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.
Handbooks of Practical
Gardening
Under the General Editorship of
HARRY ROBERTS
Crown 8vo. Illustrated. Cloth, 2s. 6d. net.
T/ie following Volumes will be publis/ied during the
Spring : —
Vol. I.— THE BOOK OF ASPARAGUS. With
sections also on Celery, Salsify, Scorzonera, and
Seakale ; together with a chapter on their cooking
and preparation for the table. By Charles
Ilott, F.R.H.S., Lecturer on Horticulture to
the Cornwall County Council.
Vol. II.— THE BOOK OF THE GREEN-
HOUSE. With a special chapter on the little
Town Greenhouse. By J. C. Tallack, F.R.H.S.,
Head Gardener at Shipley Hall.
Vol. III.— THE BOOK OF THE GRAPE. By
H. W. Ward, F.R.H.S., for 25 years Head
Gardener at Longford Castle; Author of "My
Gardener."
Vol. IV.— THE BOOK OF OLD-FASHIONFD
FLOWERS. By Harry Roberts, Author of
" The Chronicle of a Cornish Garden."
Other Volumes in preparation.
Tni4M T AMU LONDON": VIGO STREET. W.
J wo IN L-rvlN n. . newyork: 251 fifth avenue.
BOOKS FOR COUNTRY HOUSES
The Natural History of Selborne. By
Gilbert White. Edited, with Introduction, by
Grant Allen. With upwards of 200 Illustra-
tions by Edmund H. New. Fcap. 410. Price
2 is. net.
" The most delightful form that can be imagined. The attraction lies
chiefly in finding the masterpiece so admirably illustrated by Mr Edmund
H. New. In black and white line work of this class he has no equal."
(Country Life.)
"We have never seen this book in a more agreeable or appropriate
form." (St James's Gazette.)
" Mr Edmund New's drawings are not merely artistic, but full of the
poetry of association." (S/>ea/ter.)
The Compleat Angler. By Izaak Walton
and Charles Cotton. Edited, with an Introduc-
tion, by Richard Le Gallienne. With Photo-
gravure Portraits of Walton and Cotton, and over
250 Illustrations and Cover designed by Edmund
H. New. Fcap. 4to. Price 15s. net.
" A delightful edition, charmingly illustrated." (Punch.)
"Of Mr Edmund H. New's illustrations we cannot speak too highly.
We have never seen better." (Spectator.)
" One of the best editions; one, we cannot help thinking, that Walton
himself would have preferred." (Daily Chronicle.)
All About Dogs. A Book for Doggy People.
By Charles Henry Lane. With 85 Full-page
Illustrations (including nearly 70 champions) by
R. H. MOORE. Gilt top. Demy 8vo. Price
7s. 6d. net.
"One of the most interesting contributions to the literature of the day."
(Daily Chronicle.)
"Mr Lane's book is worthy of a place on the shelves of any sporting
library." (Outlook.)
"A most interesting, indeed, an entirely fascinating book." (St James's
Gazette.)
ORDER FROM YOUR BOOKSELLER
BOOKS ABOUT GARDENS
Seven Gardens and a Palace. By
"E. V. B.," Author of "Days and Hours in
a Garden." Illustrated by F. L. B. Griggs
and Arthur Gordon. Crown 8vo. Price 5s.
net. Third Edition.
" A charming companion for a leisure hour." (World.)
" Altogether a pleasant and fragTant book, with something of the sense
of lavender about it." (Review of the Heck.)
The Chronicle of a Cornish Garden.
By Harry Roberts. With Seven ideal Illus-
trations by F. L. B. Griggs. Crown 8vo.
Price 5s. net.
" 'The Chronicle' is written in a frank unaffected style, and will suggest
useful ideas to other garden lovers." (The Literary World.)
" It is written with grace and knowledge, and will please as well as
teach." (Bookman.)
A Garden in the Suburbs. By Mrs
Leslie Williams. With Eight Illustrations.
Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.
Stray Leaves from a Border Garden.
By Mrs Milne-Home. With Eight Illustrations
by F. L. B. Griggs. Crown 8vo. Price 6s. net.
My Vicarage Garden. By Canon Ella-
combe, Author of " In a Gloucestershire
Garden," &c. With Illustrations by F. L.
B. Griggs. Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.
In preparation.
TOUTS! T AMI?- LONDON: VIGO STREET, W.
JWni\ l^t\\.\IL. • NEW YORK: 251 FIFTH AVENUE.
BOOKS ABOUT GARDENS
In the Garden of Peace. By Helen Milman
(Mrs Caldwell Crofton). With 24 Illustrations and
Cover designed by EDMUND H. New. Crown 8vo.
Price 5s. net. Third Edition.
" Sincerity is the note of the whole book." (Globe.)
Outside the Garden. By Helen Milman (Mrs
Caldwell Crofton). With 24 Illustrations and Cover
by Edmund H. New. Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.
" 'Outside the Garden' fully maintains Mrs Crofton's reputation as one
of Nature's keenest observers." (Daily Chronicle.)
My Roses and How I Grew Them. By
Helen Milman (Mrs Caldwell Crofton). With a
Cover designed by Edmund H. New. Crown 8vo.
Price is. 6d. net. Third Edition.
" Pleasantly written. . . . The book is such that a novice might
implicitly follow, while the more experienced may find useful hints."
(Garden.)
Flowers and Gardens. By Forbes Watson.
With Photogravure Portrait of the Author. Edited,
with a Biographical Note by Canon Ellacombe.
Crown 8vo. Price 5s. net.
A reprint of a volume much sought after by garden lovers, which has
been out of print for many years.
Garden Craft, Old and New. By John D.
Sedding. With Nine Illustrations. New Edition.
Demy 8vo. Gilt top. Price 7s. 6d. net.
The Birds of My Parish. By E. H. pollard.
With Collotype Illustrations. Crown 8vo. Price
5s. net.
" Evelyn Pollard has a very delightful style of writing, and the story of
the Birds of her Parish is charming." (Shooting Times.)
ORDER FROM YOUR BOOKSELLER
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY
Los Angeles
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below.
Form L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444
TTkrrwE»it>cnr<Tr%r r*r> nATTVADinA
PR Crofton -
U513 From the heart of
C3$f the rose ._
PR
C35f
: -