and they have not any of 
 them any liability for loss and suffering. This 
 comes out of the pockets of the workpeople, 
 either as the actual sufferers or as ratepayers. 
 
 199
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 The lead often kills swiftly and suddenly, 
 but quite as often it cripples without shorten- 
 ing life. It is such a large subject, I hardly 
 know where to begin to tell you about it. 
 All who work in dipping-house are exposed 
 to the danger; dippers and the boys they 
 employ, glost-placers, kiln-firemen, ware- 
 cleaners, are constantly in contact with lead, 
 liquid, or dust. The poison is absorbed 
 through the pores or by inhalation. A very 
 large number of the sufferers are the ware- 
 cleaners. This is not what is called a trade, 
 it is simply labour learnt in a few days at 
 any age. Men and women crowd to work 
 in the lead because a living wage is easily 
 obtained out of it. By the early death of 
 the father (and most potters die young) the 
 elder daughter perhaps becomes the bread- 
 winner of the family, and she takes work 
 which is regular and well paid, say majolica- 
 painting or ground-laying ; and when you 
 think how popular the coloured tiles and 
 tinted ware are, you will understand that a 
 great many are employed to make them. I 
 wish we could educate people not to like 
 things which are merely " pretty." There 
 is a litho-transfer process which is substituted 
 for printing, transferring, and " filling in." 
 We ought to dislike it. There is no brush 
 work or expression in it, and I believe it 
 
 200
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 wears off, and it is very harmful to do. If 
 we could get rid of false ideals, we should 
 prefer things that are obviously simple, like 
 the quaint, brightly coloured, "sponged' 
 patterns which Mr. Reeves produces for the 
 foreign market entirely without lead, unless 
 we could afford real art work. 
 
 This district maybe described as miles of 
 slums built round factories, and shrouded 
 by dim, tainted air. No wonder people flee 
 from it — though if one has the courage to 
 stay on, one gets accustomed to the dimness, 
 and even discovers gleams of bright light 
 or splendid lurid cloud effects. The first 
 impression is of wandering through an ex- 
 tended tract of country all overspread with 
 a pall of smoke and dreary ugliness, and 
 wondering how people live at all, how it is 
 that the children, who with grimy faces and 
 ragged clothes play on the cinder-heaps, 
 chucking bits of coal instead of stones into 
 ash-coloured streams, are often well grown 
 and have an appearance of vigorous health. 
 Is it the bracing air, or ample food, or the 
 smoke, which, whilst it kills vegetation, no 
 doubt also destroys many germs of disease ? 
 It is not often that one sees vigorous health 
 in the older people — there are too evident 
 traces on many faces and forms of trade dis- 
 eases, of the great standing mystery of how 
 
 201
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the poor live and suffer, and of the intem- 
 perance which claims many victims. Quite 
 a considerable number suffer from lead- 
 poisoning ; and even where it does not 
 amount to a disabling illness, one guesses 
 that it accounts for the extreme look of 
 debility which strikes one in so many. 
 
 You will be tired of this gloomy history 
 of suffering and poverty. It is wonderful 
 that we can be light-hearted here ; but we 
 are somehow, and I think without being 
 hard-hearted. We are always ready to 
 give to cases of distress, and having done 
 this we dress smartly, and laugh and talk, 
 and are not over careful for the morrow. 
 And now, at any rate, there is a substantial 
 hope that the record of irremediable suffering 
 will be closed. You will, I think, follow 
 the Arbitration on the Amended Special 
 Rules, which is about to take place, with 
 intense interest. Let us hope it may estab- 
 lish the fact that a double silicate of lead or 
 even leadless glaze are commercially service- 
 able and adaptable to all purposes, and that 
 the manufacturers may therefore be forced 
 to adopt one of these. I wish we might hope 
 at the same time to get back the artistic feel- 
 ing and skilled and deliberate hand-work of 
 the past — that really beautiful china may be 
 produced under perfectly healthy conditions. 
 
 202
 
 LIV 
 
 From one of His Majesty's Inspectors of Schools, 
 Monica having asked for the recipe. 
 
 TAKE a two-gallon jar and place 
 therein 
 A measured gallon of unsweetened gin, 
 Three quarts of sloes well pick'd with care 
 
 and pain, 
 With five half-pounds of sugar in the cane. 
 On almond's bitter essence deftly pounce, 
 And o'er the perfumed whole pour half an 
 
 ounce, 
 Cork tight and shake, then shake and turn 
 
 again, 
 Till twice three moons have pass'd to mortal 
 
 men. 
 So shall a fragrant liquor, rosy red, 
 Reward your toil and cheer your weary head. 
 
 203
 
 LV 
 
 To a lover of garden books. 
 
 1HAVE just been reading a garden book 
 which delights me, and I feel sure 
 would delight you too, " Flowers and 
 Gardens," by Forbes Watson. It has just 
 been reprinted, with an introduction by 
 Canon Ellacombe. The whole book is so 
 real, it is not padded with quotations and 
 extracts from other garden books, but is 
 true knowledge. The author died when he 
 was young, but we bless him for this legacy 
 he left behind him. When you read you 
 learn to see the gold in the crocus as you 
 have never seen it before. " It is saffron in 
 a dull light, and in a light still duller it may 
 be almost brown. But what is it when placed 
 in the unclouded sunshine, the only time 
 when the flower is fairly describable as a cup ? 
 The petals are orange here and yellow there, 
 and everywhere display that shifting glance 
 which we have already described as only com- 
 parable to brightest gold, together with a 
 
 204
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 restless flow which, as the sunbeams stir it, 
 seems absolutely to leave the walls, and roll 
 like a fiery atmosphere within." He tells 
 us the purple crocus looks ugly in a border. 
 I wish you could look out of my window 
 now and see the purple carpet under the 
 chestnut-tree, each amethyst cup wide open 
 to the sun, with bees dipping in and out. 
 " Colour is the grand source of expression 
 in the crocus." I like this word " expres- 
 sion." But it is there in the purple as in 
 the gold. I know so well the expression of 
 a violet, a lily of the valley, and a conceited 
 holyhock, a tulip is a little vain, a sweet 
 pea gentle. I wonder if the expression of 
 a flower ever carries the same message to 
 more than one individual. It would be 
 curious to note. I suppose it might happen 
 so if the heart-strings were tuned alike. The 
 only thing is, that, as God has never made 
 two people on the same pattern, we might 
 never read the book of Nature alike. . . . 
 And it is well that it is so. 
 
 Again we turn the pages and read the 
 chapter on the cowslip. " Its poetry is the 
 poetry of common life, but of the most 
 delicious common life that can exist." How 
 true this is. Can you imagine a gardinia 
 having a conversation with a cowslip ? or a 
 tuber-rose caring to hear of meadows where 
 
 205
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 the lark nests. A cowslip always makes me 
 feel young again, it " carries us away to 
 thoughts of dairies, flocks, and pasturages, and 
 the manners of a simple, primitive time, some 
 golden age of shepherd-life long since gone 
 by." Forbes Watson wished to woo back to 
 our borders old-fashioned favourites, " quaint 
 strange plants which are expelled from our 
 modern border," but I think this wish is 
 being fulfilled more or less, and his book 
 is bearing fruit. He is much opposed 
 to planting for effect, each individual plant 
 must be noted and loved, and also he would 
 do away with all " planting out " ; flowers 
 must never be disturbed. He likes a look 
 of happy rest among the plants, and you 
 cannot find this in the spring garden and 
 geranium border. But if you followed this 
 plan of his you would miss so much beauty. 
 I love my spring garden ; and all my green- 
 ness needs the brightness of bedded-out 
 plants. I love my rockery, because I know 
 every tiny plant, but my patches of red, 
 blue, and yellow on the green lawn comfort 
 me too. I like a garden to be friendly and 
 true, and a place where you may pick a 
 flower at will to love and toy with as you 
 sit under the trees listening to the birds. I 
 do not entirely approve of a " gardener's 
 
 garden," but we need not go to extremes in 
 
 206
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 anything. The reason we all turn to Nature, 
 and Nature-books, is because in this unreal 
 age we crave reality ; and that is why I want 
 all Nature-books to be utterly real, and that 
 is why I like this particular book so much. 
 Please read it. Monica. 
 
 207
 
 LVI 
 
 A letter came from Yorkshire, a hunting letter, 
 from a hunting friend. Monica proudly 
 resented one sentence ! She herself had 
 hunted — in her time ! 
 
 YOU write to me, Monica, from Surrey 
 and bid me tell you news. Do you 
 not know that I am like the poor 
 Indian Viceroy who had much ado to remain 
 on his horse, and when addressed snapped 
 out, " Don't speak to me. Can't you see I 
 am busy riding ? " And / am busy — very 
 busy — hunting, and can hardly waste time in 
 writing to one so ignorant that I verily be- 
 lieve you might be heard saying, " The dogs 
 are barking and their tails wagging," and 
 never realise the iniquity of your remark. 
 However, if I write it is hunting or nothing, 
 but I promise to make a few digressions for 
 the sake of a weaker sister. We had a great 
 day yesterday. Our hounds were invited to 
 hunt in Wensleydale, so early in the morning 
 
 we left Aske, famous in history from its 
 
 208
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 association with Robert Aske and the ill- 
 fated Pilgrimage of Grace, and drove in a 
 carriage and four through picturesque old 
 Richmond with its royal castle that once 
 belonged to Constance of Brittany and her 
 son. Underneath the castle, in a vast under- 
 ground cavern, lie King Arthur and his 
 valiant knights waiting for some brave 
 adventurer to penetrate to their place of 
 rest, and awake them with a blast of the 
 mystic horn that hangs at its entrance. 
 Then they will rise to right the wrong ; 
 trouble, taxation, school boards, and rates 
 will vanish, and England will be " merrie 
 England " again for ever and aye. 
 
 Well, we drove up and down fearsome 
 hills with lovely views across to the Hamble- 
 dons. Far away we could see Rolleston 
 Scar and the white cliffs of Sutton Brow, 
 where the Evil One, being worsted in an 
 argument, lost his temper (if he ever had 
 one) and leapt across the valley so hot with 
 rage that a huge rock stuck to his foot and 
 was dropped half a mile away on the top of 
 Hood Hill, where all can see it now. 
 
 Arrived at the meet, we mounted our 
 horses and found friends from far and wide ; 
 many bearing well-known names in York- 
 shire annals, such as Scrope and Graham, 
 Talbot and Wyvill, Fitzwilliam and Dundas, 
 
 209 o
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 Lascelles and Powlett and Beresford. Let us 
 single out two. Graham of Norton Conyers, 
 whose cavalier ancestor, sorely stricken on 
 the field of Marston Moor, was carried by 
 his gallant steed back to his home and up 
 the old oak staircase with its broad shallow 
 steps, where the hoof-marks are imprinted 
 still. And Scrope, the best and noblest 
 name in Wensleydale, descended from the 
 brave Earl of Wilts, who was faithful till 
 death to his master, Richard II., his head 
 being brought in a basket as an acceptable 
 present to the usurping Henry of Lancaster. 
 " Mais revenous a nos moutons," as the 
 French say, which, being freely interpreted, 
 may mean the Zetland hounds in the Bedale 
 country. We found soon, and then good- 
 bye to all conversation, for the hounds rattled 
 down near Spennithorne, under Hornby, 
 close under Leyburn, where they checked a 
 moment, much to my relief, as there are walls 
 or fences every sixty yards or so, and we had 
 to do a deal of jumping. The ground is 
 firm and all grass, but the fences rather 
 awkward; still, it was the greatest fun, and 
 we all rode desperately. Then the fox 
 swung down to the river Yore, and we hurtled 
 down the hill parallel to the river lane but 
 on the Wensley side of it. Hounds crossed 
 the river, and we had to ford. It was most 
 
 2IO
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 alarming. Four men had to swim, their 
 horses being washed down by the current. 
 One poor beast was very near drowning, and 
 I don't know if they got it out. (Perhaps 
 the Water Kelpie, well known to haunt these 
 meadows, dragged it down.) I got across all 
 right, but my foot was wet, even on my 
 seventeen-hands hunter. On we went, up 
 the hill at an angle, over great grass fields, 
 and stone walls pulled down by active 
 farmers, and ran to ground at the top end of 
 Middleham Moor. They dug out the poor 
 fox and killed three fields off". It is a record, 
 as the Bedale huntsman, who has been there 
 nineteen years, has never seen a fox take 
 that line before. 
 
 It was so curious seeing the racehorses 
 exercising just above us on the moor. 
 Wensleydale looked beautiful, and I pointed 
 out Bolton Castle to my companion, where 
 poor Mary of Scotland spent many weary 
 months under the charge of Lord Scrope, 
 and the wooded banks of the Shawl, where 
 she is said to have been recaptured in a 
 wild effort to escape. How often she must 
 have ridden with her guards over the moors 
 where we are hunting now, but under what 
 different circumstances ! She in the shadow 
 of gloom and despair, and I with the joy of 
 showing the grand country I know and love 
 
 211
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 to one who had returned safely to me from 
 the hardships and dangers of the African 
 campaign. 
 
 After a while we went slowly down to 
 Middleham Castle, and rode round by the 
 ruined tower where died the young son of 
 Richard of Gloucester and Anne Neville, and 
 then on from Middleham to Danby Bridge, 
 where we found again and had a second run. 
 At last we decided that horses and riders had 
 done enough, and we were far — very far — 
 from home. So we rested awhile at Con- 
 stable Burton and started soon after five 
 o'clock, past sheets of snowdrops, over the 
 beck to Hauxwell, and across the moors to 
 Richmond. It is the sort of country that 
 " pulls hard " (as my little cousin says of her 
 bed in the morning). We saw grouse on the 
 moor, and the sky turned green, and the air 
 had a touch of frost in it. Coming down 
 into the last valley before Richmond I saw 
 fat primrose-buds. The town-lights were 
 on by the time we overlooked the old 
 borough on its steep hillsides, and it was 
 most picturesque. The curfew bell, which 
 still sounds here every evening, had not yet 
 tolled the passing day. We got home soon 
 after seven, a little tired, very hungry, and 
 ever so happy. . . . 
 
 212
 
 LV1I 
 
 Monica had a tea-party. It rained hard and 
 they could not go into the garden, so she 
 offered a prize to the one who did this 
 page of dictation with the fewest mistakes. 
 
 THE most skilful gauger was a 
 maligned cobbler, possessing a poig- 
 nant disposition, who drove a pedlars' 
 waggon, using a whip as an instrument 
 of coercion to tyrannise over his pony, 
 shod with corks ; he was a Galilean 
 and a Sadducee, and had a phthisical 
 catarrh, diphtheria, and a bilious inter- 
 mittent erysipelas. A certain sibyl, with a 
 soubriquet of a gipsy, went into an ecstasy 
 on seeing him measure peeled potatoes, and 
 saccharine tomatoes, and a heap of beans 
 without dyeing or singeing his ignitible cue, 
 or becoming paralysed with hemorrhage, 
 lifting her eyes to the ceiling of the cupola 
 of the capital to conceal her unparalleled 
 embarrassment, making a rough curtsey and 
 not harassing him with mystifying, stupefy- 
 
 213
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 ing, rarefying innuendoes, she gave him a 
 conch, a bouquet of lilies, mignonette, 
 
 fuchsia, and dahlias, a treatise on , 
 
 a copy of the Apocrypha in hieroglyphics, 
 a daguerreotype of Mendelssohn, a kaleido- 
 scope, a drachm phial of ipecacuanha, a 
 teaspoonful of naphtha for delible purposes, 
 a clarionet, some liquorice, a surcingle, a 
 cornelian of symmetrical proportions ; a 
 chronometer with movable balance-wheel, 
 a box of loose dominoes, and a catechism. 
 The gauger, who was a trafficking rectifier, 
 and a parishioner preferred a woollen surtout, 
 his choice was referable to a vacillating, 
 occasionally recurring idiosyncrasy, he wo- 
 fully uttered the apophthegm. Life is 
 chequered, but schism, apostasy, heresy, 
 villainy shall be punished : the sibyl apolo- 
 gising answered : " There is rateably some- 
 thing eligible between a conferable ellipsis 
 and a tri-syllabic diasresis." 
 
 214
 
 LVIII 
 
 To one interested in plants. 
 
 I HAVE just had a book lent me which 
 I am sure would rejoice your heart. It 
 is the "Natural History of Plants," from 
 the German of Anton Kerner von Maritann, 
 by F. W. Oliver. I opened the book at a 
 chapter on the protection of green leaves 
 against attacks of animals. Did you know 
 that " certain wild vetches which would 
 furnish very good fodder for grazing 
 mammals are regularly seen in the prickly 
 hedges along the roads, and under spring 
 bushes " ? Some plants are protected by 
 poison. The leaves of the deadly night- 
 shade are poisonous to the larger grazing 
 animals, and so by them left undisturbed ; 
 but they are non-poisonous to a small beetle, 
 and prove its most important food. Others 
 are protected by spines or thorns. " The 
 most important role in the defence against 
 food-seeking animals is performed by the 
 organs terminating in strong, tapering, shard 
 points, which wound offenders, and may be 
 called the weapons of plants." The nettle 
 
 215
 
 From the Heart of the Rose 
 
 again is protected by stinging hairs or 
 bristles. How wonderful nature is ! Then 
 I read about our mistletoe boughs. The 
 dissemination of this plant is " effected 
 through the agency of birds — thrushes in 
 particular — which feed upon the berries and 
 deposit the undigested seeds upon the 
 branches of trees." The root sinks into the 
 wood, the branches are developed above. I 
 never knew before that the scent of a flower 
 served to allure such animals as transfer the 
 pollen from flower to flower or plant to plant. 
 About five hundred different scents can be 
 distinguished. Can you picture yourself 
 trying to count so many scents ? It seems 
 an impossibility, does it not ? Then there 
 are wonderful chapters on the sensitiveness 
 of insect-loving plants. " If a tiny bit of 
 fine human hair is put on a leaf of sun-dew 
 it causes a movement at once ; if so minute a 
 thing were placed on the human tongue, the 
 most sensitive part of the body, it would not 
 be perceived at all." Do get the book and 
 read it, every page is full of interest, and 
 will show you how utterly ignorant we all 
 are ! Monica.
 
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