THC 
 
 STORY 
 
 OF MY 
 
 H.eLLWANGCR 
 
THE STORY 
 OF MY HOUSE 
 
 BY 
 GEORGE H. ELLW ANGER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 "THE GARDEN'S STORY" 
 
 These are but my fantasies. 
 
 MONTAIGNE 
 
 SECOND EDITION 
 
 NEW YORK 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 
 MDCCCXCI 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1890, 
 BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY. 
 
EPISTLE DEDICATORY. 
 
 A house without woman is a house without a soul. 
 
 TURKISH PROVERB. 
 
 HERE is expressed from the grapes 
 that ripen on the sunny slopes 
 of Ay a wine called Fine Fleur 
 d'Ay blanc Fine Flower of 
 white Ay a sparkling, golden, perfumed 
 nectar, to sip of which is an exhilaration. 
 
 In every ideal home there exists an es- 
 sence that likewise diffuses its fragrance 
 the fine flower of noble womanhood, with- 
 out which the house is a habitation, not a 
 home. 
 
 Alone under the ministering care of 
 woman may the routine of daily life be re- 
 lieved and varied, and the course of the 
 household made to flow free from friction 
 and asperity. Caressed by her gentle touch, 
 order ranges itself, beauty finds a dwelling- 
 place, and peace enters as an abiding guest. 
 
 Pre-eminently it is woman that idealises 
 i 
 
The Story of my House. 
 
 the home, and, with her sweet, refining 
 presence, mingled with the joyous laugh of 
 children, creates its atmosphere of serenity 
 and content. 
 
 To the gentler sex, therefore to the old 
 and to the young, to the dark and to the 
 fair, to all who woo for us the sunshine of 
 the home a health in the Fine Flower of 
 Ay! 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 EPISTLE DEDICATORY . 
 PROLOGUE .... 
 I. THE PERFECT HOUSE . 
 II. OLD ORIENTAL MASTERS 
 
 III. SIGNS IN THE SKY . 
 
 IV. THE IDEAL HAVEN 
 
 V. WHEN LEAVES GROW SERE . 
 VI. DECORATIVE DECORATIONS . 
 VII. MY STUDY WINDOWS . 
 VIII. MY INDOOR GARDEN 
 IX. A BLUE-VIOLET SALAD . 
 X. FOOTSTEPS OF SPRING . 
 XI. MAGICIANS OF THE SHELVES I 
 XII. MAGICIANS OF THE SHELVES II 
 
 XIII. AUTHORS AND READERS t 
 
 XIV. THE PAGEANT OF THE IMMORTALS . 
 EPILOGUE 
 
 PAGE 
 
 3 
 
 7 
 
 9 
 . 29 
 . 46 
 . 64 
 . 86 
 . 105 
 . 119 
 
 '43 
 . 170 
 . 187 
 . 205 
 . 225 
 . 250 
 . 272 
 . 285 
 
 M362548 
 
PROLOGUE. 
 
 Spring speaks again, and all our woods are stirred, 
 And all our wide glad wastes a-flower around. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 SHADED slope bounds the home- 
 stead to the southward, and a 
 thick copse, descending rather 
 abruptly to the river, flanks the 
 grounds in the rear. Screened 
 from sun and glare, the grass-plot is always 
 a favorite lounging-place during hot weath- 
 er. Across the water a west or south wind 
 invariably blows, freighted with coolness 
 and charged with that indefinable odor 
 which the wind gathers from its passage 
 through a wood. 
 
 From the trees and bushes and grasses 
 along the river banks the air has dusted a 
 fragrance ; from the leaves, the fern-fronds, 
 and the flowers it has extracted an aroma. 
 The scent of the swamp honey -suckle 
 along the hillside now forms its strongest 
 component part. Its perfume is tangible, 
 
8 The Story of my House. 
 
 fresh, and uncloying sentient with the de- 
 licious breath of the summer and, I fancy, 
 charms the wood-thrushes into sweeter song. 
 
 The west or south wind invariably blows. 
 Even when not felt, it may be seen in the as- 
 pen's trembling leaves; so that, however hot 
 the day, here a breeze may be always felt or 
 seen. Through the trees the river sparkles, 
 and through a wider opening may be traced 
 its sinuous course until it merges into haze 
 and sky. My book remains unopened ; it is 
 pleasanter to read the earth and air. The bees 
 hum, a wood-dove calls, the soothing roar 
 of the rapids rises and falls. So sweet is 
 summer air, so caressing are summer sounds. 
 
 How the sails have multiplied on the 
 river! Is it the haze or the sudden sunlight 
 that has transformed their canvas into un- 
 accustomed color ? Yonder a larger vessel, 
 of different mold from the pleasure-craft, is 
 rounding the river's curve in her cruise up- 
 stream. Her clean-cut prow rises high in 
 air, her painted canvas is spread, and the 
 sunlight strikes the gold of her sides. On- 
 ward she sails, graceful as a water-bird, 
 tacking at intervals to catch the breeze. At 
 once it becomes plain to me it is no mi- 
 rage, no cheat of the atmosphere, but a re- 
 ality. Up the river from the lake, through 
 the lake from the sea; launched from her 
 harbor in distant lands, and laden with her 
 precious stores, my ship has come! 
 
I. 
 
 THE PERFECT HOUSE. 
 
 People who know my house come to like it a little; 
 people who merely glance at it see nothing to call for 
 comment, and so pass on. . . . 
 
 My house not being a fine house, nor a costly house, 
 nor what people call an elegant house, what is there in 
 it to describe ? O. B. BUNCE, MY HOUSE. 
 
 MAKE no claim that the house 
 wherein I dwell is a perfect 
 one; it is my first house a 
 fledgling. One must build at 
 least thrice, it has been truly 
 observed, to obtain the perfected dwelling, 
 and still there will remain room for im- 
 provement. So many things go to make 
 up the ideal house, it is beyond human pos- 
 sibility to combine them all; while even 
 during the process of construction one's 
 tastes are liable to change or become sub- 
 ject to modification. 
 
 To the most of mankind a single venture 
 is sufficient; only architects build more than 
 once for a pastime. For the sole office of 
 the architect is to plan; the province of 
 
io The Story of my House. 
 
 the builder to delay. The asylums teem 
 with victims to the vexations of house- 
 building. Having money to make and not 
 to disburse, with no further care than to 
 complete the work in hand with the ut- 
 most leisure, the architect and builder pass 
 through the ordeal unscathed, and remain 
 to lure new victims. One exception I re- 
 call. Picturesquely situated on the eastern 
 coast, within hearing of the surge and ris- 
 ing amid the forest-growth, stands an un- 
 tenanted villa. The imposing exterior is 
 of massive stone, and all that unlimited 
 wealth and taste could contribute has been 
 lavished upon the interior. The mansion 
 was completed within the specified time, 
 but during its construction architect and 
 builder both died, the owner living only 
 three days after its completion. From the 
 placing of the foundation-stone to the pro- 
 spective fire in the hearth from commence- 
 ment to completion who may foresee the 
 possibilities ? Ever man proposes while 
 Fate disposes. 
 
 Plans look so feasible on paper, and 
 building seems so delightfully facile in 
 theory so much time, so much money, 
 and your long-dreamed- of castle in Spain 
 is a reality. But, like the quest of a Ger- 
 man professor 1 once knew who was 
 searching for a wife who must be rich, 
 beautiful, young, angelic, and not afraid of 
 
The Perfect House. 1 1 
 
 a mouse, the perfect house is difficult to at- 
 tain ; while plans often resemble the sum- 
 mer excursions one takes with the mind 
 during winter, apparently so easy to carry 
 out and yet so unfrequently realized. We 
 forget the toilsome climb up the mountain 
 where we arrive, perchance, to find the 
 view shrouded in mist; or a cold spell sets 
 in when we reach the seashore; or heavy 
 rains render the long-contemplated angling 
 trip a dismal failure. 
 
 If we leave the house to the architect, 
 he builds merely for himself he builds his 
 house, not yours. You must be the ideal- 
 ist of your own ideal. " Our so-called 
 architects," says Richard Jefferies, " are 
 mere surveyors, engineers, educated brick- 
 layers, men of hard, straight ruler and 
 square, mathematically accurate, and utterly 
 devoid of feeling. You call in your practi- 
 cal architect, and he builds you a brick 
 box. The princes of Italy knew better ; 
 they called in the poet and the painter, the 
 dreamers, to dream for them." How the 
 penetrating insight of Montaigne pierced 
 the mask of the architect: " The Merchant 
 thrives not but by the licentiousness of 
 youth; the Husbandman but by dearth of 
 corne; the Architect but by the ruine of 
 houses!" 
 
 Perhaps the easiest way out of the diffi- 
 culty is to secure a house already construct- 
 
12 The Story of my House. 
 
 ed that will meet your requirements as 
 nearly as may be. But the mere building, 
 the foundation, construction, architectural 
 details, and interior arrangement are only a 
 small part of numerous vital factors that 
 should enter into the question of the house 
 and home. There are equally the consid- 
 erations of situation, neighborhood, acces- 
 sibility, and a score of like important feat- 
 ures to be seriously meditated on. One 
 can not afford to make mistakes in build- 
 ing or in marrying. "In early manhood," 
 says Cato, "the master of a family must 
 study to plant his ground. As for build- 
 ing, he must think a long time about it." 
 The external construction is, indeed, the 
 least part of building there is still the 
 decorating and the furnishing. 
 
 Wise is he who weighs and ponders 
 ere he decides upon the location of his 
 house, especially if he would be near the 
 town. For in the ideal home I would unite 
 many things, including pure air, sufficient 
 elevation, pleasant views, the most suitable 
 exposure, good soil, freedom from noise, 
 and the natural protection from wind af- 
 forded by trees. "Let our dwelling be 
 lightsome, if possible; in a free air and 
 near a garden," is the advice of the philoso- 
 pher, Pierre du Moulin. Very apposite are 
 old Thomas Fuller's directions for a site 
 "Chiefly choose a wholesome air, for air is a 
 
The Perfect House. 13 
 
 dish one feeds on every minute, and there- 
 fore it need be good." And again: "Light 
 (God's eldest daughter) is a principal beauty 
 in a building, and a pleasant prospect is to 
 be respected." In the chapter of the Es- 
 says, on Smells and Odors, the author per- 
 tinently observes: "The principall care I 
 take, wheresoever I am lodged, is to avoid 
 and be far from all manner of filthy, foggy, 
 ill - savouring, and unwholesome aires. 
 These goodly Cities of strangely seated 
 Venice and huge-built Paris, by reason of 
 the muddy, sharp, and offending savours 
 which they yield; the one by her fennie 
 and marish situation, the other by her dur- 
 tie uncleannesse and cpntinuall mire, doe 
 greatly alter and diminish the favor which 
 I bear them." 
 
 All these desiderata are well-nigh im- 
 possible to unite in the city. There all 
 manner of nuisances necessarily exist 
 manufactories which discharge noxious 
 smoke and soot, the clangor of bells and 
 whistles, an atmosphere more or less 
 charged with unwholesome exhalations. 
 This more particularly in summer; in win- 
 ter I grant the city has its charms and ad- 
 vantages. Wealth may sometimes com- 
 bine the delights of urban and rural life, as 
 when a large residence plot is retained in 
 a pleasant neighborhood of the town. But 
 even unlimited means can rarely procure a 
 
14 The Story of my House. 
 
 place of this description, which comes by 
 inheritance rather than by choosing, and in 
 the end becomes too valuable to retain. 
 Besides, however fine the ancestral trees 
 and endeared the homestead, it must still 
 lack the repose of the country, the free ex- 
 panse of sky, the unfettered breadth of the 
 fields. 
 
 When I look about me I find the com- 
 bination I would attain a difficult one to 
 secure in almost any city. If I build in the 
 suburbs, upon the most fashionable ave- 
 nue, its approaches may be disagreeable 
 and the surrounding landscape flat and un- 
 inviting. The opposite quarter of the sub- 
 urbs, the main northern residence avenue, 
 will be windy during winter. If I locate 
 westward there may be factories and car- 
 shops to constantly offend the ear; if I 
 move eastward unsavory odors may assail, 
 and if I select a site in yet another neigh- 
 borhood that commends itself for its eleva- 
 tion and pleasant society, there may be the 
 smoke and soot of neighboring chimneys 
 to defile the air and intrude themselves 
 unceasingly into my dwelling. The coun- 
 try-seat sufficiently removed from town, 
 and yet comparatively accessible, alone 
 may yield, during the greater portion of 
 the year, all the desired qualifications of 
 the ideal home. Does not Beranger truly 
 sing 
 
The Perfect House. 15 
 
 Cherchons loin du bruit de la ville 
 Pour le bonheur un sur asile. 
 
 Seek we far from the city's noise 
 A refuge safe for peaceful joys. 
 
 And have not all the poets before him apos- 
 trophized the delights of a country life ? 
 
 Why not the town-house, and also the 
 country-seat a hibernaculum for the win- 
 ter, and a villeggiatura for the summer? 
 Unfortunately, this would involve construct- 
 ing two houses, meeting a double building 
 liability, harboring two sets of worries ; 
 and, moreover, one's library, however 
 modest, can not well be disarranged or 
 periodically shifted from one place to an- 
 other. 
 
 The old Latins were distinguished as 
 we well know for their love of the country. 
 Virgil, Ovid, Tibullus, and Terence all had 
 their country-seats. Horace, in addition to 
 the Sabine farm, possessed his cottage at 
 Tivoli, and longed for a third resort at Sor- 
 rento. Pliny the Younger, and Cicero rode 
 seventeen miles from Rome to Tusculum 
 daily to gain repose. Pliny's letters attest 
 his intense fondness for rural surroundings. 
 The holder of numerous country-houses, 
 he has described two of them very minute- 
 ly, his descriptions giving to posterity the 
 most reliable and truthful account of the 
 old Roman villas. Of all his villas, includ- 
 ing those at Tusculum, Praeneste, Tibur, 
 
1 6 The Story of my House. 
 
 several on Lake Como, and his Laurentine 
 and Tuscan resorts, the two latter were his 
 especial favorites, whose fascinations he 
 never tires of recounting. Especially at- 
 tractive is his account of Laurentium : the 
 apartments so planned as to command the 
 most pleasing views ; the dining-room 
 built out into the sea, ever washed by the 
 advancing wave ; the terrace before the 
 gallery redolent with the scent of violets ; 
 the gallery itself so placed that the shadow 
 of the building was thrown on the terrace 
 in the forenoon ; and at the end of the gal- 
 lery " the little garden apartment" looking 
 on" one side to the terrace, on the other to 
 the sea ; his elaborate bath - rooms and 
 dressing-rooms, his tennis-court and tower, 
 and his own sleeping-room carefully con- 
 structed for the exclusion of noise. " My 
 house is for use, and not for show," he ex- 
 claims ; "I retire to it for a little quiet 
 reading and writing, and for the bodily 
 rest which freshens the mind." One side 
 of the spacious sitting-room invited the 
 morning, the other the afternoon sun. One 
 room focused the sunlight the entire day. 
 In the walls of this his study was "a 
 bookcase for such works as can never be 
 read too often." 
 
 The Tuscan villa was on a still more 
 extensive scale, the house facing the south, 
 and adorned with a broad, long colonnade, 
 
The Perfect House. 17 
 
 in front of which reposed a terrace embel- 
 lished with numerous figures and bounded 
 with a hedge of box from whence one de- 
 scended to the lawn inclosed with ever- 
 greens shaped into a variety of forms. 
 This, in turn, he states, was fenced in by a 
 box-covered wall rising by step-like ranges 
 to the top, beyond which extended the 
 green meads, fields, and thickets of the Tus- 
 can plain, tempered on the calmest days by 
 the breeze from the neighboring Apennines. 
 The dining-room on one extremity of the 
 terrace commanded the magnificent pros- 
 pect, and almost cooled the Falernian. 
 There, too, are luxurious summer and win- 
 ter rooms, a tennis-court, a hippodrome 
 for horse exercise, shaded marble alcoves 
 in the gardens, and the play of fountain 
 and ripple of running water. The long 
 epistle to Domitius Apollinaris, descriptive 
 of the Tuscan retreat, he concludes by say- 
 ing : " You will hardly think it a trouble to 
 read the description of a place which I am 
 persuaded would charm you were you to 
 see it/' 
 
 It was the delightful situation and the 
 well cared for gardens of Pliny's country- 
 seats, it will be seen, no less than the re- 
 fined elegance and the conveniences of the 
 splendid houses themselves, of which Pliny 
 was mainly his own architect, that rendered 
 them so attractive. Assuredly he must 
 
1 8 The Story of my House. 
 
 have been a most accomplished house- 
 builder and artist-architect ; for, in addition 
 to the many practical and artistic features 
 he has enumerated with such precision, he 
 specifies a room so contrived that when he 
 was in it he seemed to be at a distance 
 from his own house. But even Pliny's 
 wealth and inventive resources, much as 
 they contributed to his comfort, could not 
 combine everything. He could not bring 
 Laurentium to him ; he must needs go to 
 her. The daily ride of seventeen miles and 
 back to the city must have been irksome 
 during bad weather ; and even amid all his 
 luxury and beauty of scenery he bewails 
 the lack of running water at Laurentium. 
 Luxurious and convenient as were the old 
 Roman villas, they were built with only 
 one story, in which respect at least the 
 modern house is an improvement upon 
 the house of the ancients ; and there yet 
 remain other beautiful sites than those 
 along the Tyrrhenian sea or in the vale of 
 Ustica. 
 
 Whether the house be situated in the 
 country or in the town, whether it be large 
 or small, it is apparent that the site and the 
 exposure are of primary importance. So 
 far as situation is concerned, a rise of ground 
 and an easterly exposure, with the living- 
 rooms on the south side, is undoubtedly 
 the pleasantest. During the summer the 
 
The Perfect House. 19 
 
 prevailing west wind blows the dust of the 
 street in the opposite direction ; during 
 winter the living-rooms are open to the 
 light and sun. The comfort of the house 
 during summer, and the outer prospect 
 from within during winter, will depend in 
 no small degree upon the proper planting 
 of the grounds. 
 
 Deciduous trees, and here the variety is 
 great, will shade and cool it in summer, 
 evergreens will furnish and warm its sur- 
 roundings in winter ; while for a great 
 portion of the year the hardy flower-gar- 
 den, including the shrubberies that screen 
 the grounds from the highway, and the 
 climbers which disburse their bloom and 
 fragrance over its verandas and porches, 
 will contribute largely to its beauty and 
 attractiveness. 
 
 Somehow I can not look upon my 
 house by itself, without including as acces- 
 sories, nay, as essential parts of it, its out- 
 ward surroundings and external Nature 
 the woods whence its joists and rafters 
 were hewed, the earth that supplied its mor- 
 tar, brick, and stone, the coal whence it de- 
 rives its light and heat, the trees that ward 
 off the wind in winter and shield it from the 
 sun in summer, the garden which contrib- 
 utes its flowers, the orchards and vineyards 
 that supply its fruits, the teeming fields and 
 pastures that continuously yield the largess 
 
2O The Story of my House. 
 
 of their corn, and flocks, and herds. From 
 each of these my house and I receive a 
 tithe. 
 
 My purpose, however, even were I able 
 to do the subject justice, is not to treat of 
 the adornment of gardens, of architectural 
 styles, expression of purpose in building, 
 or the proper exterior form for the Ameri- 
 can town-house and country villa. There 
 remain, nevertheless, some features of the 
 interior of the home to which I would fain 
 call attention, though even here, more than 
 in the matter of the exterior, opinions ne- 
 cessarily differ. Every house, methinks, 
 should possess its distinctive character, its 
 individual sentiment or expression ; and 
 this depends less upon the architect and 
 the professional decorator than upon the 
 taste reflected by the occupants. And yet 
 there is nothing so bizarre or atrocious 
 that it will not please some ; there exists 
 nothing so perfect as to please all. 
 
 Shall the ideal house be large or small ? 
 Excellent results may follow in either case 
 in intelligent, thoughtful hands. Where 
 money is merely a secondary object, then 
 the great luxuriously furnished rooms, the 
 lofty ceilings, the grand halls and stair- 
 cases, the picture gallery, the music, bill- 
 iard, and ball rooms, the house of mag- 
 nificent distances and perspectives. Still 
 man is not content ; for such a house, to 
 
The Perfect House. 21 
 
 be beautiful, calls for constant care, a retinue 
 of servants, a blaze of light, a round of 
 visitors and entertainments to populate its 
 vast apartments and render it companion- 
 able. The house to entertain in and the 
 house to live in are generally two sepa- 
 rate things ; but, of the two, you want to 
 live in your house more than to entertain 
 in it. 
 
 Doubtless, even to those possessed of 
 abundant means, the medium-sized house, 
 sufficiently roomy for all ordinary purposes 
 and yet cosy enough for family comfort, is 
 the most satisfactory. In daily domestic 
 life you do not become lost and absorbed 
 in its magnitude ; and for the matter of 
 entertainments, on a large scale, you always 
 have the resource of a "hall," with no 
 further trouble beyond that of issuing the 
 invitations and liquidating the bills.' In 
 the ideal dwelling-house of medium size 
 even this will be dispensed with, while 
 still preserving the charm of privacy one 
 has simply to add a supplementary supper- 
 room and an ample ball-room, to be thrown 
 open only on special occasions for the ac- 
 commodation of the overflow. Thus it 
 would be possible to avoid a barn to live 
 in, and a cote to entertain in. 
 
 The great thing in house planning is to 
 think ahead, and still think ahead. The 
 hall which looks so spacious on paper is 
 
22 The Story of my House. 
 
 sure to contract, and ordinary-sized rooms 
 will shrink perceptibly when they come to 
 be furnished. It is important that the 
 spaces between the doors and windows, 
 the proportionate height of the doors and 
 windows, the many little conveniencies, 
 and innumerable minor yet major details, 
 like the placing of mantels, registers, chan- 
 deliers and side-lights, be planned by the 
 occupant, and not left to the mercy of 
 the architect. The latter will place the 
 mantel on the side of a long, narrow room, 
 thereby diminishing the width several feet, 
 when it should go at the end. He will 
 hang the doors so they will bump together, 
 or open on the side you do not want them 
 to open on. If he concede you a spacious 
 hall and library, he will clip on the vestibule, 
 or be a miser when he doles out the space 
 for the stairway landing or the butler's 
 pantry. And what architect will stop to 
 think of that most important of household 
 institutions a roomy, convenient, con- 
 cealed catch-all, or rather a series of catch- 
 alls ! 
 
 Even so simple a contrivance as an in- 
 visible small wardrobe in the wall adjoin- 
 ing the entrance a receptacle for hats, 
 wraps, and waterproofs he has never yet 
 devised. Every hall must of necessity be 
 littered up with that hideous contrivance, 
 a hat-rack, in a more or less offensive form, 
 
The Perfect House. 23 
 
 when at a touch a panel in the wainscot 
 might fly open to joyfully engulf the outer 
 vesture of visitors. You must see your 
 house planned and furnished with the in- 
 ward eye ere the foundation is laid, and 
 exercise the clairvoyant's art if you would 
 not be disappointed when it is finally ready 
 for habitation. The question of closet- 
 room is best left to the mistress of the 
 house, otherwise it is certain to be stinted ; 
 and it were economy in the end to secure 
 the services of a competent chef to plan the 
 kitchen and its accessories that tributary 
 of the home through whose savory or un- 
 savory channels so great a wave of human 
 enjoyment or dolor flows. 
 
 It is with houses very much as it is with 
 gardens no two are ever precisely alike ; 
 so far at least as the interior of the former 
 is concerned. Both reflect, or should re- 
 flect, through a hundred different ways and 
 niceties of adjustment and arrangement, the 
 individual tastes of those who are instru- 
 mental in their creation. The ideal house 
 must first be conceived by those who are 
 to dwell in it, modeled according to their 
 requirements, mirroring their ideas, their 
 refinement, and their conceptions of the 
 useful and the beautiful. By different per- 
 sons these ends are approached by different 
 ways. So long as we attain the desired 
 end, the route thereto is of little conse- 
 
24 The Story of my House. 
 
 quence. But in the ideal house, it may be 
 observed, a little money and a good deal of 
 taste go a very great way. 
 
 All the eyes of Argus and all the clubs 
 of Hercules must need be yours, would you 
 see your house perfectly planned and per- 
 fectly constructed. The terrible gantlet one 
 has to run ! He who builds should have 
 nothing to divert his mind from the task. It 
 is the work of a life-time crowded into a 
 year. 
 
 And when all is done, and the lights 
 are turned on and the house is peopled 
 with its guests, who is there that is fully 
 content with the result of his labor ? who 
 that finds in the fruition the full promise of 
 the bloom ? The perfect house in itself ex- 
 ists no more than the perfect man or wo- 
 man. We can at best set up an exalted 
 standard of excellence to approximate as 
 nearly as we may. It is very much in 
 building as it is in life, where content with 
 what we have is, after all, the true source 
 of happiness. "I long ago lost a hound, 
 a bay horse, and a turtle-dove, and am 
 still on their trail," is the burden of Wai- 
 den. How many of us are not likewise in 
 quest of the something that ever eludes ? 
 When we think we have come up with 
 the fox, it is but his shadow we seize ; he 
 himself has already vanished round the ra- 
 vine. We follow, but may not overtake, 
 
The Perfect House. 25 
 
 at will, the siren that the poet beckoned for 
 in vain : 
 
 Ah, sweet Content ! where doth thine harbor hold ? 
 
 Is it in churches with religious men 
 Which please the gods with prayers manifold, 
 
 And in their studies meditate it then ? 
 Whether thou dost in heaven or earth appear, 
 
 Be where thou wilt, thou wilt not harbor here.* 
 
 What philosopher among all who have 
 moralized and analyzed has discovered the 
 sought-for stone ? Amiel failed in the pur- 
 suit : " I am always waiting for the woman 
 and the work which shall be capable of 
 taking entire possession of my soul, and of 
 becoming my end and aim. " "A man's hap- 
 piness," says Alphonse Karr, in an apothegm 
 worthy of La Bruyere, "consists in that 
 which he has not got, or that which he no 
 longer has/' The coveted bauble palls 
 when it is finally ours, the "dove" escapes, 
 and we all grow old. Absolute happi- 
 ness flees when we enter our 'teens. Me- 
 thinks the French poet Chenier has resolved 
 the experience of most of us with reference 
 to a certain phase of life as felicitously as 
 any of those who have endured and felt : 
 
 Tout homme a ses douleurs. Mais aux yeux de ses 
 
 freres 
 
 Chacun d'un front serein deguise ses miseres, 
 Chacun ne plaint que soi. Chacun dans son ennui 
 Envie un autre humain qui se plaint comme lui. 
 
 * Barnabe Barnes. 
 
26 The Story of my House. 
 
 Nul des autres mortals ne mesure les peines, 
 Qu'ils savent tpus cacher comme il cache les siennes, 
 Et chacun, 1'oeil en pleurs, en son coeur douloureux 
 Se dit : Excepte moi, tout le monde est heureux. 
 
 Each man his sorrows hath ; but, in his brothers' eyes, 
 Each one with brow serene his troubles doth disguise. 
 Each of himself complains ; each one. in weariness, 
 Envies a fellow-man who mourns in like distress. 
 
 None measureth the pains that all as well conceal 
 As he himself doth hide the griefs that he doth feel ; 
 And each, with tearful eye, says in his sorrowing heart, 
 Excepting me, the world with happiness hath part. 
 
 Yet, I like to think, and cherish the thought, 
 when the cloud reveals no silver lining, that 
 however disappointing some phases of life 
 may be, some experiences of human char- 
 acter, there are bright days and pleasant 
 places ahead in the future, somewhere and 
 sometime. Happiness is coy at the best, 
 fickle in bestowing her favors; and we find 
 her the more delightful, possibly, in that, like 
 the sunshine, she comes and goes. We 
 awaken some morning to find her present, 
 and the next morning she has flown. "It 
 sometimes seemeth that when we least 
 think on her she is pleased to sport with 
 us." So many she has to minister to that 
 she has necessarily but a brief period to 
 remain. Still I see her ever laughing with 
 the children at play, and find her lingering 
 where industry abides. Beside the humble 
 board of the laborer she is often found, 
 while frequently passing by the homes of 
 
The Perfect House. 27 
 
 the rich. Over gardens and fields she hov- 
 ers on pleasant days of spring, and on 
 blustering winter nights I hear the rustle of 
 her wings above the poet's page. The 
 sunshine that sifts through the window, 
 warming and gilding all my surround- 
 ings, is mine to-day ; to-morrow it may 
 stream elsewhere. It is all the brighter 
 when it comes ; but to possess it 1 must 
 open wide the casement to let in the 
 beams. 
 
 Climbing with the sunny Rector of Ev- 
 ersley to the lonely tarn amid the hills you 
 have read and admired Chalk-Stream Stud- 
 ies; or, if not, you have that enjoyment in 
 store I recall the moral that adorns this 
 delightful essay. "What matter," he hap- 
 pily reasons, "if, after two hours of such 
 enjoyment, he (the angler) goes down 
 again into the world of man with empty 
 creel or with a dozen pounders or two- 
 pounders, shorter, gamer, and redder- 
 fleshed than ever came out of Thames or 
 Kennet ? What matter ? If he has not 
 caught them, he might have caught them ; 
 he has been catching them in imagination 
 all the way up; and if he be a minute phi- 
 losopher, he holds that there is no falser 
 proverb than that devil's beatitude, ' Blessed 
 is he who expecteth nothing, for he shall 
 not be disappointed.' Say, rather: 'Bless- 
 ed is he who expecteth everything, for he 
 
28 The Story of my House. 
 
 enjoys everything once, at least; and, if it 
 falls out true, twice also.' ' 
 
 And with this gentle spirit, despite his 
 many trials, Charles Kingsley lived on 
 through life, shedding sunshine and cheer 
 from the vine-embowered rectory at Evers- 
 ley. His house was large enough for his 
 personal comforts, for the entertainment 
 of his chosen friends, and for the satisfac- 
 tion of his domestic requirements; and this 
 sufficed. Reflecting the " sweetness and 
 light" of his own nature, it became the 
 perfect house to him for the reason that he 
 was satisfied with his surroundings. The 
 ideal home is largely the handiwork of the 
 contented mind; and if before we build 
 we learn to extract the finer essences of 
 things, we may then pluck the rose where 
 others only find the thorn. 
 
II. 
 
 OLD ORIENTAL MASTERS. 
 
 It is certain that colors exercise an influence over us 
 to the extent of rendering us gay or sad, according to 
 their shades. VOYAGE AUTOUR DE MA CHAMBRE. 
 
 HE floors of my house, where 
 hard - wood floors exist, are 
 shellacked. This imparts an ex- 
 cellent finish without darkening 
 the wood, and the subsequent 
 care of the floor is slight. Beneath the 
 rugs the finish is sand-papered to prevent 
 them from sliding. Oiling floors is objec- 
 tionable, the wood turning dark, and ne- 
 cessitating almost daily going over with a 
 damp and a dry cloth to keep them clean. 
 Waxing is a labor, and renders the floors 
 slippery. Varnishing makes a very smooth 
 surface, easily marred, the gloss soon 
 wearing in the least exposed places. 
 
 My floors must, first of all, be subservi- 
 ent and subordinate to my rugs. By shift- 
 ing my rugs I immediately change the color 
 of a room, the expression of my house ; I 
 
30 The Story of my House. 
 
 may cool a room in summer or warm it in 
 winter at will. Beautiful as beautiful paint- 
 ings are some of the antique Persian and 
 Conia prayers, and the marvelously wrought 
 Yourdes and ancient Coulas. I believe there 
 is no comprehensive book on rugs. Some 
 enterprising publisher should send a capa- 
 ble artist to Asia for a year and publish an 
 exhaustive Edition de luxe to supply a long- 
 felt want. An artistic work of this nature 
 would be as desirable as an edition of King 
 Solomon's lost book on gems. For color 
 and color-blending we must go to the Ori- 
 entals ; they have found its soul. Who else 
 could blend greens and blues so felicitously, 
 or place the different reds in riotous juxta- 
 position, or combine the whole gamut of 
 browns with the entire octave of yellows ? 
 They play with colors as a musician plays 
 with the keys of an instrument. They sound 
 no false notes, they strike no discords. I 
 speak of the art as exhibited by the best 
 masters. There are plenty of daubs and 
 crudities, it is true, a single specimen of 
 which will throw a whole house into an en- 
 tasia. There is poor sculpture and there are 
 poor paintings. The finer examples of the 
 loom deserve to be stamped with the artist's 
 name just as much as a canvas of Gerome 
 or a love-song of Hafiz. 
 
 There can be nothing more artistic, there 
 is nothing more seductive than these old 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 31 
 
 Asiatic hand-paintings. I am drawn and 
 fascinated by their weird beauty. What 
 charms do they not reveal ! what multi- 
 plicity yet harmony of hue and design ! 
 Though not unfrequently repeating them- 
 selves in the same piece, color and design 
 never tire. They have their recurrent beat 
 and rhythm, like the harmonious cadence of 
 the Pantoum. This large Afghan^ rug, for 
 instance, mellow with use and time, the 
 general tone of which resembles that of a 
 zircon, is composed of innumerable shades 
 of red, so many shades I can scarcely count 
 them, one shade melting into another shade 
 shades of shades till the eye renounces 
 the task of pursuit. When examined close- 
 ly, I find even magenta has been employed 
 by the craftsman, to become in his hands 
 a medium of beauty. A European pro- 
 duces a stiff-set pattern, the Oriental a maze 
 of which one never tires. There is always 
 an unsuspected figure or color to reveal it- 
 self, an oddity to suddenly appear, new 
 lights and new shadows. 
 
 In coloring, some of the Afghans touch 
 closely upon the Bokharas, though the 
 former are less closely woven, but are gen- 
 erally less set, and more pleasing in design. 
 As a class, I think the Bokharas are over- 
 estimated, their usual lack of borders or in- 
 distinct bordering giving them an unfin- 
 ished look, despite their fineness of texture 
 
32 The Story of my House. 
 
 and the gloss of their terra-cotta shades. 
 My large thick blue Bokhara, however, is a 
 striking departure from the type, and I 
 never tire of admiring its artistic frame and 
 its kaleidoscopic tints. The larger red Bok- 
 haras, where the pattern is fine, the texture 
 thin and silky, and the rug straight, are 
 very rich and handsome used as full single 
 portttres. But a rug when hung, or used 
 as a portiere, must be something entirely 
 put of the ordinary to be in keeping, rugs 
 in all such cases virtually competing with 
 and taking the place of old tapestries. The 
 substitute, therefore, should afford equal 
 delight to the eye. I turn this closely- 
 woven, heavy Shiraz, with the nap running 
 toward the light, and its forest of fluctuant 
 palm leaves is blue. I spread it in the re- 
 verse direction to see its color change like a 
 tourmaline, and the field become resilient 
 with soft rich greens. Dusty, soiled, and 
 dingy when I first saw it unrolled from the 
 bale, it is now a gem, alive to every change 
 of light and shade. Time has subdued 
 its original strong colors. These delicate 
 gleams of buff that dance upon the border 
 were once a pronounced brown-crimson, 
 while the original yellows of some of the 
 figures have softened to pale primrose. Its 
 blues and greens are alone unfaded, though 
 refined by age. The artist painted better 
 than he knew ; or did he designedly leave 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 33 
 
 the finishing touches to the master-hand of 
 Time ? 
 
 How strange this patch of shadow and 
 yonder gleam of light in this ancient Tiflis, 
 the shadow shifting to light and the light 
 darkening to shadow, as I reverse my po- 
 sition. The cunning designer has suddenly 
 reversed the nap in the center, and hence 
 its puzzling changes. I marvel who has 
 knelt upon these Conia prayers, in whose 
 glowing centers four shades of blue and 
 four shades of red are fused so impercepti- 
 bly you may scarcely tell where one shade 
 ends and another begins 
 
 The mossy marbles rest 
 
 On the knees that they have pressed 
 
 In their bloom. 
 
 Tender tones of olive, yellow, and blue 
 lurk in some of the old Coulas, and suave 
 tints of peach-blow and of rose gleam in the 
 patterns of the rarer Kermans. Generally 
 speaking, the Coulas possess little claim to 
 distinction. But the finer old examples are 
 a marked exception, many resembling the 
 Yourdes prayers, while some are as vel- 
 vety and intricate in design as the old 
 Meccas. My most admired Coula (4X5) 
 in its pattern and coloring might have been 
 copied from an ancient cathedral window. 
 
 This yellow Daghestan, coined four-score 
 years ago, is a veritable field of the cloth of 
 
34 The Story of my House. 
 
 gold. There are also the precious old Per- 
 sian Sennas, with a diamond flashing in the 
 center, and a certain weave of Anatolians 
 with a bloom upon them like that of a ripe 
 plum, so velvety one wants to stroke them 
 just for the pleasure of the caress. When 
 viewed against the nap, they look almost 
 black, the colors hidden by the heavy fleece 
 till revealed by another angle 01 view. 
 What strange conceits, what fine-spun 
 webs of tracery, what fillets, tangles, and 
 tessellations of color do they not disclose ! 
 
 The command in the Khoran prohibit- 
 ing its followers from reproducing the image 
 of living things has not been without its 
 pronounced advantage. It has served to 
 develop the infinite beauty of geometrical 
 design. Color-study no edict of Mohammed 
 could banish ; it is a sixth sense reflected 
 from the sky and atmosphere a priceless 
 gift of Allah ! There has long been want- 
 ing a well-defined scale to describe and 
 place the different shades intelligibly, just 
 as there exists a standard of weights and 
 measures comprehensible by all. Artists 
 have one set of terms, shopmen and milli- 
 ners another ; the average person can not 
 define a shade. Who can place the hues 
 of a sunset sky ? There needs to be a 
 color-congress to form a closer chromatic 
 scale, and the task belongs by right to the 
 Orientals. 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 35 
 
 As a class, the Kazaks are not as desir- 
 able as many other makes, design and col- 
 orings frequently being so obtrusive, and 
 the weave usually being marked by coarse- 
 ness. Yet some Kazaks there are of re- 
 markable beauty. My best examples of Ka- 
 zak art are done in cardinal and old gold. 
 The one is an antique, 6x7, thin and 
 finely woven, the ground-work in three 
 shades of red, with the "tree pattern " raised 
 in black upon the field, and a storm of 
 white flakes scattered over it. The other 
 is a very old piece of nearly similar size, in 
 perfect preservation, so heavy that to lift it 
 is a task. Its luster is marvelous. The 
 pattern is one of the most admired of all 
 the Kazak patterns when the colors are 
 happily employed, consisting of squares 
 within squares or octagons variously dis- 
 persed upon the field, the largest figure in 
 the center. The colors consist simply of 
 four shades of yellow, the exquisite play of 
 light and shade produced by the glossy 
 texture of the wool employed and the fre- 
 quent shiftings of the nap heightening the 
 effect. It is my Asian Diaz, and my ship 
 contained it among her precious stores. 
 
 Always among the most beautiful of 
 Persian and Turkish rugs are those of vari- 
 ous makes not often met with, that, excep- 
 tionally heavy and glossy, possess a simi- 
 lar tone to that of the Kazak just specified 
 3 
 
The Story of my House. 
 
 blendings and interblendings of russet, 
 chestnut, fawn, and fallow. To me their 
 sleek and velvety pile, their striped and 
 spotted surfaces, their turmoil of tawny 
 hues, possess an attraction akin to that of 
 the wild beasts of the remote Eastern jun- 
 gle. Looking at them, I instinctively re- 
 call a carnivorous animal fascinating in his 
 fulvous beauty, supreme in his splendor and 
 his sheen. These graceful arabesques, are 
 they not like the curving haunches of some 
 huge cat of the desert? These lucent spots 
 and markings, do they not resemble the 
 shimmering pelt of a couchant carnivore? 
 A strange fascination they possess for me ; a 
 subdued ferity, even to the animal odor that 
 clings about their lambent folds ; and, some- 
 times, the gleams as of feline eyes that peer 
 from the dots of their borders. 
 
 The Yourdes are among the few weaves 
 that do not acquire an additional value from 
 silkiness. Time mellows their naturally 
 soft shades, and use imparts to them a 
 slight luster. But their great value consists 
 in detail of design and contrast of a few 
 colors black and dark bands on a gray- 
 white ground for the border, the plain 
 prayer-disks usually of gray, blue, green, 
 or maroon. The warp and nap being rela- 
 tively thin, and color and design not being 
 dependent upon strong or direct light to 
 emphasize them, they are excellently adapt- 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 37 
 
 ed for hangings indeed, they are too ten- 
 der and precious to be placed upon the floor. 
 The antique Yourdes prayers usually come 
 in sizes about 4x6, and are deservedly 
 among the most prized among Oriental 
 textiles. Some of the finer Persians are 
 equally suitable for hangings. By Persians 
 I refer to what is known as " Persian 
 prayers," the term being used to designate 
 a certain class of Persian fabrics with cen- 
 ters of self-colors, to which, for some un- 
 explained reason, a more definite name is 
 not given. More strictly speaking, with 
 double disks, the larger one plain and the 
 smaller partially embroidered or figured, 
 the arabesque "a" and typical Shiraz fig- 
 ure generally present in the border. These 
 Persians are recognizable at a glance. Can 
 we wonder the Moslem is so resigned to 
 prayer with such prie-Dieus to kneel upon ! 
 Under the term Daghestan are lumped 
 the makes of this and numerous other dis- 
 tricts, the designs of which are somewhat 
 similar. There are very many fine true 
 Daghestans and Kubas, as well as very 
 many poor ones, the old examples being 
 relatively much handsomer than the mod- 
 ern. The ordinary Daghestan border re- 
 peats itself far too often, and its common- 
 ness mars many an otherwise valuable 
 work of art. Next to the Meccas, the 
 Daghestans are probably among the most 
 
The Story of viv House. 
 
 crooked of the products of Eastern looms, 
 and numberless specimens of extraordinary 
 sheen and rare design and coloring are 
 virtually spoiled on this account. A long 
 strip frequently has a horse-shoe curve, and 
 even very small pieces are often so much 
 broader at one end as to prove positively 
 distressing to the sense of proportion. 
 
 The finer Meccas, distinguished for ex- 
 treme softness and silkiness, combined with 
 intricacy and pronounced individuality of 
 design, are generally not only very crooked, 
 but gathered and puffed at the corners as 
 well. A straight Mecca one rarely sees 
 except in dreams. This is to be deplored, 
 for their lovely arabesques and gracious 
 fantasies are not to be met with else- 
 where. A search for absolute geomet- 
 rical precision in Oriental rugs, however, 
 would be like Kaphira's pursuit of the gold- 
 en ball. They are made and painted by 
 hand, and not cut out by machine. There- 
 in consists their enchantment.^ Neverthe- 
 less, one should only look for" and secure 
 comparatively straight specimens ; the very 
 crooked, the very crude, and the very glar- 
 ing are worthless at any price. "A cur's 
 tail," says a Turkish adage, ''may be 
 warmed and pressed and bound round with 
 ligatures, and after a twelve years' labor be- 
 stowed upon it, still it will retain its natural 
 form." The dog in the adage was intend- 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 
 
 ed, not for a Christian, but for a rug. No 
 wetting, stretching and tacking will remove 
 its aged seams and wrinkles 
 
 What nature hath not taught, no art can frame : 
 Wild born be wild still, though by force you tame.* 
 
 Distinct from all other productions are 
 the Kourdestans, notably the large anchor- 
 pattern. These are difficult to manage, 
 however, the design being so striking. 
 Very large figures or very glaring colors 
 are on this account to be avoided. They 
 tyrannize over their companions, or clash 
 with surrounding objects. The eye is per- 
 petually directed to them and they disturb 
 the sense of repose. Many specimens of 
 the Carabaghs are remarkable for their 
 beautiful combination of colors, especially 
 in the blending of reds, olives, and blues. 
 The nap is generally very heavy, and the 
 wool employed not unfrequently of extreme 
 glossiness, imparting almost an oily look to 
 the surface. The rather large hexagonal 
 figures, moreover, without being glaring 
 are usually artistic and striking. Hand- 
 some are many of the Persian camel's-hair 
 rugs, unique in design and usually of very 
 subdued colors. 
 
 The Cashmeres or Somaks are lacking 
 in animation compared with many other 
 
 * Thomas Campion, Third Booke of Ayres. 
 
40 The Story of my House. 
 
 weaves. Individuality they possess, but 
 neither sheen, softness of texture, nor 
 marked grace of design. For the dining- 
 room, the most serviceable rugs are the 
 large India, and the Turkish Ouchaks, 
 though when obtainable some of the finer 
 large Khorassans and Persians are equally 
 desirable. Both of the latter are finer than 
 the Ouchaks, and old pieces possess a 
 brilliant luster which the Ouchaks lack. 
 The fine large thick India rugs are among 
 the most magnificent in the world, soft as 
 a houri's cheek, and diapered and jeweled 
 with every shade of color ; yet harmonious 
 as the play of an opal. It is impossible to 
 conceive of more superb color-blending. 
 
 While age is unquestionably an impor- 
 tant factor in the beauty of a rug, one should 
 by no means cast aside a new rug if the 
 example be exceptionally fine, and its de- 
 sign or coloring may not be obtained in an 
 antique. It will require time, I admit, to 
 develop its beauties. But by subjecting it 
 to light and constant use its original crude- 
 ness will gradually depart, and each year of 
 service will heighten its bloom. Against 
 the crude new fabric must be placed the far 
 more objectionable form of " antique," torn 
 and thread-bare from rough usage, or soiled 
 and faded beyond redemption. Neither 
 may it be amiss to caution the novice, and 
 many so-styled amateurs, against the not 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 41 
 
 unfrequent practice of dealers aye, of mer- 
 chants in Constantinople, Ispahan, and 
 even Mecca itself of painting old rugs to 
 mask their sordid condition, and gloze over 
 their hoary antiquity. 
 
 Could the history of an old rug be 
 traced, what a tale might it not unfold ! 
 the Adventures of a Guinea were nothing 
 in comparison. Venerable before it was 
 secured by the itinerant collector in some 
 remote province, how many vicissitudes 
 and changes has it not passed through! 
 Lashed to the backs of patient dromedaries 
 goaded by the spears of fierce dragomen ; 
 borne under the heat of a tropical sun amid 
 the toilsome march of the caravan; and 
 escaping the rapine of plundering tribes, it 
 arrived at the great marts of the East. 
 Here, unstrapped from the bale, it passed to 
 the bazaars, or the vast warerooms of the 
 merchantmen. There, perchance, its lovely 
 sheen caught the eye of a calculating mid- 
 dleman, who purchased the bale to secure 
 the prize, passing it in turn to a third. Or, 
 while ransacking the treasures of a Stam- 
 boul bazaar it was, perhaps, admired by a 
 rich profligate a bauble for a new-found 
 flame. Or, did it figure in the collection of 
 some noted connoisseur whose effects on 
 his demise passed into unconversant or in- 
 different hands ? Youth and beauty may 
 have reposed upon it, and old age admired 
 
42 The Story of my House. 
 
 its bewitching hues. It may have over- 
 heard many a lover's tale; it may once 
 have graced a pasha's wall. 
 
 In fine Oriental rugs mere size seldom 
 governs their value, this being dependent 
 upon intrinsic beauty and rarity. Of course, 
 a splendid large piece is more valuable than 
 a similar example half its size, although the 
 fine large piece may not be worth the rarer 
 small one of some other make. Oddity 
 and rarity, when combined with beauty, 
 are the strongest factors in the value of a 
 rug. A sage-green or mauve centered 
 Yourdes, 6x4, may be without price, as 
 a small Rembrandt may command a hun- 
 dred times the price of a canvas double 
 its size. It all depends upon the artist. 
 Neither is thickness norsilkiness a necessary 
 factor in the value of a rug. Depth of pile 
 is certainly desirable in very many makes, 
 a heavy piece keeping its place upon the 
 floor far better than a thin one. Silkiness 
 is likewise valuable in most cases; it im- 
 parts additional life, and enhances the play 
 of the color facets. But in rugs like the 
 rarer Yourdes and some of the oTd Persians 
 and Coulas, neither depth of pile nor ex- 
 traordinary luster govern their value. These 
 are paintings old masters that should be 
 hung, to be admired like a picture or a 
 stained-glass window, and the eye revel in 
 their beauty. 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 43 
 
 But my rugs are more than mere foci of 
 color and revelations of Eastern luxury. 
 They are, above all, examples of a rare 
 handicraft; enduring expressions of artistic 
 skill of various times and various peoples. 
 They thus become sentient instead of simply 
 material, their exuberance of hue and opu- 
 lence of design representing the most con- 
 summate art, and appealing equally to me 
 through the various motives of human in- 
 dustry, human interest, and human thought. 
 In them are incorporated the sense of the 
 beautiful as interpreted by the canons of 
 Oriental art, a distinct artistic motive and 
 theme underlying the technical finish and 
 manual skill of the craftsman. Nor is spir- 
 itual quality less reflected in these master- 
 pieces than the fine aestheticism with which 
 they are pervaded ; they express equally a 
 religious symbolism of the Oriental mind, 
 and the mystic rites observed in the mosque 
 of Islam. Just as painting and sculpture 
 are representative arts of Christian peoples, 
 so these marvelous blendings of form and 
 color are typical of the individuality of the 
 Mohammedan alien race. 
 
 Endless is their variety. Independent 
 of the diversity of the different wools 
 employed, each district has its character- 
 istic patterns, its peculiar weaves, and often 
 its distinguishing colors and color-combi- 
 nations which are its individual right and 
 
44 The Story of my House. 
 
 inheritance, and which other districts may 
 not reproduce without incurring the op- 
 probrium attached to the plagiarist. Ana- 
 tolia may not borrow from Bokhara, nor 
 Daghestan from Beloochistan. Nor may one 
 rug of a district be an exact reproduction 
 of another rug of the same district. There 
 may be a resemblance, it is true; but each 
 valuable example will be found to possess 
 a stamp of originality the genius of the 
 artist which gives it its value and con- 
 stitutes the difference between the mere 
 commercial product and the enduring work 
 of art. Thou shalt not purloin the work of 
 another's brain ! is a commandment em- 
 bossed upon the loom of the Oriental a 
 law of the Medes and Persians generally 
 observed unto this day. 
 
 Valuable as a well-chosen collection of 
 porcelains is a well-chosen collection of rugs. 
 While neither may be dispensed with as 
 art objects, and both afford a constant de- 
 light to the eye and the sense of the beau- 
 tiful, it may be said that textiles have the 
 advantage over porcelains in that they can 
 not break, and that they combine utility 
 with equal charm and more extended color. 
 It is, withal, a satisfaction to know that 
 every footfall upon their luxurious pile and 
 every beam of sunlight that streams upon 
 them only serve to increase their value and 
 heighten their beauty. 
 
Old Oriental Masters. 45 
 
 In the course of time, no doubt aye, 
 at no distant day, as fine old specimens 
 become more and more rare and occupy, 
 as they deserve, a still more exalted place 
 in the domain of art we will have exhibi- 
 tions of Oriental rugs, as we have exhib- 
 its of paintings and statuary to-day. The 
 appreciative and wealthy amateur who, in 
 a single purchase, recently expended nine- 
 teen thousand dollars for twelve specimens 
 of the Asiatic weaver's art specimens that 
 may not now be duplicated will then be 
 envied for his foresight and the cheapness 
 of his purchase. 
 
 To form a fine, varied, and extensive 
 collection of rugs, however, is the work of 
 years. As Paganini declared, after a life- 
 time of study, that he had just begun to be 
 acquainted with his violin, so the connois- 
 seur may say with regard to the textiles he 
 loves so well. For every piece should be 
 like a painting, perfect of its kind, artistic 
 in design, harmonious in color ; and to 
 combine the desired qualifications without 
 incongruities or repetition of borders and 
 patterns is to tread no primrose path. Not 
 only a concent of color and design is requi- 
 site in each single example, but rarity, lus- 
 ter, age, good condition, and individuality 
 a combination not easily obtainable. 
 
 But my ship contained many straight 
 and beautiful rugs among her stores ! 
 
III. 
 
 SIGNS IN THE SKY. 
 
 Nunquam imprudentibus imber obfuit. 
 
 VIRGIL, GEORGICS, I, v. 373. 
 
 BOOKING out through the windows 
 of my house upon the sunset 
 sky, I am often enabled to frame 
 a weather report for the mor- 
 row; for, in his rising and his 
 setting, the sun has a message to convey, 
 sometimes written in type that is legible to 
 all, sometimes in hieroglyphics that the or- 
 dinary observer may not decipher. Yonder 
 blazing fire in the west and warm orange 
 after-glow tell me I may expect fair weather, 
 just as the leaden cloud which screens the 
 sinking sun apprises me of coming storm. 
 But to offset one aspect of the plainly let- 
 tered sky, there are a score more difficult to 
 read, while, at best, we are liable to err in 
 our interpretations where the weather is 
 concerned. 
 
 Yet, trying as it often is, in this latitude 
 especially, how could we dispense with its 
 
Signs in the Sky. 47 
 
 vagaries ? Sunshine, by all means ! but we 
 would scarcely appreciate the sun if it al- 
 ways shone, even could vegetation and hu- 
 manity exist under unclouded skies. 
 
 Were all the year one constant sunshine, wee 
 
 Should have no flowres; 
 All would be drought and leanness; not a tree 
 
 Would make us bowres.* 
 
 It has been observed before now that we 
 are always talking about the weather, al- 
 ways interested in it, always trying to fore- 
 tell it, always grumbling at it, or delighted 
 with it. Without the changes of the 
 weather the world would go all awry. 
 There would be no more guessing or prog- 
 nosticating. Conversation must come to a 
 standstill ; if not to a full stop, at least to an 
 awkward pause. When there is nothing 
 else to talk about there is always the weath- 
 er. It is the oil of conversation's wheel. 
 How many a pleasant acquaintance dates 
 from a weather remark ! Simply as a con- 
 versational factor I have no doubt it has 
 helped on innumerable marriages. But it 
 is ever too hot or too cold, too damp or 
 too dry, too cloudy or too sunshiny. If one 
 can not openly anathematize his neighbor, 
 he may damn the weather; faint, indeed, is 
 its praise. With a bright sun shining, a 
 purple haze on the hills, the thermometer at 
 
 * Henry Vaughn, Silex Scintillans. 
 
The Story of my House. 
 
 50, and the atmosphere exhilarating as 
 champagne, still the lament will arise that 
 we are not enveloped with a blanket of 
 snow. Just the day for a walk, when one 
 may start out dry-shod to inhale the stimu- 
 lating air and bask in voluptuous sunlight! 
 But the fickle weather-vane suddenly 
 veers, and north wind and snow are ex- 
 changed for south wind and balm ; the 
 croakers have their turn. 
 
 There is reason to believe that the 
 weather repeats itself in a general way at 
 regular intervals of seven or ten years, more 
 or less. Statistics are said to confirm this 
 statement, and it gives us reason to hope 
 that when our records shall cover longer 
 periods and shall be more carefully and 
 fully compiled, we may obtain considerable 
 insight into the weather programme for the 
 coming year. That one extreme follows 
 another is perhaps the surest and most 
 valuable weather indicator we have. An 
 inordinate degree of warmth is generally 
 followed by a corresponding degree of cold ; 
 a period ot extraordinary coolness by a con- 
 trasting period of heat. The amount of 
 water and heat in the world is always the 
 same, though to human observation the ex- 
 tremes of temperature are capriciously dis- 
 tributed. If it is passing cold here, it is pass- 
 ing warm somewhere else. If we get an 
 overplus of wet this month we receive an 
 
Signs in the Sky. 49 
 
 overplus of dry next month, or some month 
 after. Nature will surely balance her ledger 
 sooner or later; the difficulty is to tell when 
 she will do it. 
 
 Restless and impatient, man is continu- 
 ally seeking change. What could supply 
 this inherent craving in the breast of man- 
 kind so happily as the weather ? The old 
 adage, "Tis an ill wind blows no man 
 good," is daily verified. This change to 
 piercing cold means one hundred thousand 
 tons more of coal for the furnaces of each of 
 the great cities ; this hot wave, one hundred 
 thousand tons more of ice to their refrigera- 
 tors. The mild winter that brings a scowl 
 upon the dry-goods merchant's face is a 
 benison to the laborer; the east wind that 
 puts out the inland furnace fires may blow 
 the disabled vessel into port. Blowing 
 where it listeth, to some point of the com- 
 pass the wind is kind. 
 
 If one could find no other occupation, 
 one might busy himself in making observa- 
 tions of the weather. In the shifting vane 
 and the restless clouds there is the attrac- 
 tion of perpetual change, elements we may 
 not control nor yet fully understand an 
 omnipresent and omnipotent force. Their 
 wayward moods bring plenty or pestilence, 
 as the vane chooses to veer, or the tangles 
 gather in the cirri's hair. All animal and 
 vegetable life is dependent upon their inex- 
 
50 The Story of my House. 
 
 orable decrees. The laws of the weather 
 may not be altered. We may not increase 
 the rainfall one inch or lower the tempera- 
 ture half a degree. The most we can do is 
 to study its warnings, and, by reading the 
 signs of the earth and sky, be prepared for 
 what changes may be in store. 
 
 There is a relief from the tyranny of hard 
 fact in endeavoring to trace the meaning of 
 these nimbus clouds or the prophecy of this 
 moisture-laden breeze. What will the next 
 change be; of what complexion will be the 
 weather to come? I foretell it frequently 
 through my walls of glass that enable me 
 from within to read the horoscope of the 
 sky. The signs exist, if we may but com- 
 prehend them. They publish every event 
 and indicate every change. Unvarying 
 laws that may be understood by the intelli- 
 gent observer control all atmospheric condi- 
 tions, and particularly storms. By noting 
 existing conditions the corollary is to be 
 deduced. Blasius's laws, as stated in his 
 volume, Storms, are comprehensive, and 
 whoever will take the pains to study them 
 (for many portions of the volume call for 
 hard study) may learn to foretell much 
 about the weather* at least so far as relates 
 to larger storms. Many immediate changes 
 are easy to foretell from the moon's warn- 
 ing halo and the prophesying cry of the 
 hair-bird, to the toad's prescient croak from 
 
Signs in the Sky. 51 
 
 the tree. From observation the farmer and 
 mariner generally become weather-wise. 
 Out in the open air continually, they learn 
 to interpret the signs, their vocations being 
 more or less controlled by and dependent 
 upon the weather. A habit of studying the 
 weather brings one into closer relationship 
 with nature. However superficial the 
 knowledge, one must know something of 
 nature in order to be a weather-prophet, 
 that is, so far as prophesying from numerous 
 well-known natural signs is concerned. 
 
 There are certain indices : the clouds no 
 bigger than a man's hand, that indicate 
 what is coming in a weather way for a 
 short time ahead. Many of the old signs 
 are reliable. From time out of mind a red 
 sunset has been viewed as a precursor of 
 fair weather, and a red sunrise the forerun- 
 ner of storm. A bright-yellow sky at sun- 
 set uniformly denotes wind, a coppery or 
 pale-yellow sunset, wet ; and attentive ob- 
 servers do not need the testimony of Ad- 
 miral Fitzroy to know that a dark, gloomy, 
 blue sky is windy, and a light, bright, blue 
 sky is fair. A high dawn indicates wind, 
 a low dawn fine weather. A gray sky in 
 the morning presages fine weather. If 
 cumulus gathers in the north and rises, 
 rain may be looked for before night. Fre- 
 quently the cumuli clouds argosies serene- 
 ly riding at anchor above the southern ho- 
 
52 The Story of my House. 
 
 rizon flash forth warnings that are never 
 fulfilled; the lightning of heat, and not of 
 storm. If stripes are seen to rise northward 
 from the southern sky, a change may be an- 
 ticipated from their quarter. Without clouds 
 there can be no storm. 
 
 One of the most beautiful cloud-forma- 
 tions, the mackerel-sky, is well known to 
 be usually indicative of a change. Often- 
 times on the otherwise unclouded blue of 
 the heavens delicate volutes or scrolls may 
 be observed, like cobwebs spun upon the 
 sky ; these frequently portend a decided 
 change within two clays. If this form of 
 cloud, more familiarly known as mares'- 
 tails, curls down toward sunset, fair weather 
 may be looked for; if up, it will most prob- 
 ably rain before dawn. Frequently narrow 
 bands or stripes extend from east to west or 
 north to south over the entire aerial arch, 
 the storm invariably coming from the direc- 
 tion pointed out by the clouds. 
 
 Local signs go to show that in winter a 
 dark-blue cloud over the lake foretells a 
 thaw; when the lower portion, however, 
 is dark and the upper portion gray, snow 
 may be expected. A halo round the moon 
 is a sure indication of rain, snow, or wind, 
 and the larger the circle the nearer the 
 storm. When the stars are more than 
 usually bright and numerous, or when the 
 hills and distant objects seem unusually 
 
Signs in the Sky. 53 
 
 sharp and near, I am certain of an approach- 
 ing storm. "You all know the peculiar 
 clearness which precedes rain/' observes 
 Ruskin, "when the distant hills are look- 
 ing nigh. I take it on trust from the scien- 
 tific people that there is then a quantity, 
 almost to saturation, of aqueous vapor in 
 the air, but it is aqueous vapor in a state 
 which makes the air more transparent than 
 it would be without it. What state of 
 aqueous molecule is that, absolutely unre- 
 flective of light perfectly transmissive of 
 light, and showing at once the color of blue 
 water and blue air on the distant hills?" 
 Distant sounds heard with unusual dis- 
 tinctness apprise me of rain. The aurora 
 borealis, when very bright, is usually fol- 
 lowed by a storm, and often intense cold. 
 The rainbow after drought is a rain sign. 
 
 Natural signs, other than the handwrit- 
 ing on the sky, are innumerable, and, again, 
 the old sign-posts point out the way. Heavy 
 dews indicate fair weather, while three con- 
 secutive white frosts, and often two, invari- 
 ably bring rain or snow. Before a snow- 
 storm the weather usually moderates, while 
 there is always an interval between the first 
 drops and the downpour. If it rains before 
 seven it will clear before eleven, is a wise 
 saw. Certain stones, which, when rain is 
 in the near future, become damp and dark- 
 looking, are excellent barometers. We have 
 
54 The Story of my House. 
 
 all of us noticed that fire frequently burns 
 brighter and throws out more heat just be- 
 fore a storm, and is hotter during its con- 
 tinuance an easterly storm, however, often 
 being the exception. 
 
 The closing of the blossoms of numer- 
 ous flowers during the day tells me it will 
 rain; my flowers also give out a stronger 
 odor previous to rain. The trefoils contract 
 their leaves at the approach of a storm. 
 The convolvulus and the pimpernel also 
 fold their petals previous to rain, the latter 
 flower being appropriately named the poor 
 man's weather-glass. When the chick- 
 weed's blossom expands fully, no rain will 
 occur for several hours ; if it continue open, 
 no rain will fall during the day. When it 
 half conceals its flower the day is usually 
 showery. When it entirely closes its white 
 petals, steady rain will occur. "It is mani- 
 fest," observes Bacon in Sylva Sylvarum, 
 "that there are some Flowers that have 
 Respect to the Sunne in two kindes; The 
 one by Opening and Shutting; And the 
 other by Bowing and Inclining the Head ; 
 it is found in the great Flower of the Sunne ; 
 in Marigolds, Wart-Wort, Mallow-Flowers; 
 and others. " 
 
 Smoke rising straight in the air means 
 fair weather. The odor of the Mephitis is 
 very pronounced before rain, owing to the 
 heaviness of the atmosphere, which pre- 
 
Signs in the Sky. 55 
 
 vents odors from rising. Spiders do not 
 spin their webs out of doors before rain. 
 Previous to rain flies sting sharper, bees re- 
 main in their hives, or fly but short dis- 
 tances, and most animals and birds appear 
 uneasy. " Sheep," the Selborne rector 
 states, "are observed to be very intent on 
 grazing against stormy wet evenings." One 
 of the most reliable weather-signs in Texas 
 is said to be supplied by the ant. The ants 
 bring their eggs up out of their nests, ex- 
 posing them to the sun to be hatched. 
 When they are observed carrying them in 
 again hastily, though there be not a cloud 
 in the sky, a storm is near at hand. Swal- 
 lows flying low near the ground or water 
 is a rain-sign noted in the Georgics, the 
 birds following the flies and gnats which 
 delight in a warm strata of air. Aratus, the 
 Greek poet, in the Prognostica, also cites 
 the swallow's flight low over the water as 
 a rain-sign : 
 
 Fast skim the swallows o'er the lucid lake 
 
 And with their breasts the rippling waters break. 
 
 Previous to rain and just when it begins to 
 rain, swallows fly swifter, doubtless to 
 make the most of the insects while oppor- 
 tunity affords. Wheeling and diving high 
 in the sky, the swallow flies to tell me the 
 day will be fair. Chickens, it may be no- 
 ticed, when steady rain sets in will continue 
 
56 The Story of my House. 
 
 searching for food after the rain has begun ; 
 if only a shower they will seek shelter be- 
 fore the rain begins. Foxes bark, and 
 wolves howl more frequently when wet 
 weather is approaching. Crows clamor 
 louder before a change. Frogs, geese, 
 and crows were looked upon as weather- 
 prophets by the ancients, the crow especially 
 figuring frequently as a foreboder of storm. 
 According to Virgil, if they croak often, and 
 with a hoarse voice it is a rain-sign : 
 
 Turn cornix rauca pluviam vocat improba voce. 
 
 If they croak only three or four times, and 
 with a shrill clear voice it is a fair weather 
 sign : 
 
 Turn liquidas corvi presso ter guttere voces 
 Aut quater ingeminant. 
 
 Lucretius likewise introduces the crow as a 
 weather prophet : 
 
 .... om'nous crows with various noise, 
 Affright the farmers ; and fill all the plain, 
 Now calling for rough winds and now for rain.* 
 
 The crow's raucous voice also figures in 
 Aratus's Prognostics of a Storm : 
 
 The aged crow on sable pinions borne, 
 Upon the beetling promontory stands, 
 And tells the advancing storm to trembling lands ; 
 Or dips and dives within the river's tide, 
 Or, croaking hoarse, wheels round in circles dark and 
 wide, f 
 
 * Creeche's translation. f Milman's translation. 
 
Signs in the Shy. 57 
 
 And Chaucer, while following the majority 
 of the poets in aspersing the crow, still 
 makes him serve as a barometer : 
 
 Ne nevir aftir swete noise shall ye make, 
 But evir crye ayenst tempest and rain. . . . 
 
 All nature reads the coming signs. The 
 migratory woodcock will desert the fall 
 covers in advance of the storm, even though 
 the weather promise fair. Just before a 
 storm, like its echo in advance, I have heard 
 the Canadian forest resounding on every 
 side with the cry of the great horned owl 
 oh-hoo, oh-hoo! oh-hoo, oh-hoor-r-r-r ! 
 Wild fowl are conscious of the change from 
 afar. Even the domestic goose and duck 
 are unusually garrulous previous to a storm, 
 voicing their pleasure at the prospect of 
 approaching rain. I recall a case in point 
 while trout-fishing, where geese proved 
 excellent weather-prophets. The day in 
 question, September 14, 1875, the last day 
 of the open season in Ontario, like the three 
 or four preceding days, was warm, hazy, 
 and delightful, with no perceptible omens 
 to denote an approaching storm, save the 
 graceful mares'-tails waving from the sky. 
 But a large flock of geese, which appeared 
 to dispute with the trout the possession of 
 the pond, and which had frequently proved 
 a source of annoyance while angling, were 
 more than usually excited, screaming con- 
 
58 The Story of my House. 
 
 tinually, and flying to and from the pond 
 with loud gaggling. The sun descended 
 behind the tamaracks with an angry frown, 
 the moon became obscured by ominous 
 clouds, the temperature fell suddenly, and a 
 severe equinoctial storm set in. 
 
 Birds, however, can not be implicitly 
 relied upon as weather-prophets, espe- 
 cially as harbingers of spring. Year after 
 year, tempted by instinct and the tempered 
 air, do the migratory birds take early flights 
 to the northward. Suddenly on some geni- 
 al morning, the vanguards appear. A blue- 
 bird's, or song-sparrow's dulcet warble falls 
 upon the ear, and we welcome the return 
 of spring. But season after season we have 
 to record the disappearance of the birds 
 again, and the recurrence of stormy weath- 
 er. Lured by the soft spring sunshine, and 
 eager to revisit their northern homes, the 
 birds, like human migrants to the south, 
 frequently return too soon. Not until I 
 hear the first sweet song of the white- 
 throated sparrow am I convinced that spring 
 has come to stay. 
 
 How far the weather is influenced by 
 the changes of the moon is a disputed ques- 
 tion. M. de Parville, a French meteorolo- 
 gist of note, has recently claimed that a 
 long series of observations show that the 
 moon which passes every month from one 
 hemisphere to the other, influences the 
 
Signs in the Sky. 59 
 
 direction of the atmospheric currents ; that 
 the distance of the moon from the equator, 
 or inclination of the moon's path to the 
 plane of the equator varies every year, pass- 
 ing from a maximum to a minimum limit, 
 and that the meteorological character of a 
 series of years appears to be mainly depend- 
 ent upon the change of inclination when 
 those extreme limits have been touched : 
 the rainy years, the cold winters, and hot 
 summers return periodically and coincide 
 with certain declinations of the moon. In 
 proof of his assertion, he presents a table 
 tracing backward this connection between 
 the rainy years and the moon's declination. 
 In the European Magazine, vol. 60, p. 
 24, a table is given which has been ascribed 
 to the astronomer Herschel. It is con- 
 structed upon a philosophical consideration 
 of the attraction of the sun and moon in 
 their several positions respecting the earth, 
 suggesting to the observer what kind of 
 weather will most probably follow the 
 moon's entrance into any of her quarters. 
 Briefly summarized, the nearer the time of 
 the moon's entrance, at full and change or 
 quarters, is to midnight (that is within two 
 hours before and after midnight), the more 
 fair the weather is in summer, but the nearer 
 to noon, the less fair. Also, the moon's 
 entrance, at full, change, and quarters, dur- 
 ing six of the afternoon hours, viz. : from 
 
60 The Story of my House. 
 
 four to ten, may be followed by fair weath- 
 er ; but this is mostly dependent on the 
 wind. The same entrance during all the 
 hours after midnight, except the two first, 
 is unfavorable to fair weather. 
 
 It may be of interest to cite Bacon's 
 rules for prognosticating the weather, from 
 the appearances of the moon : 
 
 1. If the new moon does not appear till 
 the fourth day, it prognosticates a troubled 
 air for the whole month. 
 
 2. If the moon either at her first appear- 
 ance or within a few days after, has her 
 lower horn obscured and dusky, it denotes 
 foul weather before the full ; but, if she be 
 discovered about the middle, storms are to 
 be expected about the full ; and, if her upper 
 horn be affected, about the wane. 
 
 3. When on her fourth day the moon 
 appears pure and spotless, her horns un- 
 blunted and neither flat nor quite erect, but 
 between both, it promises fair weather for 
 the greatest part of the month. 
 
 4. An erect moon is generally threaten- 
 ing and unfavorable, but particularly de- 
 notes wind ; though if she appears with 
 short and blunted horns, rain is rather to be 
 expected. 
 
 The influence of the moon on the 
 weather was one of the cardinal beliefs, not 
 only of the ancients, but of our forefathers, 
 and the old gardeners and orchardists be- 
 
Signs in the Shy. 61 
 
 lieved implicitly in its effect on most opera- 
 tions connected with husbandry, regulating 
 these operations with the greatest exacti- 
 tude, according to the various phases of the 
 planet. Harvard, in his treatise on the art 
 of propagating plants, referring to the prop- 
 er time for grafting, declares, "the grafts 
 must alwaies be gathered in the old of the 
 Moone." Lawspn, in his New Orchard 
 and Garden, advises as the best time to re- 
 move sets, "immediately after the fall of 
 the Leaf, in or about the change of the 
 Moon ;" and the best time for "graffing" 
 as "in the last part of February or March, 
 or beginning with April, when the Sun 
 with his heat begins to make t s e sap stir 
 more rankly about the change of the Moon, 
 before you see any great apparancie of leaf 
 or flowers ; but only knots and buds, and 
 before they be proud, though it be sooner/' 
 Very frequent references to the moon's 
 influence with respect to forestry and its 
 operations occur in Evelyn's Sylva. In 
 felling timber, he charges the forester to 
 "observe the Moons increase" (chap, iii, 
 13). And again, "the fittest time of the 
 Moon for the Pruning is (as of Graffing) 
 when the sap is ready to stir (not proudly 
 stirring) and so to cover the wound " (chap, 
 xxix, 6.) The old lunar rules for felling 
 trees are thus given by Evelyn (chap, xxx, 
 26) : "Fell in the decrease, or four days 
 
62 The Story of my House. 
 
 after conjunction of the two great Lumi- 
 naries ; some of the last quarter of it ; or (as 
 Pliny) in the very article of the change, if 
 possible ; which hapning (saith he) in the 
 last day of the Winter Solstice, that Timber 
 will prove immortal : At least should it be 
 from the twentieth to the thirtieth day, ac- 
 cording to Columella : Cato four dayes 
 after the Full, as far better for the growth : 
 But all vimtnious Trees silente Lund ; such 
 as Sallies, Birch, Poplar, etc. Vegetius 
 for ship timber, from the fifteenth to the 
 twenty-fifth, the Moon as before ; but never 
 during the Increase, Trees being then most 
 abounding with moisture, which is the 
 only source of putrefaction : And yet 'tis 
 affirm'd upon unquestionable Experience, 
 that Timber cut at any season of thejy&zr, 
 in the Old Moon, or last Quarter, when 
 the Wind blows Westerly ; proves as 
 sound, and good as at any other period 
 whatsoever ; nay, all the whole Summer 
 long, as in any Month of the Year.' 9 
 
 Few of our large storms are of local ori- 
 gin ; they are hatched for the most part on 
 the plains east of the Rocky Mountains, and 
 thence move eastward, deflecting slightly 
 to the north during winter. In Europe, the 
 meteorologists assert, storms are more 
 nearly round than in America, where they 
 are of a more irregular oval form, varying 
 in size from the diameter of a few miles to 
 
Signs in the Sky. 63 
 
 those that surge from the gulf to beyond 
 the lakes. 
 
 But Blasius for storms ! the supreme 
 authority, the Aristotle of the clouds and 
 air-currents. When all our ordinary signs 
 fail, we have only to turn to the Hanover 
 professor to read and learn. 
 
 Unquestionably, nevertheless, the most 
 infallible of weather rules is that there is no 
 rule. So far as ordinary signs go, there is 
 nothing more true than that all signs may 
 fail during a protracted drought, or con- 
 tinuous rainy weather. Vainly then the 
 peacock screams, or the sun emerges from 
 a dripping sky. At best the weather is a 
 hoiden, and, perhaps, loves a frown better 
 than a dimple. The rain may come and 
 the rain may go, persistently following the 
 course of a lake or river, favoring this local- 
 ity and slighting that; deluging one county 
 to leave the adjoining one parched with 
 thirst. For it is true of the weather and 
 other things besides; it never smiles but 
 it laughs, it never rains but it pours. 
 
IV. 
 
 THE IDEAL HAVEN. 
 
 When my ship comes home I shall have a study of a 
 very superior kind built. A part of the scheme will be 
 a garden and a greenhouse which shall be especially 
 adapted to the exigencies of authorcraft. J. ASHBY- 
 STERRY, CUCUMBER CHRONICLES. 
 
 HILE silence is pre-eminently gold- 
 en in the study, the study, nev- 
 ertheless, should be more than 
 "a chamber deaf to noise." 
 Situated away from disturbing 
 household sounds, it should also be with- 
 drawn from ready access on the part of all 
 intruders. It should be a " den " in the lit- 
 eral sense of the word a covert, a haven. 
 Not that it should necessarily be below 
 ground, but the way leading to it should be 
 difficult to find ; and, like the fox's den, it 
 should be provided with two entrances or 
 means of escape, the more readily to baffle 
 pursuers. 
 
 In how many houses, even those which 
 are supposed to have been most carefully 
 planned, are not the library and the study 
 
The Ideal Haven. 65 
 
 placed in close proximity to the front en- 
 trance, where anything like continuous re- 
 pose is as far removed as the constellation 
 Orion, and where the volume with which 
 one endeavors to be engaged is forever 
 chafed by the friction of passing inmates ! 
 Apart from mere noise, the discomfort of 
 a library or study so situated is always great 
 from the facility it offers to the wiles of 
 innumerable outside forces. It is necessa- 
 rily unpleasant to have certain visitors thrust 
 unceremoniously upon one. You can not 
 tell by the mere ring of the bell whether it 
 is A, B, or C who has come to honor you 
 with his presence to bore or to charm; 
 and without at every announcement mak- 
 ing a sudden dive at the risk of being seen 
 or heard, you are liable to be chambered for 
 an hour with the very person you may most 
 desire to avoid. Thoreau often waited for 
 the Visitor who never comes; many of us 
 must wait for the visitor who never goes. 
 
 Not that I would limit visitors to a cir- 
 cumscribed few, or banish welcome ones at 
 an early hour. I entertain the highest re- 
 gard for the maxim of Pope respecting the 
 coming and the parting guest; yet, in the 
 very nature of things, there are always some 
 to whom one would fain send the conven- 
 tional message, "not at home." It was 
 to obviate such monstrous misplacements 
 as a library near the front door (a library 
 
66 The Story of my House. 
 
 merely in name), that Naude, years since, 
 in his Advis pour dresser une Bibliotheque, 
 gave this excellent advice: " Let the library 
 be placed in a portion of the house most re- 
 moved from noise and disturbance, not only 
 from without, but also from family and 
 servants; away from the street, the kitchen, 
 sitting-room, and similar places ; locating 
 it, if possible, between some spacious court 
 and a fine garden where it may have abun- 
 dant light, pure air, and extended and agree- 
 able views." 
 
 In the case of all houses where rooms 
 are thus misplaced, some means of spiriting 
 one's self away through a side or rear door 
 are absolutely essential to even a semblance 
 of comfort. A study amid such surround- 
 ings, without safe and instantaneous means 
 of flight from unwelcome callers is a gro- 
 tesque misnomer. Is not a man's house his 
 castle? The term "growlery," often ap- 
 plied to the study, undoubtedly arose from 
 an apartment so situated, referring not to a 
 cage where the master of the house may 
 work off his surly moods, as some ladies 
 erroneously suppose, but to the anathemas 
 bestowed "by its harassed inmate upon the 
 architect who planned a place for retirement 
 where retirement is only possible after mid- 
 night. All these can the more readily com- 
 prehend the force of a passage in Walden 
 "the mass of men lead lives of quiet des- 
 
The Ideal Haven. 67 
 
 peration ; what is called resignation is con- 
 firmed desperation/' A trap -door, con- 
 cealed by an Oriental rug, that would re- 
 spond to a certain pressure of the foot known 
 only to the initiated, might be worthy of 
 consideration by house-builders in this con- 
 nection. Or some kind of reflecting-glass 
 might be devised that would enable coming 
 events of an unpleasant nature to cast their 
 shadows before. 
 
 Even though one meet his modest ac- 
 counts with all reasonable promptitude, 
 there are still creditors oblivious to the 
 amenities of life, who, instead of forward- 
 ing annual or semi - annual statements 
 through the certain channel of the mails, 
 send their "cards of compliment" for col- 
 lection through the medium of middlemen 
 or runners, who, even yet more callous to 
 the finer feelings of humanity, and intent 
 solely upon pouching their guerdon, invari- 
 ably present themselves at the front door to 
 force a passage within. Fancy an intrusion 
 of this kind while you may be rereading 
 The Eve of St. Agnes, or perusing The 
 Good - Natured Man ! Though it occur 
 but once a year, the shock must still re- 
 main. At one time or another this form of 
 visitant is bound to appear to every one; 
 for the species of fiend exists in common 
 with front-door book-agents, itinerant vend- 
 ers, census-takers, expressmen, telegraph- 
 5 
 
68 The Story of my House. 
 
 messengers, and the rest of the customary 
 mob that charges upon one's front entrance 
 wherever and whenever it is the most ac- 
 cessible means of invasion. Even the par- 
 cels'-delivery, despite reiterated warnings, 
 will not unfrequently persist in demanding 
 ingress through the forbidden portal. In- 
 deed, the front door is a constant factor of 
 discord, the baiting-place of disquiet, the 
 arch enemy of household peace. 
 
 Many of the vexations that are ever striv- 
 ing to wedge their way through the vesti- 
 bule may be avoided by intelligent, well- 
 drilled servants who are capable of reading 
 human nature, and at a glance can distin- 
 guish the false from the true. A thoroughly 
 competent house-maid should wear her cap 
 internally as well as externally, and, like a 
 thrasher's sieve, be able to winnow the 
 chaff from the wheat. But such discrimi- 
 nating Cerberi are as rare as they are desir- 
 able, and the melancholy fact exists that the 
 servant is invariably ready to leave so soon 
 as she or he has become really valuable or 
 thoroughly accustomed to your ways. 
 
 Lamb, in one of his essays on Popular 
 Fallacies, has said some excellent things 
 about visitors. If certain visitors would 
 only read these things, and, reading, com- 
 prehend! And if the visitor who never 
 knows when to leave, as distinguished from 
 those who, staying late, always leave too 
 
The Ideal Haven. 69 
 
 soon, would only peruse and ponder! In 
 his category of intruders Lamb emphasizes 
 ''purposeless visitants and droppers-in," 
 and he sometimes wonders from what sky 
 they fall. Whittier's Demon of the Study, 
 too, would indicate that the type still flour- 
 ishes in New as well as Old England. Un- 
 der the inspiration of an architect who is yet 
 to be born, the house of the millennium will 
 be able to avoid all unpleasant intrusions 
 upon a privacy that is its inherent right, but 
 which, alas ! exists not in the home of the 
 present. 
 
 It is apparent at once that the ideal ha- 
 ven can not hide itself amid the turmoil of 
 the first floor. To fulfill its mission it must 
 betake itself to surroundings more retired, 
 and soar to a serener sphere. The true 
 place for the study, therefore, is on an upper 
 floor, and in the ideal house I would have it 
 a spacious oriel approached by a hidden 
 staircase. 
 
 Hawthorne's idea was an excellent one 
 the study in the tower or upper story of 
 his residence at Concord, which he ap- 
 proached by a ladder and trap-door, pull- 
 ing the ladder up after him, and placing a 
 weight over the door for additional security. 
 Here he could look out upon his favorite 
 walk amid the evergreens, almost touch the 
 crowns of the leafy elms, and bathe in the 
 sunshine that illumined the fertile plain 
 
70 The Story of my House. 
 
 across the roadway. His first residence at 
 Concord the Old Manse was sufficiently 
 remote to dispense with a trap-door, un- 
 less, indeed, this was an after-consideration 
 owing to family reasons. At an opposite 
 extremity of the village, far removed from 
 Emerson and even the fleet feet of Thoreau, 
 situated at a distance from the highway, 
 the house itself of a gray neutral tone to 
 baffle observation, and half concealed amid 
 the shade of the distant suburbs, he was 
 here free from all external annoyances. 
 Here in the retired three-windowed study 
 in the rear of the house, which overlooked 
 the romantic Concord River below, he 
 could set about his chosen task with no 
 dread of interruption from the outside 
 world. 
 
 Montaigne's was a model study, a true 
 sanctum. Without the quiet and reclusion 
 it afforded, the pervading charm of the Es- 
 says would never have been ours. Instead 
 of sauntering and loitering along with the 
 easy abandon they do, they would have 
 hurried and galloped by at breakneck speed, 
 striding the noisy highway rather than pa- 
 cing the shady lane. The placid, thinking, 
 receptive mind of Montaigne was obviously 
 the direct outcome of the calm and tran- 
 quillity exhaled by the inaccessible round 
 Tower of Perigord. 
 
 The enchanting landscape, too, that 
 
The Ideal Haven. 71 
 
 smiled through the spacious windows was, 
 no doubt, a constant inspiration, serving to 
 rest the eye and mind when they were 
 wearied by the tyranny of print, or fatigued 
 by protracted writing. There would doubt- 
 less be more Montaignes were it possible to 
 reproduce the life and surroundings amid 
 which the Essays were inspired. Genius 
 is capable of much ; but, to be at its best, 
 even genius must be in the mood, and moods 
 are largely the result of surroundings. "No 
 doubt," observes Lord Lytton, "the cradle 
 and nursery of definite thought is in the 
 hazy limbo of Reverie. There ideas float 
 before us, rapid, magical, vague, half 
 formed ; apparitions of the thoughts that 
 are to be born later into the light, and run 
 their course in the world of man/' 
 
 " Like the rain of night," remarks Hen- 
 ri Amiel in the Journal Intime, "reverie re- 
 stores color and force to thoughts which 
 have been blanched and wearied by the 
 heat of the day." 
 
 The true flavor of a fine vintage may 
 not be savored if the wine be roiled, or 
 served at an improper temperature ; the 
 fine effluence that should emanate from the 
 study the framing of one's mood and the 
 molding of one's thoughts, is only to be 
 obtained in its perfect measure when the 
 mind is freed from all disturbing influences. 
 
 Let us mount the classic staircase with 
 
72 The Story of my House. 
 
 Montaigne, and view the apartment so 
 minutely described in the third chapter of 
 the Third Book. The well-filled book- 
 cases, the sunlight, the seclusion, the invit- 
 ing prospect, the fireplace, and the immu- 
 nity from noise, all are there : 
 
 "At home I betake me somewhat 
 the oftener to my library, whence all at 
 once I command and survey all my house- 
 hold ; it is seated in the chiefe entne of my 
 house, thence I behold under me my gar- 
 den, my base court, my yard, and looke 
 even into most roomes of my house. There 
 without order, without method, and by 
 peece-meales I turn over and ransacke, 
 now one booke and now another. Some- 
 times I muse and rave ; and walking up 
 and downe I endight and enregister these 
 my humours, these my conceits. It is 
 placed on the third storie of a tower. The 
 lowermost is my Chapell ; the second a 
 chamber with other lodgings, where I often 
 lie because I would be alone. Above it is a 
 great wardrobe. It was in times past the 
 most unprofitable place of all my house. 
 There I past the greatest part of my lives 
 dayes, and weare out most houres of the 
 day. I am never there a nights : Next 
 unto it is a handsome neat cabinet, able 
 and large enough to receive fire in winter, 
 and very pleasantly windowen. And if I 
 feared not care, more than cost ; (care 
 
The Ideal Haven. 73 
 
 which drives and diverts me from all busi- 
 nesse) I might easily joyne a convenient 
 gallerie of a hundred paces long, and twelve 
 broad, on each side of it, and upon one 
 floore ; having already for some other pur- 
 pose, found all the walles raised unto a 
 convenient height. Each retired place re- 
 quireth a walke. My thoughts are prone 
 to sleepe, if I sit long. My minde goes not 
 alone as if ledges did moove it. Those 
 that studie without bookes, are all in the 
 same case. The forme of it is round, and 
 hath no flat side, but what serveth for my 
 table and my chaire : In which bending or 
 circling manner, at one looke it offreth me 
 the full sight of all my books, set round 
 about upon shelves or desks, five rancks one 
 upon another. It hath three bay-windowes, 
 of a farre-extending, rich and unresisted 
 prospect, and is in diameter sixteen paces 
 wide. In winter I am less continually 
 there : for my house (as the name of it im- 
 pprteth) is pearched upon an overpearing 
 hillocke ; and hath no part more subject to 
 all wethers than this : which pleaseth me 
 the more, both because the accesse unto it 
 is somewhat troublesome and remote, and 
 for the benefit of the exercise which is to be 
 respected ; and that I may the better seclude 
 myselfe from companie, and keepe incroach- 
 ers from me : There is my seat, that is my 
 throne. I endeavour to make my rule 
 
74 The Story of my House. 
 
 therein absolute, and to sequester that only 
 corner from the communitie of wife, of chil- 
 dren, and of acquaintance. Else-where 
 I have but a verball authoritie, of confused 
 essence. Miserable in my minde is he, 
 who in his owne home, hath no where 
 to be to himselfe ; where hee may par- 
 ticularly court, and at his pleasure hide or 
 with-draw himself. Ambition paieth her 
 followers well, to keepe them still in open 
 view, as a statue in some conspicuous 
 place."* 
 
 Aside from the quiet, sequestration, and 
 conveniences of the philosopher's study, it 
 will be observed that among its many de- 
 sirable features was that of its being ' ' very 
 pleasantly windowen " (tres-plaisamment 
 perce), the windows commanding a "farre- 
 extending, rich, and unresisted prospect" 
 (trots veues de riche et libre prospect). 
 Assuredly the sunshine and light that 
 warmed and brightened the apartment, and 
 the unlimited view of hill and plain, were a 
 stimulus to the writer. 
 
 Fortunate is he who has a pleasing pros- 
 pect to look in upon him it invigorates 
 and cheers like a cordial. Whatever the 
 time of year, the distant hills, visible through 
 my windows, are a source of companion- 
 ship and charm. So constantly are they 
 
 * Florio's translation. 
 
The Ideal Haven. 75 
 
 before me, I have begun to consider them 
 as my own, a remote part of the garden and 
 the grounds to which they form the frame. 
 I love to watch their changing expression 
 and note their play of light and shade. 
 Meseems they almost resemble a human 
 countenance in the varying sentiments they 
 convey. Content and malcontent are as 
 plainly expressed by their mobile curves as 
 they are by the lines of the human face. 
 Like the rest of us, in sunshine they smile, 
 in storm they frown. They are warm, or 
 cool, as the mood takes them ; as they re- 
 flect or absorb the sky and atmosphere. 
 For days they rest in absolute calm ; again 
 they recede, and, again, they advance. 
 Mirroring every change of the day and of 
 the passing seasons, they are a dial that 
 tells the hour, the time of year to me. The 
 sun salutes one side of their profile the first 
 thing in the morning ; his parting rays 
 illumine the other side the last thing in the 
 evening. They hasten the dawn, and pro- 
 long the twilight. The full moon rising 
 from the far horizon behind them, silvers 
 their wooded slopes ere it gilds the topmost 
 gables of my house. They catch the first 
 drops of the summer shower, and receive 
 the first flakes of the November snow. 
 The loveliest blues and purples seek them, 
 drawing a semi-transparent veil over them. 
 On hot summer noontides the cloud- 
 
76 The Story of my House. 
 
 flocks repose upon them, and the orange 
 afterglow lingers long upon their tran- 
 quil heights. In spring the earliest vio- 
 lets carpet their sheltered places ; in au- 
 tumn they yield me the last blue gentian 
 bloom. I see the wind lifting their green 
 skirts, and fancy I hear his voice murmur- 
 ing through their umbrageous depths. My 
 hills ever catch and focus color, and toy and 
 play with wind and sun. Whether shim- 
 mering in midsummer glare, or standing 
 put against the wintry sky, or slumbering 
 in the haze of the dreamy autumnal day, 
 they are my finest landscape paintings. 
 When the snow has spread its shroud over 
 the silent fields they still speak to me in 
 color gray, bronze, and purple by turns 
 during the day ; a kaleidoscope of tones 
 when the sun sinks behind their serried 
 ranks of trees. 
 
 Seeing them thus year after year they 
 have come to possess a personality ; and 
 when a rarefied atmosphere brings them 
 unusually near, I find myself casting an 
 imaginary lasso at them to bring them still 
 closer to me that I may stroke their lovely 
 contours. So familiar have I become with 
 them, I have only to look out of my win- 
 dows, and I am treading their luminous 
 heights, and am fanned by the breeze that 
 perpetually blows upon their peaceful 
 crests. 
 
The Ideal Haven. 77 
 
 With the wind from the southeast, I hear 
 the roar of the railroad trains, panting and 
 steaming, coming and going along their 
 slopes, leaving a trail of smoke to mark the 
 passage of their flight. The ceaseless tide 
 of travel ever hurries on. How many of 
 those seated in the luxurious coaches note 
 the beauty of my hills ? Cloud-shadows 
 chase each other, and hawks wheel over 
 their summits, while the train speeds on, 
 intent upon overtaking other hills and its 
 remote destination : the beauty of my hills 
 remains for me. 
 
 A knock at my study-door interrupts 
 my musings, and my hills abruptly recede. 
 Not that my friend Sherlock drives them 
 away ; he is so versatile and colorful him- 
 self that the charm of his presence and con- 
 versation takes the place of my hills. I 
 never learned until to-day why he has re- 
 mained a bachelor. It was only when con- 
 versing about the ideal home that the true 
 reason occurred to me he has failed, not in 
 discovering the ideal woman, but the ideal 
 architect to carry out his admirable concep- 
 tions of the perfect house ; and rather than 
 fall below his artistic standard he passively 
 submits to fate, and awaits the architect 
 who is to be. 
 
 1 ' You seem to overlook the probability 
 of my being referred to a committee inqui- 
 rendo lunatico, should my views ever be 
 
78 The Story of my House. 
 
 carried out ; and it seems dangerous to 
 commit them to print," was my friend's 
 rejoinder to a request that he present his 
 views in detail. 
 
 " But the simple story of my house will 
 at most be read by a few," I replied ; " and 
 these few will charitably give us credit for 
 good intentions ; moreover the critics are 
 not nearly as black as they are painted/' 
 
 " My ideas," continued my friend, " fly 
 so rudely in the face of all convention that 
 people would consider the order of Nature 
 reversed. ' A kitchen in the front yard ! ' 
 I hear them say, ' Away with him ! ' 
 
 "Nevertheless, had I the courage of my 
 convictions, together with ten times as 
 much money as I shall ever possess, I 
 would build my house all front, and no 
 rear ! 
 
 "A capacious vestibule, say 20X20 
 feet, should be, not the entrance exactly, 
 but a means of exclusion for unwelcome 
 visitors. A door on one side should open 
 to my lady's reception-room where she 
 should receive all formal and business calls ; 
 in short, every one whom she took no pleas- 
 ure in seeing at all. 
 
 "This reception-room should be con- 
 nected with the domestic end of the house ; 
 the store-rooms, servants' hall, kitchen, 
 kitchen-pantries, and, back of these, the 
 dining- and breakfast-rooms. 
 
The Ideal Haven. 79 
 
 " On the opposite side of the vestibule 
 should be a door, similarly accommodating 
 all unwelcome guests of the master, being 
 the entrance to the office, and connected by 
 a heavy portiere and door with the den 
 and library. From these masculine apart- 
 ments a staircase, concealed in the wall, 
 should enable the good man of the house to 
 disappear to his bath- and dressing-room ; 
 and there should also be an outer side-door 
 from the den, through which could be 
 ' fired ' (and admitted also) such tardy and 
 bibulous friends as might meet the disap- 
 proval of madame. 
 
 " The back of the vestibule should open 
 and expand into the hall a great living- 
 room connecting the library at one end 
 with the dining-room at the other, and out 
 of which should open such little parlors and 
 snuggeries as inventive genius might sug- 
 gest. 
 
 "Into this hall, the real house, only 
 those one wished to see should be admitted. 
 Here the great staircase should rest the eye, 
 and the great hearth should blaze. On oc- 
 casions of festivity the guests, in their 
 wraps, should ascend by a modest staircase 
 in the vestibule to their disrobing rooms, 
 and thence descend by the grand staircase. 
 
 "The kitchen being at one end of the 
 front part of the house, and so conveniently 
 accessible to the butcher, baker, and can- 
 
8o The Story of my House. 
 
 dlestick-maker, would leave all the space 
 behind the house for piazzas, terraces, and 
 gardens, with such fountains, statuary, and 
 conservatories as might be within reach of 
 the goodman's purse ; and all where the re- 
 porter and unwelcome caller could not in- 
 trude; for they would be secluded alike 
 from the general public and the ordinary 
 domestic offices. The principal apartments 
 of all Japanese houses, I may observe, are 
 at the back of the house, looking out upon 
 the garden with its lilies, irises, paeonias, 
 azaleas, its foliage-plants and flowering 
 shrubs. 
 
 "Thus you perceive my ideal house 
 requires four staircases: the great one in 
 the great hall, the modest one in the vesti- 
 bule, the secret one (to escape creditors), 
 and the one for the servants. 
 
 " When I consider that this is only two 
 more than all civilized houses have, I am 
 surprised at the moderation and restraint of 
 the average house-builder. But pray re- 
 member I am anxious to avoid that com- 
 mittee of lunacy ; and I have not yet begun 
 to build." 
 
 Personally, I entertain the highest regard 
 for my versatile friend's ideal. Were I to 
 suggest any change in the main points, so 
 admirably conceived, it would be to have 
 the study removed to a still serener sphere, 
 as has already been suggested. Even with 
 
The Ideal Haven. 81 
 
 my friend's excellent barricade, still, on 
 some occasion when least expected per- 
 chance a most momentous one, just as a 
 long-lost conceit had winged its return the 
 dreaded intruder might force an entrance, 
 and put the thought to instantaneous and 
 irremeable flight. 
 
 The size of the study, methinks, should 
 be small rather than large; yet ample enough 
 to harbor the cheering grate-fire, the easy- 
 chairs, the center-table, the writing-desk, 
 the well-filled book-cases, and the artistic 
 glass cabinet or cabinets, for such precious 
 works as should be kept under lock and 
 key and never loaned, or even touched by 
 sacrilegious hands. 
 
 Let these gems be worthily set as be- 
 comes their quality and rarity, so they may 
 minister to the delight of the eye and the 
 pleasure of the touch as they contribute to 
 the delectation of the mind. "Sashes of 
 gold for old saints, golden bindings for old 
 writings," Nodier expresses it; and Charles 
 Asselineau affectionately exclaims: "My 
 Books, I love them ! I have sought them, 
 gathered them, searched for them; I have 
 had them habited to the best of my ability 
 by the best tailors of books." My glass 
 cabinet is my casket, my jewel-case ; and 
 in the many-colored morocco of the bind- 
 ings that reflect the precious riches con- 
 tained within them, I see all manner of jew- 
 
82 The Story of my House. 
 
 els flash and glow. In these, and in some 
 of the superb marblings employed in the 
 finer French bindings and here the exqui- 
 site beauty of the perfect half-morocco bind- 
 ing is apparent I derive a satisfaction akin 
 to that I receive from the contemplation of 
 any fine art object. The airy conceits and 
 felicities of phrase of a favorite author be- 
 come yet more entrancing when held by 
 these colored butterfly- wings and variega- 
 ted plumes dreamed out by the artist, and 
 stamped in permanent form by the skill of 
 the binder. 
 
 Thought is inclined to wander amid the 
 freedom of a large room. But though the 
 study should not be a vast apartment, it 
 should be sufficiently spacious for comfort 
 and to avoid overcrowding. Sufficiently 
 large it should also be and the ceiling suffi- 
 ciently high to insure a pure atmosphere. 
 On account of ventilation, a fire-place is of 
 great advantage in the room where one is 
 engaged in sedentary pursuits. It is the 
 next thing to the walk and the elixir of the 
 open air. De Quincey worked in a room 
 seventeen by twelve, and not more than 
 seven and a half feet high. The low ceil- 
 ings must have oppressed him; and the 
 vitiated air and sense of suffocation, it is 
 not unlikely, led him to yield to the danger- 
 ous stimulus that inspired the Confessions. 
 
 Most wisely has Leigh Hunt discoursed 
 
The Ideal Haven. 83 
 
 upon the study and its surroundings in that 
 ever-pleasing essay, My Books. " I do not 
 like this fine large study. I like elegance. 
 I like room to breathe in, and even walk 
 about, when I want to breathe and walk 
 about. I like a great library next my study ; 
 but for the study itself give me a small, 
 snug place, almost entirely walled with 
 books. There should be only one window 
 in it looking on trees. ... I dislike a grand 
 library to study in. I mean an immense 
 apartment with books all in museum order, 
 especially wire-safed. I say nothing against 
 the museum itself, or public libraries. . . . 
 A grand private library, which the master 
 of the house also makes his study, never 
 looks to me like a real place of books, much 
 less of authorship. I can not take kindly to 
 it. It is certainly not out of envy ; for three 
 parts of the boofes are generally trash, and I 
 can seldom think of the rest and the pro- 
 prietor together." 
 
 To be attractive and cozy, the study 
 need not be extravagantly furnished. As 
 in other apartments of the house, light is 
 one of its first requisites ; with color, ease, 
 quiet, and, if possible, a pleasant prospect. 
 In the study, above all, no discordant ele- 
 ments should intrude. The general tone 
 of the walls, decorations, and furnishings, 
 while rich, should yet be subdued and rest- 
 ful. A glaring placque, a staring figure in 
 6 
 
84 The Story of my House. 
 
 the wall or carpet pattern, or any subject 
 unpleasing in its nature or sentiment, 
 whether in paintings, pictures, or orna- 
 ments, has no place in an apartment 
 which, by its very atmosphere, should con- 
 duce to reverie and a contemplative frame 
 of mind. Let dreamful landscapes, rather 
 than figures in action, adorn and comple- 
 ment the rich slate or sage of its walls and 
 hangings ; and I picture my ideal study, 
 when my second ship comes in, hung round 
 about solely with Daubigny's tender twi- 
 lights and peaceful river-reaches on his calm 
 and slowly gliding Oise. 
 
 For the closer concentration of thought, 
 the working-chair would be placed in the 
 most attractive corner of the apartment, 
 back of the spacious writing-desk, with its 
 amplitude of drawers and pigeon - holes ; 
 its topmost shelf and other convenient 
 places so arranged with pictures and por- 
 traits of favorite authors and dear or absent 
 friends as to create and constantly diffuse 
 an atmosphere of congenial companionship. 
 
 A carved book-rest should hold the dic- 
 tionary in place close to the working-chair, 
 and a revolving case within arm's reach 
 should bring to it desired works of refer- 
 ence and such especially treasured volumes 
 from which ideas may be collected an- 
 other name for inspiration. I would men- 
 tion some of these each worthy of crushed 
 
The Ideal Haven. 85 
 
 levant covers, the handicraft of a Padeloup 
 or Payne but for the fact that every one 
 should choose such inspirations for himself. 
 One may not be guided by another's choice 
 in a face or book that charms. 
 
 Once during the day, but always unper- 
 ceived, save for an added freshness pervad- 
 ing the apartment, my study should respond 
 to the touch of gentle fingers. Then, as I 
 mount the secret staircase when I would 
 be alone a lingering aroma of violets and 
 the vanishing rustle of a silken robe. 
 
V. 
 
 WHEN LEAVES GROW SERE. 
 
 For we, which now behold these present days ; 
 Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 
 
 SONNET cvi. 
 
 Not all the joy, and not all the glory, 
 Must fade as leaves when the woods wax hoary. 
 
 SWINBURNE. 
 
 HERE is a sigh in the passing 
 breeze as the autumn days steal 
 on a sigh for the summer fled. 
 I hear the change, the admoni- 
 tory whisper of the leaves, al- 
 most ere the transition becomes perceptible, 
 for Nature as yet has scarcely altered her 
 outward garb. 
 
 Yet daily the shadows lengthen, the haze 
 deepens, mellower grow the evening skies, 
 until, no longer vacillating between summer 
 and autumn, the first frost smites the low- 
 lands, and the division line of the seasons is 
 visibly proclaimed. 
 
 " We hope in the spring, only to regret 
 in the fall." But shall 1 regret the vanished 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 87 
 
 summer? Will not yonder hillside glow 
 as all the summer meadows have never 
 glowed? these yellowing woods outshine 
 the sunshine of spring ? Suddenly, through 
 my windows, I note where the first fires 
 have begun to burn. 1 watch the flames 
 creep stealthily along the hills, smoldering, 
 perchance, in a distant hollow, anon riding 
 the higher crests, illuming sumac-senti- 
 neled ravines, invading the brier patches, 
 and lighting sproutland and swamp with 
 living fire. High on the uplands the splen- 
 dor hangs, low in the valleys the glory falls. 
 Steeped and flooded with its color, the land- 
 scape gleams like an opal beneath the au- 
 tumn sun. What poet, what prose painter, 
 what cunning artificer of phrase can depict 
 the tidal wave of beauty of the latter year ? 
 Shall I regret the summer with the Oc- 
 tober carnival at hand, when the wood- 
 cock whistles from the alder thicket and 
 the grouse bursts through the painted cov- 
 ert ? It is for this the sportsman has longed 
 and waited during the lingering months of 
 summer. Stanchly as he is drawn upon 
 the covey, I am sure The Spanish Pointer, 
 in the old print above the writing-desk, feels 
 the advent of the season, and thinks, with 
 the latter-day philosopher, that "the preach- 
 er who declared that all is vanity, never 
 looked at a fall woodcock over the rib of a 
 good gun." 
 
88 The Story of my House. 
 
 Always on his point on the knoll, the 
 pointer's riveted attitude now has an added 
 meaning. His eye still fixed upon the 
 quarry, he nevertheless moves unceasingly 
 in his frame. There is no deception, no 
 optical illusion; he moves not forward or 
 backward, but with an oscillating, sideward 
 motion, as if the constant strain on his 
 powerful tendons had caused them to relax. 
 Rigid as a statue has he stood throughout 
 the summer, the blue blood of generations 
 of pointers holding him unflinchingly upon 
 the game. Perhaps now the scent has 
 grown cold. Or has he wearied of waiting 
 for the volley of the barrels, and, looking 
 up for a moment at the crimsoning copse, 
 bethought him that a fresh season has 
 dawned, and there are fresh coveys to 
 spring? The grim lion by Barye, in the 
 etching that hangs above him, remains mo- 
 tionless. Though you would dread to meet 
 the beast of prey on the desert where he is 
 stalking, he shows no signs of animation 
 on the wall whence he looks down upon 
 you. Only the old pointer moves unceas- 
 ingly in his frame. Is the movement of the 
 picture due to the furnace heat behind the 
 partition wall ? To you, perhaps. To me 
 he is plainly motioning to the covers. 
 
 Methinks, also, that my good Irish ter- 
 rier, who is often by my side, looks up 
 at the fox's pelt more intently as autumn 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 89 
 
 draws on apace. The fox may suggest the 
 covers and its denizens to him, as the mo- 
 tion of the pointer suggests them to me 
 the fleet forms that haunt their mazy fast- 
 nesses, the hares and rabbits and vanishing 
 shadows his steel sinews are eager to pur- 
 sue. Surely his sharply pointed ears, his 
 quivering muscles, and his glittering hazel 
 eyes are in sympathy with the movements 
 of the pointer, and second his invitation to 
 the woods. 
 
 Musing upon the ancient print, with its 
 rolling background of hill and dale, I some- 
 times picture the scene of desolation which 
 would ensue were the woods and waters 
 stripped of their native tenants the game 
 which is at once their glory and their joy. 
 Fancy the landscape denuded of the wild 
 life that is as indigenous as its flora, that is 
 nurtured upon its mast, and derives suste- 
 nance from the very twigs and leaves of its 
 vegetation. Conceive, if it be possible, 
 streams with no trout to people their pools 
 and shallows, waters that never mirrored 
 the wood-drake's mail, and lakes unruffled 
 by the web of wild fowl. 
 
 Imagine the woodlands with no grouse 
 to beat the reveille of spring, no hares to 
 thread their shaded labyrinths, no fox to 
 prowl through their coverts. Silence the 
 scream of the hawk, and the voice of 
 the owl, crow, and jay, and instantly the 
 
90 The Story of my House. 
 
 landscape would be deprived of half its 
 beauty, its innate beauty of sound. Game 
 is the essence of the woods and free, un- 
 civilized Nature the division line that sep- 
 arates the wild from the tame and he 
 whose nerves have never tingled at the 
 electric whir of a game-bird's wing and the 
 responsive boom of the double-barrel, has 
 remained insensible to one of the most in- 
 spiring exhilarations of the senses. Just as 
 the library refreshes and stimulates the 
 mind, so do the woods, the streams, and 
 the stubbles become a field of health for the 
 body, and by the invigorating and elevating 
 recreation they yield do field sports serve 
 to strengthen both mind and body. Enough 
 for me that autumn is here ; I must accept 
 the invitation of the old pointer, and exam- 
 ine for myself what the woods have in 
 store. 
 
 Brilliant as they are in the flush of their 
 October splendor, they will lose but little 
 of their beauty as autumn wanes. The 
 bare trees extend and expand the landscape 
 for me, contributing enchantments of dis- 
 tance that only denuded vegetation may 
 reveal. Then, with the weather in a gra- 
 cious mood, 1 obtain effects that the green 
 entanglement of summer never knew. The 
 purple bloom upon my hills is never half so 
 exquisite as when a thaw has freed them 
 temporarily from their coverlet of snow, 
 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 91 
 
 disclosing their russet slopes and leafless 
 trees. A new palette of color is presented 
 in these subtle gradations of umber and 
 ochre, of drab and of bronze, that drape the 
 withered stubbles. Sere and faded in the 
 latter year, the lonely marsh is yet glorious 
 with subdued hues when touched by the 
 afternoon splendor. The hush which broods 
 upon the landscape, too, has a charm of its 
 own, in harmony with the quiet tones of 
 the slumbering woods. The very lisp of 
 the chickadee and solemn tap of the nut- 
 hatch only intensify the repose of Nature; 
 and I question if the combined glories of the 
 midsummer twilight, when the bat and 
 night-hawk raced upon the evening sky, 
 yielded anything so radiantly beautiful as 
 the slant November sunlight streaming 
 through the trees of the lowland, its vivid 
 crimsons reflected in the pools below. 
 
 The airy spray of the beech I may ad- 
 mire only during winter, and only when it 
 stands divested of its summer garniture 
 may I behold the marvelous framework of 
 the elm. Attractive* as it is when robed in 
 the bloom and leafage of summer, the thorn 
 develops a new beauty in its gnarled and 
 naked branches and the hoariness of its gray 
 antiquity. Loveliest, too, are the birch and 
 hemlock in midwinter ; whilst the swamp, 
 ablaze with the scarlet fruit of the Prinos 
 and smooth winterberry, presents its most 
 
92 The Story of my House. 
 
 vivid life above the snow. From it, likewise, 
 I catch the gleam of the golden willow, with 
 purple rufous lights that smolder amid the 
 twigs and branchlets of the shrubs which 
 seek its cool and solitude. Again, when 
 the snow comes sifting down from the pal- 
 lid sky, what magical effects do I not ob- 
 tain amid the dark mysterious depths of the 
 hemlock woods! Even then my hills and 
 woods offer a glorious excuse for an outing. 
 For have I not long pictured in imagination 
 the shadowy vistas where I know the big 
 white hares are in waiting ? 
 
 It is worth scaling a dozen hillsides to 
 breathe such air and obtain such views. 
 No play of sunlight on an English South 
 Down could be finer, and no lines of beauty 
 fairer than those revealed by distant table- 
 land and wide-extending vale. A silence, 
 broken only by the roar of far-oflf railroad 
 trains or the ring of the woodsman's axe, 
 rests like a benediction over all, a sleep of 
 Nature peaceful, deep, profound. 
 
 Within the shelter of the wood, beneath 
 the refuge of the evergreens and under- 
 growth, it is warm ; without, the gale may 
 rave, and, above, the tree-tops wail a requiem 
 for the departing year; but here below it is 
 protected as within the walls of a building. 
 On either hand extend the green arcades of 
 the hemlocks, like the nave and transepts 
 of a cathedral. The downy woodpecker 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 93 
 
 and titmouse are here, ever present as chor- 
 isters ; the wild life of the woods is here, 
 the companionship of bird and beast and 
 dormant vegetable life. There is life beat- 
 ing beneath the mold, beneath the snowy 
 mantle the ermine with which Nature 
 keeps her treasures warm. There is life 
 nimble, fleet, and stirring above the tell- 
 tale snow. 
 
 That is a fox's track leading to his den 
 on the hillside, the return trail of Reynard 
 whose sortie toward the barn-yards you 
 previously noticed. When he started on 
 his foray his pace was a walk, as his foot- 
 steps close together reveal. Warily he was 
 proceeding under cover of the darkness, 
 planning the best means of ingress to his 
 gallinaceous goal. All the caution of a 
 skilled general on the eve of a decisive bat- 
 tle is apparent in his skulking foot-prints. 
 His dreaded enemies are well known. 
 Only yesterday the hounds were hot in his 
 pursuit, and the echoes reverberated with 
 the volley of barbarous vulpicides, which 
 happily fell wide of its mark. But he will 
 outwit them all! His trained cunning has 
 taught him the danger of traps and gins; 
 his fleet foot has long borne him through 
 many a loop-hole of escape. The stork's 
 invitation to dine must needs be deftly per- 
 fumed and framed on an unusually tempting 
 card to induce him to take his claret out of 
 
94 The Story of my House. 
 
 long-necked carafes or his p&U defoiegras 
 from metal tureens. 
 
 The tracks leading back from the farm- 
 yard show him to have been jogging along 
 at a more rapid gait. The prints are the 
 same, except that they are farther apart, 
 one following directly behind the other, 
 Indian filewise, in an almost straight line. 
 His object accomplished, there was no 
 further need of extreme caution or dalliance. 
 From a safe distance he had watched the 
 lights in the farm-house till one by one 
 they were extinguished, had waited until 
 all was silent, and his keen scent apprised 
 him that danger was past. It was then an 
 easy matter to pounce upon and bear off 
 the unsuspecting prey. Along his return 
 trail there are feathers strewed here and 
 there, attesting conclusively that his raid 
 was successful. 
 
 Lightly he tripped along with elevated 
 brush, the booty slung over his shoulder, 
 to the safeguard of his den. Obviously be- 
 fore reaching his haven he has been startled 
 by something. The tracks, still in a straight 
 line, become much farther apart; the trot 
 has given place to a canter for a few rods, 
 when his former gait is resumed. The 
 baying of a hound, perchance, from his 
 kennel on the farther hillside, or the bark 
 of a fellow-vulpine freebooter, has quick- 
 ened his pace for the moment. Where he 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 95 
 
 struck into a gallop the prints of his nails 
 are visible; these do not show when he 
 progresses on his customary trot or walk, 
 so well are his feet protected for extended 
 predations by the thick fur padding between 
 the toes. His long sweeping brush never 
 once touched the snow, burdened though 
 he was by his plunder. This he carries 
 well up, knowing the increased weight it 
 would engender should he get it wet A 
 cat is not more careful of her dainty feet 
 than is sly Reynard of his precious tail. 
 
 In general, a fox that has acquired a 
 taste for poultry is considered rather an un- 
 desirable subject for the chase proper. A 
 poultry fox always makes his headquarters 
 near the farmsteads. His daily beat, there- 
 fore, is limited as to distance compared 
 with his brethren who subsist by foraging 
 in the woods, and whose nightly rounds 
 embrace a very much larger territory. Usu- 
 ally a poultry fox, if started, does not take 
 a straight line very far, but, after leading a 
 short distance, commences to circle, coming 
 round to the place of starting after the man- 
 ner of the hare. A fox who subsists on 
 game knows all the fat covers of the neigh- 
 borhood where the most game lies. His 
 extended tramps give him wind, fleetness, 
 and endurance, while his familiarity with 
 every rod of the covers stands him in excel- 
 lent stead when hotly pursued. 
 
96 The Story of my House. 
 
 A round glittering eyeball, bright as a 
 coal of fire, is scrutinizing you from beneath 
 a pile of brushwood at the edge of the 
 cover. Scarcely is the gun discharged ere 
 a small covey of quail spring close at hand. 
 Investigation is needless to reveal the baf- 
 fled assassin; the tell-tale tracks upon the 
 snow, round like those of a- fox, but smaller, 
 and the distance between considerably less, 
 divulge the nature of the trespasser. It is 
 none other than a cat, the petted tabby of 
 the farmstead, that spends a large portion 
 of its time in stalking game a poacher 
 scarcely less destructive than its fierce wild 
 congener. When once a taste for game has 
 been formed, pursuit is thenceforward con- 
 tinual and relentless, till the offender usually 
 ends by adopting a permanent woodland 
 abode, where it thrives lustily, increasing 
 in size and acquiring a heavy coat of fur. 
 
 Look at this much-traveled esplanade, 
 where the tracks show so thickly upon the 
 snow. Overnight the hares and rabbits 
 have been browsing upon the young beech, 
 maple, and hemlock buds, with an occa- 
 sional sally into the brier patches. The 
 numerous trails indicate they have availed 
 themselves of the bright moonlight to con- 
 tinue their feeding longer than usual. On 
 moonlight nights the Leporidce always travel 
 most; on cold, blustering nights they sel- 
 dom leave their forms. Birds and animals 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 97 
 
 dislike to venture out during stormy weather 
 unless impelled by hunger. At such times 
 a wood throbbing with animate life seems 
 entirely deserted by its furred and feathered 
 population. Vainly, then, the pointer or 
 setter may quarter the ground; the game 
 lies concealed and apparently scentless be- 
 neath the brush and hiding-places, refusing 
 to leave its refuge unless almost stepped 
 upon. An apparently similar disappearance 
 of game is often noticeable when the weather 
 is fair immediately preceding a storm. The 
 squirrels are warmly housed in their nests 
 within the trees. Many of the grouse seek 
 shelter amid the dense hemlocks, sitting 
 close to the trunks on the leeside of the 
 storm, protected by the thick foliage and 
 their own matting of feathers. The closest 
 of beating then goes for little, so that in a 
 wood where you know game exists in com- 
 parative abundance it appears a mystery 
 whither all its wild life has fled. 
 
 The white hare and rabbit tracks if the 
 smaller Lepus may be referred to as a rabbit 
 which strew the ground are identical save 
 in size. There are first the marks of the 
 hind feet, side by side, followed by those 
 of the fore feet, one behind the other. Thus 
 it is seen the gait is always a lope or bound, 
 and that in springing the hare brings up 
 with his hind feet nearest the head, alight- 
 ing, however, on all fours at once. His 
 
98 The Story of my House. 
 
 long, powerful hind-quarters seem made of 
 rubber sinews, the crooked stifles and great 
 strength of thigh acting as levers to the 
 supple body framed with special regard to 
 speed his sole protection. In reaching for 
 the buds and young shoots of the under- 
 growth during the deep snows, he is ma- 
 terially aided by his long hind legs. 
 
 Under the beeches the squirrels have 
 been busy scratching for the mast; these 
 appear to be the most restless foragers of 
 the wood, their trails being by far the most 
 numerous. Like the hare's and rabbit's, 
 their gait is a lope. As he lands from his 
 spring, the hind feet of the squirrel touch 
 the ground nearest the head, as in the case 
 of the hare and rabbit, but the two forward 
 feet, instead of striking one before the other, 
 strike nearly side by side, like a single foot- 
 fall. Occasionally, not often, he prints simi- 
 larly to the rabbit in the position of the feet, 
 although always smaller and somewhat less 
 pointed. The large blacks and grays are 
 persecuted by the smaller pugnacious reds, 
 which frequently drive them entirely out of 
 a wood, first pilfering their nests of the 
 shack they have stored. 
 
 Here Master Reynard has been mousing, 
 seated on a stump intently watching, his 
 flowing brush clear of the snow ; the air is 
 tainted with his strong odor. Where he 
 made a leap his footmarks are distinctly 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 99 
 
 visible amid the numerous tracks of the 
 field-mice a dainty of which he is ex- 
 tremely fond. Yonder is the scene of an 
 oft-enacted woodland tragedy, with Rey- 
 nard in his great title role of slayer. There, 
 beneath the shelter of an uprooted beech, a 
 grouse had repaired for his nightly slumber, 
 his head screened from the moonlight under 
 his protecting wings. The impress of his 
 form is clearly molded upon the snow. 
 But, alas ! his now tattered plumage and a 
 prowling fox's foot-prints attest his grim 
 awakening when his relentless foe discov- 
 ered his retreat. For this had his wings 
 so often rung defiance to the double-barrel; 
 to this ignominious end had he come at 
 last ! Were the ghosts of murdered grouse 
 to haunt the scenes of their earthly sojourn, 
 they might rattle their featherless wings in 
 triumph to know that on this self-same 
 hillside, but a few rods from the scene of 
 the tragedy, Master Reynard met his fate, 
 a week afterward, in the jaws of clamorous 
 hounds. 
 
 It requires a very warm day in winter 
 to tempt a coon from his hibernacle. Jo- 
 day his large flat prints and zigzag course 
 are not observable ; he is snugly clad in his 
 fur overcoat within the fastness of a shelter- 
 ing tree. The ground-hog is sealed in his 
 burrow outside the wood, having "pulled 
 his hole in after him"; this he covers up 
 7 
 
ioo The Story of my House. 
 
 with leaves and earth, until, after his pro- 
 tracted slumber, he emerges to view his 
 shadow in the spring. 
 
 That was an owl which skimmed the 
 air so silently, on wings soft as eider-down, 
 noiseless as a butterfly, and stealthy as a 
 fox's tread. It is not often one sees an 
 owl, however; in the day-time he usually 
 sleeps, seldom leaving his retreat till dusk, 
 unless during gloomy weather. The little 
 or screech owls are more frequently seen 
 by day than the larger species. With the 
 hawk, crow, jay, skunk, and fox, the owl 
 is extremely destructive to eggs and young 
 birds during the nesting season, large owls 
 not hesitating to pounce upon full-grown 
 hares, and sharing with the fox a great 
 fondness for poultry. The skunk leaves a 
 print similar to that of the fox and cat, bar- 
 ring its reduced size. There are invariably 
 numbers of these threading the runways 
 and leading to and from the farmsteads. 
 
 There is a murmur like unto many voices 
 in the woods' mysterious depths, as if Pan 
 and his train of Oreads were holding a revel 
 within. It is a combination of numerous 
 sounds that produces these ceaseless whis- 
 pers of the woods. You hear them in sum- 
 mer when the insect choirs are chanting an 
 aerial melody and the hermit-thrush sings 
 as if he had a soul ; you hear them in winter 
 when the wind sobs amid the needles of 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 101 
 
 the pines, and the woodpecker's hammer 
 resounds unceasingly from hollow trees; 
 you hear them now, on every hand, a chorus 
 of voices, the forest's pulsations a palpable 
 part and portion of its solitude. How weird 
 the cry of the blue jay, the loon of the 
 woods, whose startling scream sounds like 
 that a faun might utter in despair! His sap- 
 phire coronet is not for you, however; he 
 jeers at you in strident tones from his strong- 
 hold in the tree-tops, keeping close watch 
 of you, but taking care to remain well out 
 of range. Like his clamorous friend the 
 crow, he has scented F. F. F. powder be- 
 fore. At intervals the airy treble of the tree- 
 sparrow swells the sylvan choir a minor 
 but most melodious addition to the chorus. 
 When the powdery snow patters upon the 
 withered leaves and the stillness is other- 
 wise almost unbroken, you may hear his 
 carillon while he feeds on the tender buds 
 of the sweet birch. " A merry heart goes 
 all the day " is his motto and the tenor of 
 his blithe refrain. 
 
 There are grouse tracks also that have 
 left their reflection in winter's mirror the 
 roving feet of the brown forest hermit, the 
 daintiest print upon the snow. Unless dis- 
 turbed, the ruffed-grouse will travel a great 
 distance on foot through the woods in quest 
 of food. A single bird will leave a surpris- 
 ing number of tracks in the course of his 
 
IO2 The Story of my House. 
 
 protracted wanderings, so that one is often 
 puzzled at the comparative scarcity of birds. 
 But even on the snow he is extremely diffi- 
 cult to detect, so closely does he blend with 
 his surroundings. Not until he springs with 
 sonorous pinions close at your side are you 
 made aware of his precise location, when 
 you wonder you had not observed him be- 
 fore. All game is alike in this respect 
 difficulty of detection even to the brilliantly 
 marked trout, which assume the general 
 color of the bottom of streams in which 
 they lie. 
 
 Should you shoot a crow amid your 
 rambles, a swarm of mourners will quickly 
 be in attendance on the remains. Within 
 a few minutes every ebon inhabitant of the 
 neighborhood, apprised by the alarm of its 
 companions, may be seen winging its way 
 thereto with loud cawings. It can not be 
 the sense of sight alone that locates the 
 dead, for the discovery will not unfrequent- 
 ly occur in thick cover or open glade. 
 
 One of the numerous runways of the 
 hares, within gunshot of which you have 
 taken position, extends through a glade, 
 affording ample opportunity to observe the 
 game. The eager hounds have struck the 
 scent leading to a form in a thicket of brier 
 where the quarry lies concealed. The star- 
 tled hare leaps from his covert, with the 
 hounds in full cry coming directly toward 
 
When Leaves Grow Sere. 103 
 
 you, until, turning into another runway, the 
 music recedes in the distance. Amid the 
 frenzy of pursuit two other hares have been 
 started, the deep baying indicating the 
 course of the divided pack. Round and 
 round the fleet hares circle, one of them 
 after a prolonged flight approaching your 
 standpoint. His agile dash for liberty has 
 left his pursuers in the rear, and he pauses 
 a white silhouette of living beauty, and 
 the embodiment of nimble speed for a 
 survey. He sits upon his great hind legs 
 his only safeguard turning his long clean- 
 cut ears forward and backward, each one 
 singly, to focus the sound. The music 
 swells into a grand crescendo, the twigs 
 crackle beneath the trampling of many feet, 
 and the hare is off again with the speed of 
 the racer. The baying of the pack indicates 
 the direction of pursuit, whether the game 
 is coming or going. A hare always circles, 
 returning sooner or later to the place he 
 started from; he never "holes," like the 
 rabbit, unless in a log when exhausted. To 
 baffle the dogs he will sometimes imitate 
 his wily master, Reynard, by taking his 
 back track for quite a distance, and then, 
 leaping aside, to strike put on a fresh course ; 
 by this means he gains a breathing-spell 
 and puzzles his foes. 
 
 So the sport progresses, and the bag 
 mounts with the lengthening shadows. An 
 
104 The Story of my House. 
 
 owl is sounding his lone "tu-whoo!" 
 when the hounds come in with lolling 
 tongues and trembling flanks from the pro- 
 longed excitement of the chase. The last 
 hare has carmined the snow with his life- 
 blood, and the heavy spoils are harled and 
 strung. The flaming fires of sunset are 
 smoldering into ashen embers in the soft 
 southwest; the tender violets of the remote 
 table-lands chill to colder purples with day's 
 decline ; the marshaled ranks of the skeleton 
 trees stand out upon the hills as if limned in 
 India ink; the mellow hyemal twilight 
 deepens over woodland ana valley, till the 
 perfect winter day merges into the moonlit 
 winter night and the vale of the sport. 
 
VI. 
 
 DECORATIVE DECORATIONS. 
 
 All arts are one, howe'er distributed they stand; 
 Verse, tone, shape, color, form, are fingers on one hand. 
 
 W. W. STORY. 
 
 IHILE I make no pretense of vying 
 with the shops of bric-a-brac 
 and curios it has been said the 
 modern house has come to re- 
 semble a magazine of bric-ti-brac 
 yet, somehow, I find a great many ob- 
 jects which would be classed under this 
 definition have gradually drifted or floated 
 in, and have become as much of an artistic 
 and companionable feature of the house as 
 the paintings on the walls. Especially since 
 the arrival of my ship, when several large 
 bales with cabalistic marks and lettering 
 proved on opening to be a veritable reposi- 
 tory of ancient Oriental workmanship and 
 design. 
 
 1 can conceive of no more hideous night- 
 mare than that which must haunt one who 
 is obliged to live in intimate companionship 
 with many of the so-called "ornaments" 
 
106 The Story of my House. 
 
 that dealers and the fashion of the hour force 
 upon one, and that, in one guise or another, 
 must ever be snarling and snapping at the 
 unfortunate possessor. Littered up with 
 all sorts of outrt and unmeaning knick- 
 knacks, the home at once becomes a place 
 to flee from; and instead of the spirit of 
 quiet elegance and congruity which should 
 prevail, there reigns a pandemonium of dis- 
 conformity. Yet a certain amount of bric- 
 a-brac is not only admissible but requisite 
 to the decorative atmosphere of the interior. 
 Its effect depends upon the choosing. Given 
 a correct eye for color and form and a natural 
 feeling for harmony, Sir William Temple's 
 sentence is pertinent, "The measure of 
 choosing well is whether a man likes what 
 he has chosen." Like my paintings, rugs, 
 and etchings, so also my porcelains, bronzes, 
 arms, and armor are pleasing objects for the 
 eye to rest upon ; and, ranged upon the 
 shelves and about the apartments, minister 
 equally in the expression and variety they 
 lend to the surroundings. 
 
 I rejoice in my collection of arms and 
 armor. Many rare antiques from the Stam- 
 boul bazaars my ship contained lovely in- 
 laid Persian guns, exquisitely mounted Al- 
 banian pistols, antique rapiers, daggers, and 
 swords, ancient kandjars and yataghans, 
 with scabbards of repousst silver, of velvet, 
 of copper, of shagreen and Ymen leather; 
 
Decorative Decorations. 107 
 
 with handles of jade, agate, and ivory, con- 
 stellated with garnets, turquoises, corals, 
 and girasols; long, narrow, large, curved; 
 of all forms, of all times, of all countries; 
 from the Damascene blade of the Pasha, in- 
 crusted with verses of the Koran in letters 
 of gold, to the coarse knife of the camel- 
 driver. How many Zeibecs and Arnauts, 
 how many beys and effendis, how many 
 omrahs and rajahs have not stripped their 
 girdles to form this precious arsenal which 
 would have rendered Decamps mad with 
 joy!* 
 
 There are, moreover, glistening helmets 
 and coats-of-mail, corselets, maces, spears 
 and hauberks, battle-axes and halberds, 
 bucklers of tortoise-shell and Damascene 
 steel all the implements of the ferocious 
 ingenuity of Islam. On the blue blade of 
 this magnificent yataghan, still keen and 
 glittering, its ivory handle inlaid with topaz 
 and turquoise, is graven the number of 
 heads it has severed. These cruel swords, 
 now crossed so peacefully, were once 
 crossed in savage strife and brandished in 
 hate upon the battle-field amid the blare of 
 Mussulman trumpets and the shouts of 
 murderous Janizaries. Often, as the sun- 
 light strikes the lustrous steel, do they 
 seem to leap into life and flash anew in re- 
 
 * Gautier. Constantinople Les Bazars. 
 
io8 The Story of my House. 
 
 membrance of the battle-cry of Mohammed. 
 Though mostly of great age, my arms and 
 armor are all in a state of perfect preserva- 
 tion. For mere antiquity in art objects or 
 curios is not desirable in itself. Age has its 
 charms unquestionably, but it becomes a 
 valuable factor only when accompanied by 
 beauty. Where an object loses its pristine 
 beauty through time, age is a detriment 
 rather than a desideratum. With many 
 classes of art objects time heightens their 
 attraction, or at least does not detract from 
 it. In all such, age is a desirable quantity. 
 To be old is generally to be rare; but an 
 object may be rare and still be undesirable. 
 Objects that are extremely sensitive to 
 wear are usually worthless when old. 
 Others, like tapestries and Oriental textiles, 
 are improved by use, and gain in richness 
 and value through age. An ancient textile 
 or article of bric-ti-brac is only desirable 
 when, added to intrinsic beauty of texture, 
 color, form, or design, it preserves its 
 youth in its antiquity, or acquires addi- 
 tional attractiveness through time. 
 
 Naturally, my ship contained many fine 
 stuffs and hangings old Flemish, French, 
 and Italian tapestries, embroideries from 
 Broussa and Salonica, Spanish brocades, 
 and brocades from Borhampor and Ah- 
 medabad, with some priceless ancient altar 
 cloths, chasubles, and dalmaticas I had long 
 
Decorative Decorations. 109 
 
 desired to possess. Yet with all these and 
 other acquisitions, now that the bloom of 
 first possession is brushed off, may I de- 
 clare without prevarication that I am fully 
 satisfied ? Increase of appetite but grows 
 on what it feeds. Collecting begets col- 
 lecting, the desire for possession constantly 
 increasing, ever goading one on to unrest 
 in the quest of the unprocurable. How 
 much one misses with a little knowledge, 
 and how much one gains! The love for 
 beauty too often proves a bane. Even a 
 love for books is as dangerous as a love 
 for bric-a-brac or art objects the book in 
 the end becoming an art object. Gradual- 
 ly, from the ordinary editions one passes 
 to the good editions, while from the good 
 it is but a step to the rare, and the seeth- 
 ing maelstrom of book-madness. My ship 
 brought me many of my decorations; my 
 books, with few exceptions, I must pro- 
 cure myself. 
 
 But though sometimes productive of re- 
 grets, no one should be without a hobby, 
 or hobbies. " Have not the wisest of men 
 in all ages, not excepting Solomon himself 
 have they not had their hobby-horses?" 
 asks Sterne. "The man without a hobby 
 may be a good citizen and an honest fel- 
 low," observes George Dawson, in his al- 
 together lovely volume, The Pleasures of 
 Angling, "but he can have but few golden 
 
1 10 The Story of my House. 
 
 threads running through the web or woof 
 of his monotonous existence." A hobby is 
 the best of preceptors, and rides straight to 
 the mark. From a good collection of por- 
 celains one may study the Chinese dynas- 
 ties, and prepare himself for an Asiatic tour 
 by a study of his rugs. Unconsciously the 
 collector of arms and armor becomes a 
 student of the history of numerous peoples 
 and an eye-witness of many of the noted 
 battles of the world. Were I desirous to 
 thoroughly familiarize myself with the his- 
 tory of the American red man I should first 
 proceed to collect Indian implements of the 
 chase and war, supplementing these by 
 close study in the fertile field of literature 
 pertaining to the Indians. But my bows 
 and arrows I should shoot first; they would 
 be the guide to the target. 
 
 One of the essays of Elia has demon- 
 strated the fallacy of the adage "enough is 
 as good as a feast." In decorations it were 
 a scant feast without the endless form and 
 color supplied by the potter's art. Of all 
 art objects, a truly fine piece of old porce- 
 lain is amongst the most beautiful. In col- 
 or it may outshine a precious stone ; in 
 form, rival that of a beautiful object of Na- 
 ture herself. Its very frailty and frangibility 
 intensify its charm, and when possessing 
 both grace of contour and enchantment of 
 color it becomes an object of beauty by the 
 
Decorative Decorations. 1 1 \ 
 
 canons of the most perfect art, exciting the 
 profoundest and purest pleasure profound 
 pleasure to all who behold it, supreme 
 pleasure to him who possesses it. 
 
 I speak of the finer examples of Oriental 
 ceramics, though I grant there is much to 
 admire in some of the Italian soft-paste por- 
 celains, notably the lovely Capo di Monte 
 productions of the first period and the fas- 
 cinating Doccia terraglias. Royal Worces- 
 ter, despite its finish, always looks new, 
 and Sevres wares I invariably associate 
 with a gilded French salon and crimson 
 brocatelle. These may be of excellent de- 
 sign and highly wrought decoration, rep- 
 resenting infinite labor, skill, and minutiae 
 of detail ; but they seldom seem effective 
 compared with the handiwork of the Orien- 
 tal. For the most part European ceramics 
 may not be included under Prof. Grant 
 Allen's term, " decorative decoration/' 
 Among Oriental porcelains, it is well 
 known that articles produced to-day may 
 not be compared with the same class pro- 
 duced in the past. The secret of the mar- 
 velous old glazes has been lost, like the 
 secret of the famed old Toledo blades, and 
 the craft of the ancient metal workers. It 
 is the remote Celestial we admire and re- 
 vere. 
 
 Apparently, my ship must have touched 
 some of the out-of-the-way ports of Hoi- 
 
The Story of my House. 
 
 land, that paradise of blue and white, for 
 her collection of ceramics was rich in this 
 form of Oriental porcelains. It has been 
 asserted that the love for blue and white is 
 a fashion, a craze that can not endure. But 
 fine blue and white from its very nature is 
 beyond the caprice of fashion, and must be 
 enduring for all time. What other blend- 
 ing approximates so closely to Nature ? It 
 is but a Celestial reflex of the firmament 
 the most beautiful of all sky formations, the 
 summer cumulus cloud. A coolness of 
 color it has possessed by no other form of 
 porcelain unless by the incomparable old 
 solid blue and blue-green enamels. 
 
 Not that my ship's stores were limited 
 to the blue and white so lavishly distributed 
 among the appreciative Dutch burghers by 
 the fleets of a former day. There were 
 also many chrysanthema that could only 
 have been gathered from the classic gardens 
 of the Celestial himself specimens from 
 the periods of Wan-li, Kia-tsing, Ching-te, 
 Ching-hoa, Siouen-te, and yet still earlier 
 rulers of the great dynasty of the Mings ; di- 
 aphanous egg-shells of the reign of Yong- 
 tching ; Kien-long glazes fabricated m 
 imitation of the color and texture of old 
 bronzes ; delicate sea-green ctladons ; solid 
 deep iridescent reds ; and frail translucent 
 white pastes marvels of the furnaces of the 
 past. It would require a Jacquemart or a 
 
Decorative Decorations. 113 
 
 Dana to describe them. However alien 
 races may regard the Mongolian and his 
 flowing pigtail, there can be but one opin- 
 ion of the forms and colors crystallized in 
 these his airy inspirations. Matchless stands 
 the ancient Chinese potter's art. The world 
 might find a substitute for his tea ; his finer 
 vases, jars, and bottles, and his fantasies 
 in storks and dragons are unique this side 
 of paradise. From the ordinary blue of 
 Nankin to the "blue of the head of Bud- 
 dha," the "blue of heaven," the "blue of 
 the sky after rain," the "lapis lazuli," and 
 the priceless "turquoise," my blue porce- 
 lains are a study of the clouds and the sky. 
 
 Blue! "the life of heaven," the hue of 
 ocean, the violet's joy ; type of faith and 
 fidelity, it has remained for the almond- 
 eyed molder of clay to render thy beauty 
 tangible. When I admire the hues of a 
 Chinese vase or bottle, I remember that 
 each color is regarded as a symbol ; the 
 fundamental colors being five, and corre- 
 sponding to the elements (water, fire, 
 wood, metals, earth), and to the cardinal 
 points of the compass. Red belongs to 
 fire, and corresponds to the south ; black 
 to water and the north ; green to wood 
 and the east ; white to metal and the west. 
 Dark blue corresponds to the sky, and yel- 
 low to the earth ; blue belongs to the east. 
 Blue is combined with white, red with 
 
1 14 The Story of my House. 
 
 black, and dark blue with yellow. The 
 dragon, which in the Chinese zodiac corre- 
 sponds to our Aries, also personifies water, 
 while a circle personifies fire.* 
 
 Of the bloom of the peach my ship 
 contained no example, so factitious a value 
 has been set upon this color by pretended 
 connoisseurs. In place of the peach-blow, 
 1 found gleaming among my ceramics a 
 much more beautiful form of opalescent 
 porcelain two vases of the extremely rare 
 " topaz," brilliant as the gem itself, and of 
 which these are unique examples. Did I 
 say my rugs supplied the rarest colors ? 
 I had forgotten my old bottle of bleu 
 de del and my ancient vase of sang de 
 bceuff 
 
 The bronzes my ship contained differed 
 essentially from the generality of those I 
 had previously known. Apart from a few 
 fine specimens enriched with gold and sil- 
 ver, and a superb figure of Buddha, they 
 consisted for the most part of a singularly 
 beautiful collection of ancient tripods, tem- 
 ple-censers and incense-burners, with dark 
 patine and antique-green surfaces, and en- 
 graved ornamentation and ornamentation in 
 relief. The largest incense urn occupies a 
 prominent place in the hall, and often curls 
 its fragrant clouds through the mouth of its 
 
 * Jacquemart. Histoire de la Ceramique. 
 
Decorative Decorations. \ \ 5 
 
 dragon. I light it when I read A Kempis 
 and the Religio Medici. 
 
 Yet the stores of my ship would have 
 been incomplete without an old hall-clock 
 that marks the time for me. An old Dutch 
 inlaid hall-clock of all clocks for symmetry, 
 beauty, and sonority ! It measures rather 
 than accelerates the flight of the hours ; and 
 with its quarter chimes, its deep hour-bells, 
 its moons, and its calendars, it punctuates 
 not only the moments and the hours, but 
 chronicles the passage of the months and 
 the years. I need not consult a watch for 
 the time, or a calendar for the day of the 
 month and the phases of the moon the 
 musical voice and the index-fingers of my 
 clock proclaim them for me. 
 
 Among my most valued curios is a 
 superb violoncello. A glance shows that 
 it has been long and tenderly caressed by 
 the virtuoso who once possessed it and 
 developed its melodious voice. Even its 
 ancient case and the green baize of the lin- 
 ing attest the care it has received. Scarce- 
 ly a scratch is visible on the lustrous wood, 
 and its curves are as harmoniously propor- 
 tioned as those of a Hebe. There is a rich, 
 mellow tone to the wood, and the bow 
 draws tones no less rich and mellow from 
 its deep caverns of sound. Though there 
 are no traces of the maker's name or the 
 date of manufacture, the lovely glaze of the 
 8 
 
1 1 6 The Story of my House. 
 
 spruce top and maple back at once pro- 
 claim its antiquity. Beneath the strings 
 the rosin has left a fine mahogany stain ; 
 and there are worn spots on the hoops 
 where it has been pressed by a loving 
 knee. The grain of the top is as straight 
 as if it had been molded. At the base 
 of the gracefully turned scroll, in old 
 English script, is carved an "H," its only 
 mark. 
 
 I find the same difference between a 
 violin and a violoncello as there exists be- 
 tween a piano and an organ. The differ- 
 ence of tone between individual violoncellos 
 is, if anything, more marked than in most 
 other musical instruments. There could be 
 nothing more sonorous and more delicately 
 shaded than the magnificent baritone of my 
 old violoncello as it interprets the Cavatine 
 by Raff, or chants the Andante by Mozart. 
 Sometimes, methinks, it gives forth a still 
 richer consonance when it renders Stra- 
 della's grave Kirchen-Ane ; or, indeed, 
 whenever noble church music of any kind 
 is drawn from its resonant depths. Then 
 its voice seems almost human, and the 
 strings quiver apparently of their own ac- 
 cord. Is it fancy, after all? Are not its 
 strings sometimes swept by unseen fingers 
 the tender touch of The Warden of 
 Barchester, good old Septimus Harding 
 who possessed it in years gone by; who so 
 
Decorative Decorations. i \ 7 
 
 often found solace in its companionship 
 from the tyranny of the archdeacon and the 
 bickerings of Barchester Close ! I almost 
 find myself, like the warden, passing an 
 imaginary bow over an imaginary viol 
 when annoyed or harassed away from 
 home, so strong is its personality and so 
 soothing its companionship.* Trollope has 
 never been sufficiently appreciated, it ap- 
 pears to me; and among his best works is 
 his simplest one. The character of the 
 warden, so exemplary and yet so vacillat- 
 ing, the old men of the hospital who love 
 him so tenderly, the crafty and worldly 
 archdeacon, and, withal, the mellow eccle- 
 siastical light that pervades the churchly 
 precincts of the Close, form a picture 
 beautiful in its quiet coloring and simplic- 
 ity. It is far less a novel than an idyl, and 
 as such it should be read and must be re- 
 garded. 
 
 Music and flowers ! The one suggests 
 and complements the other. The home 
 should never be without either they are 
 its brightest sunshine, next to lovely wo- 
 man's smile and the laughter of a child. 
 Averaged throughout the year, a dollar a 
 week is a modest, reasonable outlay for a 
 man of limited means to expend for the lux- 
 
 * The Warden ; Barchester Towers. Anthony Trol- 
 lope. 
 
n8 The Story of my House. 
 
 ury of flowers in the house. Every petal 
 holds a beautiful thought, so long as the 
 flower is beautiful and the petals are fresh. 
 Even a few green leaves with a single fresh 
 blossom or two are a solace to the eye 
 and a balm to the mind. 
 
VII. 
 
 MY STUDY WINDOWS. 
 
 How perfect an invention is glass ! The sun rises 
 with a salute, and leaves the world with a farewell to 
 our windows. To have instead of opaque shutters, or 
 dull horn or paper, a material like solidified air, which 
 reflects the sun thus brightly ! THOREAU. 
 
 O-DAY a slaty sky, accompanied 
 by vaporous clouds throughout 
 the afternoon, is succeeded by a 
 
 Eale sunset, a vivid primrose 
 and extending far, and linger- 
 ing late along the southern horizon. 
 
 I hear an angry wind at night, first 
 tongued by the distant trees. Rising close 
 to the edge of the river, the copse catches 
 the least breath of the west, transmitting its 
 voice through the trees. Each tree thus 
 becomes a harp or viol played upon by the 
 air in motion, producing a varied music 
 according to the character of its spray. 
 How different the sound of the summer 
 wind ! the whispering and rustling of 
 trillions of living leaves ; one might distin- 
 guish the season by the sense of hearing 
 
120 The Story of my House. 
 
 alone. Now that vegetation is devoid of 
 foliage, there is so much less to obstruct the 
 current of the air brought pure and unde- 
 filed from the Western plains. This air, 
 additionally sifted and clarified by its pas- 
 sage through countless woods and primeval 
 forests, I inhale in full draughts within my 
 comfortable room. Gathered by the cold 
 air-boxes, this oxygen and nitrogen is tem- 
 pered and warmed by a single pound of 
 steam below, before rising fresh and deli- 
 cious through the registers above. Thus 
 even in midwinter do I receive the essence 
 of the meadows and the woods. 
 
 Not less comfort and delight do I owe 
 to glass than to coal. It retains the heat 
 and excludes the frost. Scarcely the space 
 of a foot separates my easy chair and sum- 
 mer warmth from falling flakes and wintry 
 cold. It lets in the balm of the sky and the 
 grace of the leafless trees; it serves to simu- 
 late summer. Transparent to light and 
 to outward forms, glass is merely translu- 
 cent to sounds. I look out and see the 
 trees rock and toss beneath the gale ; I list- 
 en, and hear the wind rejoicing in his 
 strength. Light and sunshine stream 
 through my window-pane as though it 
 were a part of the atmosphere. It is almost 
 like the atmosphere transparent, invisible, 
 inodorous. No material used in the con- 
 struction of the house imparts such an air 
 
My Study Windows. 121 
 
 of richness from without as polished plate- 
 glass. Is it not equally desirable within, 
 to look out through ? Let the carpets, if 
 necessary, have less depth of pile ; but let 
 in the landscape and the light as clearly 
 as we may. To look at exterior objects 
 through vitreous waves is to cheat the 
 sight and rob pleasant surroundings of their 
 charm. 
 
 Again, the glass that brings the land- 
 scape into my room shuts out the external 
 world as readily as it lets it in in the form 
 of stained glass it passes from transparent 
 to translucent, but still retains its life 
 through color. I would have in my hall 
 above the landing a wheel-window of 
 ancient stained glass to render daylight 
 doubly beautiful and refined a flood of 
 violet like that concentrated and diffused 
 by the windows of the tall clere-story of 
 Tours. But the gorgeous stained glass of 
 mediaeval days, such as still blazes in the 
 old cathedrals, is an art of the past, and 
 my ship contained it not amid her precious 
 stores. 
 
 Yet once more is glass transformed, and 
 from transparent and translucent is changed 
 to opaque opaque, yet not opaque. Nei- 
 ther clear nor colored, it possesses still more 
 life in this its other form. For my mirrors 
 not only receive light and color, but stamp 
 them indelibly upon their surface. Placed 
 
122 The Story of my House. 
 
 in certain positions, they even enable me to 
 see through opaque surfaces. By a glance 
 into the hall through the door of the room 
 where I sit I may discern what transpires in 
 the adjoining room, though divided from 
 it by a solid wall. Without my mirrors I 
 could not even recognize my outward self. 
 They double the objects in my house; they 
 double the number of my guests ; they pos- 
 sess a double life. They take the place of 
 a Daubigny, for do they not reflect the Dau- 
 bigny ? And lovely woman, how could 
 she look so sweet without her second self 
 her mirror! 
 
 The primroses in my garden are harbin- 
 gers of spring; the primrose band in the 
 south was the precursor of storm. All 
 night the wind raved, bringing snow and 
 still more wind with returning day. The 
 weather-cock creaks ominously in its socket, 
 pointing alternately west and northwest. I 
 note a drop of twenty degrees in the tem- 
 perature, and hereafter I shall distrust the 
 primrose band. 
 
 Again the strange light in the south, 
 shining brightly throughout the afternoon. 
 This band appears most vividly through a 
 vista of the grounds which focuses a distant 
 slope crowned with deciduous trees and 
 isolated pines. I notice it, at times, dur- 
 ing late autumn and early spring, or on 
 mild winter days when the moisture of the 
 
My Study Windows. 123 
 
 atmosphere may be perceptibly felt. The 
 weather-vane always points to it, though 
 no air be stirring indeed, it only occurs 
 during a calm. Glowing through the skele- 
 ton trees, a lustrous primrose or lively cro- 
 cus, it illumines and transfigures the entire 
 horizon of the south, as if inviting to fol- 
 low it to a blander clime. It seems almost 
 more beautiful than sunlight ; it is col- 
 ored sunlight screened from glare. When 
 I attempt to trace it to the range of the 
 southern hills it keeps receding to the hills 
 and trees beyond always present, ever out 
 of reach. An observer standing there, in 
 turn, would see it farther on, and these far- 
 ther hills and trees would yield its lumi- 
 nousness to the landscape more southward 
 still. 
 
 Is it typical of life man grasping at an 
 object only to see it disappear, seizing a 
 pleasure to find it evanescent, relinquishing 
 a hope for one yet more ephemeral; ever 
 reaching for happiness to meet with disap- 
 pointment at the goal ? 
 
 Whence its origin ? in what distant sky 
 does it first appear ? The swift wings of 
 the hawk might trace it to its source ; for 
 me it is intangible. Doubtless with a word 
 the meteorologists would dispel the charm 
 it holds. I prefer to regard it as an occult 
 force, a mysterious weather-sign to flash 
 upon the. wintry gloom and foretell the 
 
124 The Story of my House. 
 
 coming storm. In the present instance it 
 brought yet more moisture, and was suc- 
 ceeded the following day by fog and driv- 
 ing mist, changing in the evening to sud- 
 den cold and wind. 
 
 A windy moonlight night, with clouds 
 chasing each other like crests of advancing 
 waves. The moon rides high in the west; 
 the strong wind sweeps from the west. 
 /Eolus and all his retinue are abroad. The 
 hillside trees toss and boom like the sea 
 it is high tide in the air. The air becomes 
 a sea, the clouds its surge, the trees the 
 shingle upon which it beats. It fascinates 
 like the sea! When the moon appears be- 
 tween the rifts it seems stationary; when 
 partly concealed under a white cloud, it ap- 
 pears coursing rapidly westward, while the 
 clouds seem traveling slowly eastward. 
 The moon then becomes the voyager, and 
 the squadrons of the sky the loiterers. Its 
 luminousness is but slightly masked by the 
 silver clouds, their translucency making 
 them seemingly a source of light. Every 
 now and then it disappears beneath a mass 
 of inky breakers, gilding their outer crests 
 ere taking its sudden plunge; it looks 
 as if it were dropping from the sky. Al- 
 most immediately it reappears, so fast the 
 clouds are moving. Anon it dips beneath 
 a snowy surge, to re-emerge and sink be- 
 low a Cimmerian roller, just as a swimmer 
 
My Study Windows. 125 
 
 dives into and is lost in the surf. Mean- 
 while, the wind roars like an angry sea. 
 This glory of the wintry night my glass 
 brings into my room. But the silver lining 
 and life of the moonlit clouds can not be 
 traced in written words, nor the varied 
 voices of the wind be rendered into musical 
 bars. The moon and the sun shine so that 
 all may see. The wind blows so that all 
 may hear. 
 
 I hear a new creak in my neighbor's 
 weather-vane amid the moaning of the 
 wind; or is it the repeated far-off blowing 
 of a horn ? Twice on my going to the door 
 the sound suddenly ceases, to continue fit- 
 fully on my return. I discover it is pro- 
 duced merely by the side-light above my 
 writing-table. Do we not thus frequently 
 attribute ulterior motives to causes which 
 exist only in imagination, or whose source 
 originates with ourselves ? Often is the 
 humming in our ear. 
 
 At times the small black fly upon the pane 
 May seem the black ox of the distant plain. 
 
 How deceptive is sound ! The leaf-cricket' s 
 chant on hot summer nights seems to pro- 
 ceed from the lawn, rods away ; he is sing- 
 ing in the honeysuckle vine a few feet 
 overhead. Not unfrequently, when sitting 
 within doors, am I obliged to consider 
 whether the monotonous humming I hear 
 
126 The Story of my House. 
 
 is the planing-mill far remote or the pur- 
 ring of the cat my pet Maltese, who looks 
 at me with her beryl-like eyes and arches 
 her back to be stroked. But though she 
 pricks up her ears when I scratch the un- 
 der surface of the table, she does not long 
 mistake the counterfeit for the wainscot 
 mouse. 
 
 Little sounds, like the petty annoyances 
 of life, are frequently the most unpleasant. 
 A great annoyance one meets forcibly, 
 knowing it to be a necessary evil that must 
 be put out of the way. The snake is killed 
 or evaded ; the fly remains to harass. The 
 roaring of the gale, the downpour from the 
 sky sounds loud and violent are soothing 
 rather than the reverse; the rattling of a 
 window-blind is far more annoying. Who 
 but the man that is filing it can hear with- 
 out a shudder the filing of a saw, and who 
 but the katydid himself can passively en- 
 dure the katydid's stridulation r 
 
 A monotonous sound, providing it be 
 not a rasping sound, the ear becomes ac- 
 customed to, and misses when it ceases. 
 The ticking of a clock, in itself unmusical, 
 is, nevertheless, soothing ; you awaken 
 when it suddenly stops. The nocturnal 
 cricket's reiterated cry is a somnolent sound 
 a voice of the darkness and the dew. 
 The grasshoppers' jubilant chorus sings 
 away the fleeting summer hour, and by its 
 
My Study Windows. 127 
 
 rising and falling pulsation marks the wax- 
 ing and waning of the year. Even when 
 immelodious, most sounds of external Na- 
 ture are not irritating. The rattling of the 
 window-pane exasperates one intuitively 
 anathematizes the carpenter; the angry 
 creaking of the boughs has a meaning, and 
 one accepts it as a fitting and necessary ac- 
 companiment of the gale. The harsh bark- 
 ing of a dog rouses one from slumber; it is 
 plainly in most cases an annoyance which 
 has no just reason for existence the neigh- 
 borhood were better off without it. 
 
 The railroad whistles, scarcely farther 
 removed and far more plainly heard, are 
 not annoying. At once they are accepted 
 by the mind as possessing a reason. For 
 behind the whistle are the vast driving- 
 wheels, the passengers, the mails, and the 
 merchandise. When 1 hear the locomo- 
 tive's whistle I feel the locomotive's power, 
 and the significance of its strength. It is 
 the voice of might and speed; the exultant 
 neigh of the great iron charger. It sounds 
 the hours for me. Day after day night, 
 morning, and afternoon with the same ex- 
 actitude, scarcely a minute after the engi- 
 neer has opened the sounding- valve, do the 
 cars, arriving and departing, pass along the 
 opposite shore of the river. Far off among 
 the distant valleys resounds the clatter of 
 the oncoming train; now lost for a mo- 
 
128 The Story of my House. 
 
 ment, now more distinctly heard. A mile 
 and a half away on the still night air the 
 whistle sounds, and the awakened echoes 
 respond. I hear the roar through the gap 
 of the hills, the crash across the bridge, the 
 reverberating flight along the bank, the 
 gradual receding and absorption of the 
 sound. Nightly, expectantly, I listen for it, 
 and miss it when the train is late. 
 
 How much does not the arrival of the 
 night express signify! how much of pain 
 or pleasure to those it bears ! Friends who 
 have parted, and friends who are waiting; 
 news sad and joyous; regrets and hopes; 
 hatred and love; laughter and tears; all the" 
 emotions and passions harbored in human 
 hearts are present in the rapid flight of the 
 train. The engineer at the throttle, the 
 fireman who supplies the fuel calm, watch- 
 ful, serene at their posts amid the deafen- 
 ing roar and jar I think of them when the 
 whistle sounds, plunging onward through 
 the darkness and the storm. 
 
 What a fascination exists in the flight of 
 a train an exhilaration to those on board, 
 an ever-recurring marvel to those who wit- 
 ness it pass by ! A speck in the distance, it 
 momentarily enlarges till, thundering past, 
 it instantly recedes, as swiftly lost as it was 
 swift to appear. Onward it flies, annihi- 
 lating space, outspeeding time, flinging the 
 mile-posts behind, bearing its burden to 
 
My Study Windows. 129 
 
 remote destinations. A moment it pauses 
 to slake its thirst, or to deposit a portion of 
 its burden, replacing it with fresh freight in 
 waiting. Still onward it flies, linking vil- 
 lages and towns, spanning streams, con- 
 necting valleys, tunneling hills, joining 
 States. Ever the crash and the roar, the 
 great trail of smoke and steam, the en- 
 gineer at the throttle calm, watchful, se- 
 rene plunging through the darkness and 
 the storm ! This the whistle means for 
 me. 
 
 Instantly I detect the whistles of the dif- 
 ferent roads, some more musical, some 
 more acute, some deeper, more sonorous 
 in tone. Varying in resonance according 
 to the state of the atmosphere, they apprise 
 me of the temperature without, like the 
 audible vibration of the rails themselves 
 when passed over by the cars. Clear and 
 musical in the early summer mornings, dur- 
 ing cold weather they are more sibilant and 
 piercing. They are a weather-vane to the 
 ear, blown by heat or cold, responsive to 
 the moisture or the dryness of the air. I 
 observe similar acoustic effects in the tones 
 of the distant bells. So that I may often 
 prognosticate the weather as surely by ex- 
 ternal sounds as by the shifting barometer 
 of the hills. 
 
 Even through my windows I like to 
 analyze the sentiment of animate sounds. 
 
130 The Story of my House. 
 
 "The nature of Sounds in general," re- 
 marks the author of Sylva Sylvarum, "hath 
 been imperfectly observed; it is one of the 
 subtellest Peeces of Nature." During a 
 ramble through the woods and fields I am 
 impressed by the various emotions con- 
 veyed by bird voices alone. Through 
 them the woods and fields acquire an 
 added meaning; they are the interpreters of 
 Nature. Thus, the voice of the jay is a 
 signal to inform his companions of danger; 
 the scream of the hawk, a note of menace 
 to intimidate his prey and cause it to reveal 
 its whereabouts. The woodpecker's tap is 
 a sound of industry. The mourning-dove's 
 notes express sorrow ; the hermit-thrush's, 
 ecstasy; the veery's, solitude; the white- 
 throated sparrow's, content. The voices 
 of the bluebird and song-sparrow are 
 sounds of welcome, an exordium of spring. 
 The plaintive whistle of the wood-pewee, 
 the liquid warble of the purple finch, and 
 the refrain of many a companion songster, 
 it would require the fine ear and fancy of 
 the poet to interpret aright. Perhaps Fred- 
 erick Tennyson well defines the sentiment 
 they express in his melodious rendering of 
 the blackbird's song: 
 
 The blackbird sings along the sunny breeze 
 His ancient song of leaves and summer boon; 
 Rich breath of hayfields streams through whispering 
 trees; 
 
My Study Windows. 131 
 
 And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, 
 And listen fondly, while the blackbird sings. 
 
 And how deliciously one of the sweet old 
 Swabian singers has also voiced the black- 
 bird of Europe, and interpreted his rippling 
 strain : 
 
 Vog'le im Tannenwald pfeifet so hell 
 Pfeifet de Wald aus und ein, wo wird mein Schatzle 
 
 sein? 
 Vog'le im Tannenwald pfeifet so hell. 
 
 Songster in pine-wood whistleth so clear 
 Whistleth the wood out and in, where hath my sweet- 
 heart been ? 
 Songster in pine-wood whistleth so clear. 
 
 Is it a Minnesinger ? I wonder; for I can not 
 place the poet who hymned the feathered 
 minstrel so sweetly. My German friend 
 the professor, who improvises in music as 
 deftly as Heine improvised in verse, and to 
 whom I repeated the lines the other day, 
 was struck anew by their haunting melody. 
 Seating himself at the piano, he immediately 
 set them to this exquisite accompaniment. 
 The music has been ringing in my ears ever 
 since a very echo of the songster, rising 
 clear and jubilant from the shade of the 
 wood. The words have been set to music 
 before, a version being included in that me- 
 lodious collection of national, student, and 
 hunting songs entitled Deutscher Lieder- 
 schatz. But this is commonplace com- 
 9 
 
\}2 The Story of my House. 
 
 pared to the rendition of my German friend. 
 Try it those of you who have a voice to try ; 
 or let your sweetheart try it for you. You 
 will then appreciate the consummate art of 
 the music the ascending scale of the sec- 
 ond bar felicitously phrasing the whistle of 
 the bird, and the falling inflection of the 
 third happily portraying the cool, shadowy 
 depths of the wood. And how like a sil- 
 very bird note of June the upper "g" in 
 the seventh bar sounds the close of the 
 refrain ! 
 
 Allegro mf. 
 
 _ j*. H. GANZBL. 
 
 V6g-le im Tan-nen-wald pfei - fet so hell, 
 Song-ster in pine - wood whis-tleth so clear, 
 
My Study Windows. 
 
 133 
 
 Pfei - fet de Wald aus und ein ; 
 Whis-tleththe wood out and in; 
 
 Wo wird mein Schatzle sein, wo wird es sein ? 
 Where hath my sweetheart been, where hath she been ? 
 
 Wo wird mein Schatzle sein, wo wird es sein ? 
 Where hath my sweetheart been, where hath she been ? 
 
134 The Story of my House. 
 
 
 No poet or prosatist, however, comes 
 so near to the bird as the great prose-poet 
 of the Wiltshire Downs : 
 
 "The bird upon the tree utters the 
 meaning of the wind a voice of the grass 
 and wild-flower, words of the green leaf; 
 they speak through that slender tone. 
 Sweetness of dew and rifts of sunshine, the 
 dark tiawthorn touched with breadths of 
 open bud, the odor of the air, the color of 
 the daffodil all that is delicious and be- 
 loved of spring-time are expressed in his 
 song. Genius is nature, and his lay, like 
 the sap in the bough from which he sings, 
 rises without thought. Nor is it necessary 
 that it should be a song; a few short notes 
 in the sharp spring morning are sufficient 
 to stir the heart. But yesterday the least of 
 them all came to a bough by my window, 
 and in his call I heard the sweet-brier wind 
 rushing over the young grass/' * 
 
 Just what emotion the caw of the crow 
 conveys I am at a loss to determine, unless 
 
 * Richard Jefferies. Field and Hedgerow. 
 
My Study Windows. 135 
 
 it be self-complacency a harsh way of ex- 
 pressing it, it would seem. His notes 
 sound more like anger; and in the woods 
 he certainly does quarrel with the owls, the 
 song-birds, and his own kindred. But his 
 apparent anger may be only feigned, and 
 his voice belie his real character. Assur- 
 edly, there was never a more self-compla- 
 cent tread than the crow's on a grain field. 
 The farmer and the scarecrow at once be- 
 come secondary to him, and pilfering 
 becomes almost a virtue, he pilfers with 
 such grace. His tread is as majestic as the 
 soaring of the hawk, and though black as 
 night and evil, his plumage glistens as 
 brightly as light and purity. He seems a 
 true autochthon of the soil. It is much in 
 the way things are done, after all; boldness 
 often passes for innocence, and self-confi- 
 dence begets security. 
 
 Gladness, serene contentment, is most 
 strongly expressed to me by the bobolink, 
 the " okalee " of the starling, and the singu- 
 lar medley of the catbird. To be sure, the 
 catbird frequently justifies his name, and is 
 anything but an agreeable songster; but to 
 make amends for his introductory discords 
 he frequently gives us a delightful palinode. 
 Plaintiveness, sadness over the departed 
 summer, is conveyed by the blackbird's 
 warble fluted over fields of golden-rod ; it 
 is expressed in the trembling notes of the 
 
\}6 The Story of my House. 
 
 yellow-bird, as he scatters the thistle's floss 
 to the winds. 
 
 If we would carefully analyze the speech 
 of external Nature, I doubt not we could 
 trace some well-defined sentiment in nearly 
 all animate sounds ; assuredly in very many of 
 the voices of birds, animals, and insects. For 
 Nature's moods and tenses are conveyed as 
 strongly through the tympanum of the ear 
 as through the retina of the eye. Their cor- 
 rect interpretation depends upon our inner 
 sight and hearing. I am not sure that in 
 man's relation to Nature the sense of hear- 
 ing does not contribute almost as much en- 
 joyment as the sense of seeing. Certainly, 
 Nature would seem but half complete with- 
 out her characteristic voices. Think of her 
 wrapped in the winding-sheet of eternal 
 silence, a mere mummy, with no song of 
 bird or whisper of wind to impart anima- 
 tion to her scenes. Color and form are 
 but half the landscape; it is sound that 
 gives it life, and renders it companionable. 
 What is winter, in one sense, but absence 
 of sound, not merely the absence of bird 
 and insect voices, but the rustling of leaves 
 and grasses, the murmur of waters, the life 
 and movement of growing vegetation ! 
 
 Are not the first signs of spring con- 
 veyed through sound ? Ere yet a song- 
 bird can find an utterance, or grass-blade 
 impart a sense of resurrected life 1 hear the 
 
My Study Windows. 137 
 
 cracking of the ice and the gurgling of the 
 frost-freed rills. The crow announces the 
 change before the snowdrop comes, and the 
 wild geese proclaim it from the sky before 
 the sallows invite the precocious bee. No 
 doubt the bee is already waiting for the 
 flower, and winnows it into bloom ; for no 
 sooner is the corolla ready to expand than I 
 hear his murmurous wings. High in the 
 willow catkins ; low down in the horn of the 
 skunk-cabbage ; bending the yellow bloom 
 of the first dog-tooth violet, his hum of in- 
 dustry is heard. The bee is perhaps the first 
 constant spring musician, though his is not 
 the earliest vernal voice. The pushing daffo- 
 dils of the perennial flower-border speak to 
 me of spring, the choir of the toads and hy- 
 lodes announces it even more emphatically. 
 How we should miss the voice of Chant- 
 icleer were the domestic fowl to become 
 silent ! It never occurred to me how im- 
 portant a role he plays until the author of 
 The Bohemians of the Latin Quarter makes 
 him serve as a matutinal alarm to Schau- 
 nard in lieu ot the time-piece he has 
 pawned. And Herrick, too, in His Grange, 
 or Private Wealth, has the domestic fowl 
 serve a similar purpose : 
 
 Though clock 
 To tell how night draws hence, I've none, 
 
 A cock 
 I have to sing how day draws on. 
 
138 The Story of my House. 
 
 We might rise and retire, indeed, with the 
 clock of the cock, and at all times of day 
 and at all seasons we would sadly miss his 
 voice were he subject to laryngeal troubles. 
 It is a cheery and companionable sound, 
 the absence of which would cause an ap- 
 preciable void. Many sounds not strictly 
 belonging to outward Nature become com- 
 plementary to her through familiarity, or 
 through the surroundings amid which they 
 are heard. Thus the hills and valleys 
 speak through the roar of the railroad train, 
 and the harvest fields find a fitting tongue 
 in the thrashing machine. A domestic voice 
 rather than a voice of Nature, the cock's 
 crow is, notwithstanding this, associated 
 with Nature and rural scenes. It is more a 
 voice of the country and a pulsation of the 
 rural landscape than an expression of urban 
 surroundings. The city hems it in; the 
 country expands it. Orpheus might pause 
 to listen to it when sounded from an autumnal 
 upland, it is so resonant and sonorous. So 
 much does the scene, or the conditions 
 amid which sounds are uttered, affect the 
 sounds themselves. 
 
 As a purely wild sound of Nature the 
 Nature of our own woods and fields the 
 cry of the owl is, perhaps, unrivaled. The 
 bark of the fox has some analogy to it in 
 point of wildness, except that his voice is 
 always further removed. I hear it on 
 
My Study Windows. 139 
 
 moonlight winter nights following the un- 
 dulations of the wooded hills a short sharp 
 bark thrice repeated at rather prolonged in- 
 tervals. It is an eerie sound, the cry of 
 the vulpine freebooter, ranging his native 
 woods through the frosty winter nights. I 
 never look up at the fox's pelt slung across 
 the portiere-rod in the smoking-room with- 
 out a feeling of regret for the lissom life that 
 was slain. The grand brush that steadied 
 him in his flight; the sharp pointed nose, 
 once alive to every atom of the atmosphere; 
 the fine soft fur, beautiful still in death, 
 appeal mutely to me for a life wantonly 
 sacrificed. I care not how many grouse 
 and ground-birds may have fallen victims to 
 his cunning they were his rightful prey, 
 the spoil of his domain. 
 
 The drumming of the ruffed-grouse im- 
 parts a sense of life and companionship to 
 the woods such as few other sounds con- 
 vey. Bonasa umbella ! there is a whir of 
 vigor in his very name. Every one should 
 be born a sportsman to appreciate his glori- 
 ous crescendo ; hunting is given to man of 
 the gods, Xenophon rightly said. The 
 grouse is the woodland guide, the alcaid 
 who holds the keys to all its guarded re- 
 cesses, the courier who knows every lane 
 and passage that thread the forest depths. 
 Accept his invitation, and you are conducted 
 into hidden nooks, and presented glimpses 
 
140 The Story of my House. 
 
 of sylvan beauty of whose existence you 
 would otherwise never have dreamed. His 
 roll-call is a stimulus to exercise, an excuse 
 to explore the covers. Onward and on- 
 ward and still onward he leads; now amid 
 a sun-flecked vista of tree-trunks, now 
 through a thicket of intertwining saplings, 
 now to a woodland antechamber frescoed 
 with October colors, now up some lofty 
 hillside overlooking the empurpled valley. 
 A taste of the bitter he also mixes with the 
 sweet, as when flushed for the third or 
 fourth time, weary of pursuit, he leads to 
 an almost impenetrable thicket of bramble, 
 perchance to skim off unseen on hearing 
 your approach, or to dive deep down into a 
 precipitous glen, only to mislead by sud- 
 denly wheeling up the hillside in a long 
 deceptive flight. Most noticeably in the 
 spring, and frequently in the autumn, and 
 on tempered winter days do I hear the mu- 
 sic of his wings, far away in some seques- 
 tered glade, beating a sylvan tattoo most 
 picturesque of all woodland sounds ; it is as 
 if the woods themselves were speaking. 
 
 The squirrel's bark is emphatically a syl- 
 van expression. He knows its effect upon 
 the listener, and selects a bland, sunshiny 
 day when he may be distinctly heard. But 
 only at a safe distance, for has not the fox 
 taught him caution, and the grouse the 
 wile of placing a tree-trunk between him- 
 
My Study Windows. 141 
 
 self and the double barrel ? Were I to 
 analyze the sentiment of the squirrel's bark, 
 I should term it an utterance of derision. 
 Not altogether derision, however; for be- 
 sides a snarling tone, it has a perceptible 
 sound of cracking and crunching, as of nuts 
 and acorns being husked and split by a ro- 
 dent's tooth. 
 
 An eery cry is the "ssh-p! ssh-p!" of 
 the twisting snipe two fifths a whistle, 
 two fifths a cry, while to the nervous 
 sportsman the other fifth is a jeer. A gut- 
 tural cry, a strange raucous cry, a very 
 voice of the treacherous ooze and the rus- 
 tling sedge. It can not be put into words, 
 and only the snipe himself can sound it. 
 Most voices of the marsh are characteristic; 
 it has its distinctive gamut of sound. The 
 cheerful music of the woodlands is want- 
 ing; its speech is pitched in a graver key, 
 in keeping with its solitary haunts where 
 Syrinx ever murmurs through her murmur- 
 ing reeds. How expressive its many- 
 sounding tongues the boom of the bit- 
 tern, the harsh quack of the heron, the 
 scream of hawk and kildeer, the multitudi- 
 nous calls of water birds 
 
 cries that might 
 Be echoes of a water-spirit's song. 
 
 All through the spring and autumn nights 
 countless wings are cleaving the upper air, 
 
142 The Story of my House. 
 
 bearing the hurrying voyagers in search of 
 distant climes flocks of plover and wood- 
 cock, skeins of snipe and shore -birds, 
 throngs of ducks and geese, voicing their 
 way through the darkness, league after 
 league, hour after hour on their long jour- 
 ney of migration. 
 
 I look for drought and heat when the 
 cicada shrills. The rhythm of the cricket's 
 creak tells me if the night be hot or cold. 
 I see the gathering rain-clouds when the 
 tree-toad croaks and the hair-bird trills. 
 The bluebird warbles, "it is spring"; a 
 thousand throats proclaim the summer. 
 Sounds from the woods, sounds from the 
 waters, sounds from the fields, sounds from 
 the air! The infinite beauty of sound! Are 
 not Nature's voices one of her most endear- 
 ing charms ? 
 
 How the gas-burner and window-pane 
 have led me to digress ! But even from my 
 comfortable room it is sometimes pleasant 
 to look out beyond the storm and bask in 
 the luminousness of the primrose band. 
 
Yin. 
 
 MY INDOOR GARDEN. 
 
 Tell, if thou canst, and truly, whence doth come 
 This camphire, storax, spikenard, galbanum ; 
 These musks, these ambers, and those other smells 
 Sweet as the vestry of the oracles. 
 
 HESPERIDES. 
 
 CONTRASTED with the bleakness 
 without, the greenhouses and 
 conservatory possess an addition- 
 al charm. Within their walls of 
 glass reigns a luxuriance of leaf 
 and bloom. Like the garden, however, the 
 greenhouse will not care for itself. Many 
 of the requirements necessary out of doors 
 I find imperative within. And yet cultiva- 
 tion is on an entirely different scale, a mere 
 pot of earth taking the place of barrowsful 
 under out-of-door culture. In the garden 
 I simply place a plant at the requisite depth 
 and in the proper exposure and soil; in the 
 greenhouse a finer discrimination is called 
 for. 
 
 This small plant, bulb, or fern may not 
 
144 The Story of my House. 
 
 be plunged indiscriminately into any recep- 
 tacle. I must measure the size and require- 
 ments of the plant; and not only place it in 
 congenial soil, light or shade, but measure 
 its needs with regard to the size of its pro- 
 spective domicile. My small plants will 
 fail with too much nourishment, my large 
 plants pine with too little. Some will not 
 thrive in soil at all, but must be cultivated 
 on a block of wood, sustaining themselves 
 merely on air and moisture. In the garden 
 each plant draws from the largess of the 
 earth just what properties it needs for 
 growth and development, and the deeper 
 the surface soil the better the plant will 
 thrive. From some standpoints my green- 
 houses possess an advantage over my gar- 
 den ; in another sense the garden is more 
 satisfactory. The one is artificial, the other 
 natural; but the greenhouse is, possibly, 
 more easily controlled. With proper care 
 and intelligence I can count upon certain 
 fixed results. 1 am not dependent upon 
 the uncertain watering-pot of the sky, and 
 have nothing to fear from frost or violent 
 winds. But I must needs exert a keener 
 watchfulness over my charges; Nature is 
 no longer the warder. Just so much heat, 
 so much air, so much sun, so much moist- 
 ure they must have. For tender exotics, 
 born of a milder clime, are among my nurs- 
 lings. 
 
My Indoor Garden. 145 
 
 My orchids, for instance. Some occur 
 naturally on damp rocks in a cool atmos- 
 phere ; others on trees in dense tropical 
 forests ; still others on high elevations 
 where they receive much sunlight. Shade 
 or coolness, which certain species demand, 
 are injurious to others which flourish in 
 warmth and sunshine. The different habi- 
 tats of the species, therefore, must be care- 
 fully studied, and the conditions under 
 which they thrive in nature imitated as far 
 as possible under glass. " A juggler," says 
 the accomplished curator of the Trinity Col- 
 lege Botanic Gardens, "not unfrequently 
 keeps four balls flying over his head with 
 one hand, and the successful orchid-grower 
 has to deal quite as closely with heat, air, 
 light, and moisture." My greenhouse, ac- 
 cordingly, calls for its parlor and bath-room, 
 its smoking-room and refrigerator. 
 
 I miss the breadth and sunlight of the 
 garden ; I gain immunity from the caprice 
 of the elements. My glass house bridges 
 over the dreary interval between the last 
 wind-flower of autumn and the first prim- 
 rose of spring. If 1 can not go to the tropics, 
 if I can not have the summer, I can at least 
 recall the one and counterfeit the other. 
 Could I control the sunlight and inclose a 
 sufficient space, I should scarcely miss my 
 hardy flower borders. 
 
 In the greenhouse I have my charges 
 
146 The Story of my House. 
 
 nearer my eye ; I can watch their develop- 
 ment closer. Many of the insect pests that in- 
 fest the garden come to prey upon the plants 
 indoors. The same warfare I wage with- 
 out, I must wage within. Care and atten- 
 tion are ever the price of the flower. The 
 insects continue to multiply. They develop 
 new races and people new countries. No 
 sooner does one scourge become extinct 
 than a dozen others take its place. For the 
 weevil we have the army-worm, the po- 
 tato-bug, the apple-tree borer, the codling- 
 moth. I no sooner administer a soporific to 
 the red spider than the aphides are at work, 
 and these are scarcely subjugated ere the 
 mealy-bug appears. Cockroaches bite the or- 
 chid roots, mice nibble the young shoots of 
 the carnations. Mildew and blight likewise 
 destroy, and snails emerge from unsuspected 
 places to prey upon the succulent leaves. 
 
 My greenhouse gives me a bog-garden 
 which the altitude of the grounds precludes 
 without. My tank is a miniature bayou, a 
 cage for aquatics. It is always pleasant to 
 watch the growth of water plants, they 
 seem so appreciative of their bath ; the very 
 fact of their growing from the water gives 
 them a distinct individuality. These clumps 
 of Egyptian papyrus and smaller variegated 
 Cyperus, emerging from the ooze, are as 
 beautiful as flowers. One of the easiest of 
 aquatics to grow, the papyrus, or great 
 
My Indoor Garden. 147 
 
 paper-reed, throws out strong runners be- 
 neath the water, forming dense tufts of tall 
 culms, crowned with large handsome um- 
 bellate panicles; indeed, it spreads so rap- 
 idly that it requires to be kept vigorously in 
 check. The handsome variegated Cyperus 
 has a tendency to revert to the type, but 
 this may be prevented by cutting out the 
 green shoots that appear. 
 
 The great water-lilies, too the Nymph- 
 ceas and Nelumbiums are among the most 
 accommodating plants for water culture, as 
 they are unquestionably among the most 
 beautiful of flowers. Equally handsome 
 and fragrant, many of the species rival the 
 terrestrial lilies, and are far less fastidious. 
 Few, if any, of the species are more beauti- 
 ful than the common water-lily (Nymphcea 
 odorata), the white and perfumed cup that 
 floats upon our ponds and sluggish streams. 
 From my tank I may pluck its blossom 
 without being mired, though I miss the 
 kingfisher's clarion and the sheen of the 
 dragon-fly's wings with which I associate 
 it in Nature. I miss also the flapping of its 
 pads when touched by the wind, showing . 
 the red under sides of the shields, lovely as 
 the flash of trout that lurk beneath. Long 
 must I search for a more delicious odor than 
 that contained within its waxen folds. Be- 
 gotten of the ooze, a stem shoots upward 
 to the sun and air to unfold its chalice on 
 
 10 
 
148 The Story of my House. 
 
 some secluded pool. The first white water- 
 lily, cradled on the water's rippling breast! 
 it is the floral embodiment of summer. It 
 falls upon the sight like the tinkle of a wood- 
 land rill upon the ear, imparting its harmony 
 to the mind, a thing to be carried away and 
 perfume the memory. I would willingly 
 exchange the Zanzibar species for it, if 
 thereby I might cause the white lily to bloom 
 in winter. 
 
 For winter blossoming the former are 
 invaluable aquatics, with pink-purple and 
 blue flowers respectively, opening during 
 daylight. The deliciously scented pink- 
 purple variety (N. Zan^ibarensis rosed), 
 almost an evergreen aquatic, is the strong- 
 est grower, its flat leaves also being large 
 and of great substance. The night-bloom- 
 ing Nelumbiums, N. Devoniensis, rubra, 
 and dentata, with pink, red, and white 
 flowers respectively, are the best of their 
 division. N. speciosum, the sacred lotus 
 of the Nile, is a beautiful summer-flower- 
 ing species with immense pink flowers; N. 
 luteum is the tall-growing yellow water- 
 lily, its blossoms seven to ten inches in 
 diameter. Balzac, in Le Lis dans la Val- 
 lee, associates the lotus with the old Hel- 
 lenic sentiment, except that instead of the 
 word country he substitutes love : 
 
 Cueillons la fleur du Nenuphar 
 Qui fait oublier les amours, 
 
My Indoor Garden. 149 
 
 the Nenuphar being the lotus of France, 
 Nymphcea alba major. And those of us 
 who do not know the lotus of the classics 
 are all familiar with the lotus of Tennyson, 
 "that enchanted stem" which whosoever 
 did receive and taste, forthwith obtained 
 rest and dreamful ease. 
 
 There exists some doubt, however, as 
 to which lotus the old Greeks really re- 
 ferred to. The question, What was "lo- 
 tus " ? has been discussed intermittently for 
 at least two thousand years. We must 
 bear in mind that "lotus" was a term ap- 
 plied by the Greeks to several plants or 
 trees. The Latin poets, and Pliny very 
 likely, used the term more vaguely still, not 
 being botanists as were some of the Greeks. 
 For there is also the date-plum (Diospyrus 
 lotus), a deciduous tree native of the coasts 
 of the Caspian Sea, and cultivated and 
 naturalized in Southern Europe, the fruit of 
 which is edible. This has been held by 
 some to be the lotus of the Lotophagi, or 
 lotus-eaters. Besides, there is the prickly 
 lotus shrub or jujube tree (Zi^yphus lotus), 
 indigenous to the Libyan district and por- 
 tions of Asia, to the sweet and odorous 
 fruit of which has been equally ascribed the 
 power of causing one to forget one's home. 
 It is still eaten by the natives, and a wine 
 or mead is extracted from its juice. The 
 term lotus was also applied to several spe- 
 
1 50 The Story of my House. 
 
 ties of water-lily the Egyptian water-lily 
 (Nymph&a lotus), the blue water-lily (7v. 
 cceruled), and more particularly to the Ne- 
 lumbium of the Nile (Nelumbium speciosum). 
 The Nelumbium is a native both of India 
 and Egypt, though almost extinct in the 
 latter country now ; and in the ancient Hin- 
 doo and Egyptian mythological representa- 
 tions of Nature, as is well known, it was 
 the emblem of the great generative and 
 conceptive powers of the world, serving as 
 the head-dress of the Sphinxes and the or- 
 nament of Isis. It was known, moreover, 
 as the Egyptian bean, on account of its 
 fruit, the cells of which contained a kind of 
 bean employed as an article of food. In- 
 digenous to China as well, the roots are still 
 served there in summer with ice, and laid 
 up with vinegar and salt for winter Both 
 the fruit and the root of Nymphcea lotus 
 were likewise eaten by the ancient Egyp- 
 tians; while Horus, the divine child who 
 personified the rising sun, is always repre- 
 sented in hieroglyphics as emerging from a 
 water-lotus bud. 
 
 In the East, a belief in a divinity residing 
 in the lotus has existed from the most an- 
 cient times, worship of this divinity of the 
 lotus being the dominant religion in Thibet 
 at the present day. The daily and hourly 
 prayer, Wilson states in the Abode of Snow, 
 is still, " Om mani padme, haun, ' ' or literal- 
 
My Indoor Garden. 151 
 
 ly rendered, " O God ! the jewel in the lotus. 
 Amen." In Cashmere the roots of the wa- 
 ter-lotus are pulled up from the mire and 
 employed as an article of diet. The root is 
 sweet, and was formerly used for making 
 an intoxicating beverage, as the sap of the 
 palm is still employed in some localities. 
 In like manner the roots of the yellow lotus 
 were used by the American aborigines as 
 an article of diet, Nuttall recording that, 
 boiled when fully ripe, they become as 
 farinaceous, agreeable, and wholesome as 
 the potato. 
 
 Research tends to show that it is the Zi- 
 ^yphus rather than any of the other species 
 of lotus to which Homer and Theophrastus 
 ascribed the power of causing forgetfulness. 
 Theophrastus and Dioscorides, Greek botan- 
 ists, both describe different kinds of lotus, 
 but their descriptions are not always trust- 
 worthy. Homer mentions yet another 
 lotus, supposed to be Melilotus officinalis, 
 the yellow variety of sweet clover common 
 to this country where it has become nat- 
 uralized from Europe. It was this plant 
 which he describes as nourishing the steeds 
 of Achilles. Authorities differ so greatly, 
 however, that it is difficult to decide with 
 absolute certainty which species of lotus is 
 really the fabled plant of the Greeks, though 
 the weight of opinion would point to the 
 Zi^yphus as against the Diospyrus and 
 
1 52 The Story of my House. 
 
 especially the Nelumbium. The poetical 
 folk-lore of plants must not be expected to 
 be literally true. Even the observant Greek, 
 Aristotle, has many absurdities about plants. 
 So has Theophrastus, but Pliny is full of the 
 most ridiculous superstitions, which he re- 
 lates with all the seriousness of a firm be- 
 liever in them. 
 
 In attempting to place many plants and 
 flowers of the ancient classic poets there is, 
 therefore, always more or less difficulty and 
 uncertainty. To identify the plants men- 
 tioned, without studying them in the coun- 
 try where those who wrote about them 
 lived, is fruitless when there is such a great 
 difference of opinion as to what the ancient 
 Latin poets mean by " violet" or "hya- 
 cinth," or "narcissus." Sibthorp, who 
 was Professor of Botany at Oxford, Eng- 
 land, about eighty years ago and who was 
 a fine classical scholar, went to live three 
 years in Greece for the purpose of identify- 
 ing the Greek flowers and plants mentioned 
 by the classics. He returned with the con- 
 clusion that it is impossible to do it satis- 
 factorily and he was quite certain, though 
 the Greek language still remains in Greece 
 very slightly changed, that what the modern 
 Greeks call a "hellebore" or a "hyacinth" 
 is different from the flowers that were 
 called by these names two thousand years 
 ago. 
 
My Indoor Garden. 153 
 
 Herodotus (Book iv, p. 177) places the 
 geographical range of the lotus-eaters from 
 the recess of the Gulf of Cabes eastward to 
 about half-way along the coast of Tripoli, 
 which would correspond with Homer's ac- 
 count. The former describes the natives as 
 living "by eating the fruit of the lotus 
 the fruit about the size of the Pistacia nut, 
 and in sweetness like the fruit of the date. 
 From this fruit the lotus-eaters made their 
 wine." What Homer says regarding the 
 lotus is this (Odyssey, Book ix, v. 82, etc.) : 
 Ulysses is recounting his adventures to the 
 guests of the King of Corfu after dinner. 
 He relates how he was on his way home 
 from Troy, and was doubling Cape St. An- 
 gelo, when a storm from the north met his 
 fleet and drove it from its course. After 
 sailing southward for nine days, he sighted 
 land and made for it, as the fresh-water 
 supply was exhausted. The crews enjoyed 
 the luxury of a meal on shore, and then be- 
 
 gan to wonder where they were. So 
 lysses chose two good men, adding a 
 herald with a flag of truce, a necessary pre- 
 caution in those times when strangers were 
 enemies, as a matter of course. These men 
 were to inquire who the inhabitants of the 
 land were. "The lotus-eaters received 
 them kindly and gave them lotus to eat. 
 As soon as they eat the honey-sweet fruit 
 of the lotus they would not come back to 
 
1 54 The Story of my House. 
 
 bring me tidings, nor go away, but wished 
 to remain where they were with the lotus- 
 eaters, gathering and eating lotus and to 
 think no more of going home. They shed 
 tears when I dragged them back by force to 
 the ships and tied them by ropes to the 
 benches in the hold. Then 1 ordered the 
 rest of the crews to go on board at once, 
 for fear any of them should eat lotus and 
 think no more of going home." 
 
 To believe that the Homeric legend re- 
 ferred to the fruit of the jujube-tree does not 
 necessitate our believing that the fruit had 
 a sedative effect upon those who eat it. 
 Rumors of a people leading a lazy and indo- 
 lent life in a delightful climate and subsist- 
 ing on the fruit of trees, and rumors that 
 sailors accidentally landing there had given 
 up the dangers and hard work of a seafar- 
 ing life and deserted, would be enough to 
 give the foundation of the legend. There 
 is a story entitled The Mutiny of the Boun- 
 ty, a true history, which gave the founda- 
 tion of Byron's tale The Island; and there 
 are many points of similarity between this 
 and Homer's brief tale; but Ulysses, the 
 man of many resources, proved a better 
 match for his mutinous men than did Cap- 
 tain Bligh. 
 
 Tennyson's lotus " laden with flower 
 and fruit," which is specified as being 
 borne on "branches," is evidently the Zi- 
 
My Indoor Garden. 155 
 
 or else the Diospyrus ; although 
 the line 
 
 The lotus blows by every winding creek 
 
 might lead one to suppose he referred to 
 the Nelumbium, were it not for the former 
 contradictory line and the fact that the wa- 
 ter-lily grows in the water itself. At any 
 rate, sufficient authority exists to render it 
 certain that some species of lotus yielding 
 an intoxicating product was regarded sacred 
 because of an indwelling god. But what- 
 ever species was really referred to by the 
 classics as the charmed nepenthe whether 
 the fruit of the jujube-tree, or merely a 
 fruit of the fabled garden of Hesperides, to 
 us the name lotus at once brings up the 
 gorgeous water-lily that once rocked upon 
 the Nile, with its grand pink blossoms and 
 its great green leaves. The Nelumbium has 
 taken kindly to American soil, having in- 
 creased in several marshy localities in New 
 Jersey with astonishing rapidity, entirely 
 crowding out the native growths of arrow- 
 head, pickerel weed, and horsetail, where 
 it has been placed and become established. 
 With its great tendency to spread and mul- 
 tiply, it will soon supply the dragon-fly a 
 classic flower to rest upon, and the great 
 green frog a still more spacious paludal 
 throne than that hitherto supplied by the 
 shield of the native water-lily. 
 
1 56 The Story of my House. 
 
 Suspended above the tank are numerous 
 large plants of Lcelia anceps and L. a. mo- 
 rada, leaning their long lavender sprays 
 over the pool, like flocks of hovering but- 
 terflies. With them are also suspended 
 large specimens of the staghorn and the 
 hare'sfoot ferns. Ferns and orchids invari- 
 ably look well in combination. Palms be- 
 ing somewhat stiff themselves, do not as- 
 sociate so well with orchids, which need 
 the relief of more graceful foliage. The 
 hare'sfoot fern is appropriately named, the 
 innumerable twisting rhizomes being soft 
 and woolly, like the foot of a hare, and the 
 fronds fine and feathery. Of all the Lcelias, 
 L. a. morada has the longest stems, and is 
 among the largest and finest flowered. I 
 grant the exquisite beauty and fragrance of 
 the white form. Comparatively an inex- 
 pensive variety, the former is to be preferred 
 to some others quoted at from ten to twenty 
 times its marketable value. For in orchids, 
 price very frequently does not represent in- 
 trinsic beauty of bloom ; and mere rareties 
 or orchidaceous curiosities are preferable in 
 one's neighbor's collection. I am satisfied 
 with fine specimens of a few of the easier 
 grown and really beautiful species and va- 
 rieties. A fine plant of Cypripedium cenan- 
 thum which my neighbor values at a thou- 
 sand dollars is not worth my Lcelia to me. 
 Its flower is stiff in comparison, and its dor- 
 
My Indoor Garden. 157 
 
 sal sepal, though strikingly rayed white, 
 striped with pink has not the grace and 
 beauty of the Lcelia's velvety petals and the 
 exquisite blossoms of many other species. 
 After all, may it not well be questioned 
 whether the hardy pink lady-slipper has a 
 rival among the numerous species and hy- 
 brids of the big labellums and long-tailed 
 petals ? 
 
 My orchids, like my roses, have their 
 parasites the green and yellow fly, the 
 black thrip, the mealy-bug, the lesser snail, 
 the scale. Of late years the yellow fly has 
 become more numerous, though, with the 
 green fly, the rose is his especial prey. It 
 is difficult to know what plan to adopt 
 against my insect enemies. The rule of 
 three will not solve the difficulty, for a 
 mean proportional does not exist. If my 
 houses are too hot or the plants too dry, 
 the red spider and black thrip swarm; if 
 too cold, the mildew comes; if the weather 
 be muggy, it is a summons for the green 
 and yellow fly. Tobacco stems placed 
 upon the hot-water pipes banish the black 
 thrip where fumigating is of no avail. Fu- 
 migating alone will disperse the aphides. 
 The smaller snail I must bate with lettuce 
 leaves; the larger one must be searched for 
 at night with a lantern. For mildew I 
 must place sulphur and lime on the pipes, 
 and the scale and mealy-bug demand their 
 
1 58 The Story of my House. 
 
 periodical sponge - bath. The cockroach 
 sips treacle and is lost in the sweets. 
 Wood - lice come from underneath the 
 benches, and the lesser snail, despite all 
 precautions, will sometimes bite off a flow- 
 er-spike six times larger than himself. It 
 all reminds me of a passage in the Faerie 
 Queen: 
 
 A cloud of cumbrous gnats do him molest, 
 
 All striving to infixe their feeble stinges, 
 
 That from their noyance he no where can rest; 
 
 But with his clownish hands their tender wings 
 
 He brusheth oft, and oft doth mar their murmurings. 
 
 Care and attention are ever the price of the 
 flower. 
 
 It is hardly to be wondered at that or- 
 chids have their insects; the wonder is they 
 do not possess them in greater numbers, 
 the flowers themselves so resemble insects 
 and strange creatures of the air. I can 
 scarcely define which attracts me most, the 
 singular flowers or the fantastic odors they 
 exhale. Perfumes of lilacs and primroses 
 lilacs and primroses thrice intensified greet 
 me when Oncidium incurvum and Dendro- 
 bium heterocarpum are in bloom. The 
 redolence of jasmines, jonquils, and cycla- 
 mens is combined in many of the Cattleyas, 
 while Odontoglossum gloriosum seems a 
 whole hawthorn hedge in flower. I open 
 the door of the warm-house when the Van- 
 das are in bloom, and I know not what 
 
My Indoor Garden. 159 
 
 subtle overpowering fragrance weighs 
 down the air. What a sachet and censer 
 of perfume ! what a spice-box of the Ori- 
 ent ! Cleopatra might have just passed 
 through. Such strange odors ! languorous, 
 sensuous, all but intoxicating! I expect to 
 hear a tom-tom's beat, or the rustle of a 
 houri's skirt. Some of the Stanhopeas, 
 how powerful their scent a pot-pourri of 
 all the gums of Brazil ! The suave yet pun- 
 gent aroma exhaled by one of the Oncidi- 
 ums (O. ornithorhynchuni), I can never 
 get enough of. Its insidious, delicious fra- 
 grance defies analysis; it haunts me like an 
 unremembered dream or a thought that 
 has escaped. Intensely red flowers are 
 seldom odorous ; the brilliant Sophronites 
 some of them the purest essence of scarlet 
 are scentless. The Phalcenopsis, too, al- 
 though among the most floriferous of or- 
 chids, are likewise inodorous. 
 
 It is fascinating to attempt to trace the 
 resemblance of some of the odors. G. W. 
 Septimus Piesse would be at a loss to place 
 many of them or to determine their combi- 
 nation. Some, on the contrary, are dis- 
 tinctly like many well-known and grateful 
 odors, though generally much more pro- 
 nounced. From Dendrobmm aureum and 
 Cattleya gigas there rises a triple extract of 
 violets ; from Cattleya citrina, a strong fra- 
 grance of limes; from D. scabrilingue, a 
 
160 The Story of my House. 
 
 delicious breath of wall-flowers; from D. 
 moschatum, a pronounced musk-like scent. 
 Besides Odontoglossum gloriosum, both 
 Burlingtonia fragrans and Trichopilia 
 sua-vis emit a perfume of hawthorn. One 
 of the Zygopetalums smells like hya- 
 cinths, one of the Oncidiums like cinna- 
 mon, one of the Cataselums like anise. 
 The straw-colored flowers of C scurra 
 have a pronounced perfume of lemons. 
 Cymbidium Mastersii is charged with the 
 odor of almonds. Dendrobium incurvum 
 is distinctly jasmine scented. A mellif- 
 luous essence of cyclamen clusters about 
 D. Dominianum. Not a few orchids smell 
 like honey, while in others I can plain- 
 ly trace the scent of elder flower, helio- 
 trope, the wild grape, sweet pea, vanilla, 
 tuberose, honeysuckle, lily of the valley, 
 and various tropical fruits, like the pine-ap- 
 ple, banana, and Monstera. The majority 
 of the Vandas and Stanhopeas, and not a 
 few of the Cattleyas, are puzzling to place. 
 Form is scarcely less strange than odor 
 in many orchids, most of the species bear- 
 ing a pronounced or faint resemblance to 
 some form of bird, insect, or animal life. 
 The Masdevalltas and Maxillarias, how 
 like the walking-stick and water-skaters 
 many of them are! My primrose-scented 
 Dendrobium looks like a flock of lovely 
 buff- colored moths ready to take flight 
 
My Indoor Garden. 161 
 
 from the stems. The ivory-white flowers 
 of Angrcecum sesquipidale, whose perfume 
 so strongly resembles that of the white gar- 
 den lily, look like a starfish. These Stan- 
 hopeas, whose emanations are almost over- 
 powering and whose spikes emerge from 
 the bottom of their suspended baskets, re- 
 mind me of serpents in the form and spots 
 of their fleshy, purplish or orange-dyed 
 flowers. The flowers of the species Angu- 
 loa resemble a bull's head ; those of Cycno- 
 ches Loddigesii, a swan. In the white 
 waxen flower of Peresteria elata I trace the 
 symbol of immortality a dove with ex- 
 panded wings; in the terrestrial Ophrys I 
 almost hear the humming of its bees. Many 
 species closely resemble spiders and beetles ; 
 others seem almost an exact counterfeit of 
 various moths and butterflies there is no 
 end to the strange resemblances. 
 
 Color is scarcely less strange than odor 
 and form. These abnormal spots and 
 blotches, these oddly tipped petals and 
 painted sepals, I meet in no other flower. 
 The lily, Sternbergia, and anemone have 
 each been singled out as the candidate for 
 the honor of being referred to in the twen- 
 ty-ninth verse of the sixth chapter of St. 
 Matthew. But was any one of these, or even 
 Solomon himself, arrayed like Dendrobium 
 Wardianuml The most gorgeous of its 
 gorgeous tribe, it is perhaps the most gor- 
 
1 62 The Story of my House. 
 
 geous of flowers; and among the easiest 
 grown species, it blossoms freely, suspend- 
 ed in the library from a block of wood. 
 
 I must watch long to see a blue or pur- 
 ple orchid in bloom, colors common enough 
 among garden and other greenhouse flow- 
 ers. True red and vermilion are extreme- 
 ly rare, yellow in its various shades being 
 perhaps the most common color, green and 
 white occupying an almost equal place. 
 Brown-shaded or brown-spotted flowers 
 are common, and there exist numerous 
 pink-purples and crimsons. Magenta fre- 
 quently creeps into the Cattleyas, staining 
 the crest of the pearl or cream-colored lobe, 
 or splashing the curled or fimbriated lip. But 
 magenta lends itself better to orchids than 
 to other flowers; and objectionable as it 
 generally is, it may be pardoned in some of 
 the Cattleyas. It is a tropical color and 
 brings perfume. Apart from the strange 
 odors, shapes, and colors of the flowers, the 
 orchid still continues exceptional in the 
 wonderful duration of its blooms both upon 
 the plant and in the cut stage. Epiphytal or 
 terrestrial, tropical or native, in all its as- 
 pects the orchid is strange. 
 
 How few, while admiring the gorgeous 
 beauty of an epiphytal orchid, think of the 
 price it has cost to transfer it from its tropi- 
 cal habitat ! For very many of the numer- 
 ous species have been obtained at the sacri- 
 
My Indoor Garden. 163 
 
 fice of human lives martyrs to hardship, 
 exposure, and disease engendered while 
 wresting a new species from its miasma- 
 infested home. The accounts of many 
 orchid collectors who have lived to relate 
 their experiences read like the exploits of a 
 Stanley or a tale of Verne. 
 
 If my orchids are chary of red, many 
 foliage plants supply this color abundantly, 
 and ferns the graceful leafage and lovely 
 greens which orchids lack. I say nothing 
 of the palm, the tree-fern, the Monster a, the 
 Musa, and similar large plants that require 
 special quarters where they may have am- 
 ple space to do them justice. But color and 
 form are supplied by many medium-sized 
 foliage plants of comparatively easy culture; 
 and in selecting these, like orchids, it is 
 well to choose a few of the finest and most 
 distinct, rather than crowd the stages with 
 a mass of plants of only average merit. 
 One can never cease to admire the brilliant 
 mottling and veining of the Crotpn's ever- 
 green foliage, the grand purplish green 
 leaves of Maranta Zebrina, the elegant 
 markings of the Calladium, the velvety 
 crimson-mottled leaves of the Gesneras, the 
 polished bronze shields of Alocassia metal- 
 lica, the bronze-green and satiny luster of 
 the Camphylobtrys, the vivid exquisite red 
 tones of the Draccena 's younger leafage, and 
 the Poinsettia's fiery scarlet whorls. Per- 
 ii 
 
164 The Story of my House. 
 
 haps no other red, even that of the pome- 
 granate, is quite so intense as the flaming 
 spathe and spadix of several of the great 
 tropical aroids belonging to the species 
 Anthurium, valuable for their fine foliage as 
 well as for their startling flowers. An in- 
 teresting foliage plant is the old Strelit^ia 
 regince, producing singular brilliant orange 
 and purple flowers, one continually push- 
 ing up beneath the other from its magical 
 wand. The Imatophyllum, or Clivia, is 
 likewise a satisfactory foliage plant, apart 
 from the showy florescence of its large 
 umbel of twelve to fifteen coppery-red blos- 
 soms. 
 
 The variegated form of the pine-apple 
 (Ananas bracteatus) goes farther than any 
 other greenhouse plant in its combined 
 appeal to the senses, its rich reddish foliage 
 pleasing the eye, and its rich red fruit cap- 
 tivating the sense of sight, smell, and taste. 
 I fancy the smaller fruit of this variety is of 
 more pronounced flavor than that of the 
 type; but this may be simply owing to its 
 more inviting appearance. One needs no 
 other odor in the greenhouse when the 
 pine-apple is in fruit. It was a Huguenot 
 priest who described the pine-apple, three 
 centuries ago, as a gift of such excellence 
 that only the hand of Venus should gather 
 it. It might have fallen from the sky a 
 larger and more delicious strawberry. No 
 
My Indoor Garden. 165 
 
 one who has tasted it only after it has been 
 plucked green and subjected to a long voy- 
 age in the hold of a vessel, can conceive its 
 ambrosial flavor when cut ripe from the 
 stem. It is a fresh revelation to the taste ; it 
 almost renews one's youth. 
 
 Some specimens of the Sarracenias or 
 pitcher-plants are interesting, though when 
 suspended from their baskets they lack 
 their native grace. I always recall the Sar- 
 racenia as I first met it, its purple cups and 
 rufous-green leaves fringing a deep black 
 pool. Springing from the sphagnum, cot- 
 ton-rose, and cranberry tangle of the 
 swamp, it seemed to possess a conscious 
 life of freshness and of color, callous to No- 
 vember frost and cold. The thick carpet of 
 cranberry upheld the footstep on the quak- 
 ing bog, and every tread spilled the water 
 from the Sarracenia's brimming cups and 
 leaves. Aflame with scarlet berries, a 
 growth of black-alder skirted the outer 
 edges of the pool; on the rising ground be- 
 yond, the gray boles and gilded foliage of a 
 beech grove were illumined by the sinking 
 sun. It was a study for a Ruysdael or a 
 Diaz, if a Diaz could reproduce the mellow 
 grays and reds of the sphagnum and the 
 Sarracenia. Fontainebleau or the thickets 
 of Bas-Breau hold no such pool ; it is alone 
 the product of a wild New World swamp. 
 
 Of flowers grown for the sake of fra- 
 
1 66 The Story of my House. 
 
 grance alone, or beauty of blossom and fra- 
 grance combined, it is difficult to specify 
 which are the most desirable so many are 
 so beautiful. Such stiff, soulless subjects 
 as the camellia and calla are worthless, and 
 should be thrown out of the greenhouse 
 there are too many good things to take 
 their place. A flower should have a mean- 
 ing, or a sentiment attached to it ; and the 
 camellia and calla have none ; they are frigid 
 even for the grave. Many of the glaring 
 blues, purples, crimsons, and magentas of the 
 Cinerarias, and some of the agonizing reds 
 of the Chinese primrose are equally to be 
 avoided as so much rubbish for which the 
 greenhouse has no room. The common 
 pink begonia, which every one grows be- 
 cause every one else grows it, should like- 
 wise be left out in favor of many other 
 better varieties of its class. Of roses there 
 can not well be too many ; and of these a 
 well-grown Marechal Niel or a Gloire de 
 Dijon can scarcely be excelled for luxuri- 
 ance, fragrance, and beauty of bloom. 
 
 I should hesitate which to pronounce 
 the most satisfactory the cyclamen or the 
 lily of the valley, both are so sweet. The 
 latter is much more easily raised; the for- 
 mer must be sowed from seed yearly; it 
 does not propagate. The fragrance of the 
 cyclamen is delicious and distinct. But it is 
 of a variable quantity, some kinds being 
 
My Indoor Garden. 167 
 
 delightfully scented, and some odorless. 
 Marie Louise violets 
 
 The violet of March that comes with spring, 
 
 should, of course, be generously grown in 
 frames connected with the greenhouse, to 
 cut from ad libitum ; there is no other in- 
 door or outdoor flower to take the place of 
 the violet. Neither can the carnation be 
 dispensed with, this colored clove among 
 flowers, which only demands a cool tem- 
 perature to repay cultivation. And how 
 could one be without the haunting fra- 
 grance of mignonette ! 
 
 Tulips, hyacinths, and crocus, methinks, 
 should not be raised indoors their true 
 place is in the April garden without, to 
 herald the returning spring. A few of the 
 white, salmon, and vermilion geraniums 
 are showy and sometimes useful, especially 
 the small double vermilion; the majority 
 do not compare with many of the fine dis- 
 carded pelargoniums which florists com- 
 plain they can not sell, for the simple reason 
 that they do not raise them. The fuchsia 
 has some fine and striking forms ; the ma- 
 jority are undesirable. The heliotrope is 
 desirable for its fragrance, though it withers 
 quickly when cut. The Freesia is an easily 
 grown and beautiful flower that should be 
 forced as abundantly as the Con-vallaria for 
 cutting. Daphne Indica and odora one can 
 
1 68 The Story of my House. 
 
 not well do without, and equally valuable 
 for fragrance are the climbing Madagascar 
 Stephanotis and some of the jasmines. 
 
 Among other desirable climbers possess- 
 ing fragrance should be included some of 
 the passion flowers and the showy yellow 
 Brazilian Allamanda. A few specimen 
 plants of the fragrant Chinese azalea are 
 always ornamental, and useful for cutting; 
 some of the rose-colored kinds are among 
 the gayest of greenhouse flowers, notably the 
 old variety ' ' Rosette. " A somewhat difficult 
 hot-house plant to grow is Alstr&meria 
 ligtu, with white and scarlet flowers appear- 
 ing during February, and possessing a strong 
 scent of mignonette. The pure waxy white 
 flowers of the Eucharis, or lily of the Ama- 
 zon, are invaluable for cutting, the robust 
 bulbous plants being easily raised, and pro- 
 ducing their flower-trusses in great luxuri- 
 ance. For cutting, the numerous species of 
 narcissus can scarcely be equaled ; from the 
 many beautiful bunch-flowered varieties of 
 the ta^etta, and the glorious blooms of the 
 large trumpeters, to the smaller hoop-petti- 
 coat daffodil and golden campernelle jon- 
 quil. A plant seldom seen under glass, but 
 an excellent plant, notwithstanding, is the 
 common sweet-scented yellow day lily (He- 
 merocallis flam), than which few flowers 
 are more beautiful either in the garden 
 or greenhouse. Where one has sufficient 
 
My Indoor Garden. 169 
 
 space, the garden lilac may be advantage- 
 ously grown in the greenhouse, care being 
 taken not to force it too fast, or the trusses 
 soon droop when cut. 
 
 Naturally, no greenhouse is complete 
 without the chrysanthemum, which, defying 
 the first frosts without, makes us forget the 
 approach of winter within. 1 still grow the 
 old-fashioned small-flowered white, yellow, 
 and maroon pompons. Of recent years 
 hybridizing has produced an innumerable 
 quantity of large, loose outre forms among the 
 Chinese and Japanese sections. In many 
 cases this has been done at the sacrifice of 
 bloom and beauty of color. Dingy brown 
 disks have crept into the flowers; and the 
 chrysanthemum may be said to have de- 
 teriorated rather than improved under too 
 much cultivation. 
 
IX. 
 
 A BLUE-VIOLET SALAD. 
 
 Ce fut un beau souper, ruisselant de surprises. 
 Les rotis, cults a point, n'arriverent pas froids: 
 Par ce beau soir d'hiver, on avait des cerises 
 Et du Johannisberg, ainsi que chez les rois. 
 THEODORE DE BANVILLE, ODES FUNAMBULESQUES. 
 
 HE dining-room is large and lofty, 
 having been planned with spe- 
 cial reference to ventilation, spa- 
 ciousness, and the attractive 
 views it commands of the copse, 
 the garden, and the rising and the setting 
 sun. 
 
 If it is pleasant to dream in the well- 
 furnished library, if it is a delight to muse 
 and study amid harmonious surroundings, 
 how much more important it is that the 
 great nursery of a pleasing frame of mind, 
 the dining-room, should by its inviting sur- 
 roundings and the care and intelligence be- 
 stowed upon its adjuncts, the kitchen and 
 the wine-cellar, contribute equally to the 
 felicity of the house and home! 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 171 
 
 With the exception of the brll-room, the 
 dining-room should be the most spacious 
 apartment of the house. For is it not the 
 most occupied and visited ? Three times 
 daily, at least, the inmates assemble here; 
 and in the case of entertainments 1 observe it 
 is invariably a shrine to which the guests 
 repair with almost one accord. To be 
 sure, the host and hostess are not entirely 
 neglected, and the flow of conversation is 
 never wholly restrained in the drawing- 
 room. Yet I have never failed to notice, 
 where a large assemblage of invited guests 
 is present in any house, how powerful a 
 magnet the dining-room possesses. This 
 not only to the sleek and rubicund among 
 the sterner sex men who are known for 
 their fondness for good cheer; but even to 
 the slim and ethereal among the gentler sex, 
 as well. Pale sylphs whom one would 
 scarcely suspect capable of an accomplished 
 play of a knife and fork, staid matrons, 
 blooming rosebuds, and elderly dames, all 
 seem no less fascinated with the charms of 
 the dining-room. It is the source and dis- 
 pensator of joy when its appointments are 
 perfect the one room of all rooms of the. 
 house which may not be abolished. 
 
 How may I enjoy the other portions of 
 my house if the dinner be poorly served 
 and the environments amid which it is par- 
 taken be dismal or unattractive ? The din- 
 
172 The Story of my House. 
 
 ner should be the diapason to pitch one in 
 the right key for the evening, whether it 
 be the perusal of a favorite author, a moon- 
 light stroll, a ball, or a symposium with 
 one's friends. Carlyle's dining-room, I 
 venture to say, was a gloomy one ; or his 
 cook, lacking a happy turn for an entrte, 
 served him with ponderous prices de rtsist- 
 ance, thereby the more intensifying his 
 natural acerbity and want of geniality. Is 
 the German invariably happy, overflowing 
 with Gemilthlichkeit ? He has three hun- 
 dred and sixty-five soups, one for every 
 day in the year. Is the Frenchman pro- 
 verbially polite and effervescent ? His deli- 
 cate ragotits and fragrant Bordeaux are a 
 constant tonic to his spirits. "Repose is 
 as much the result of a well-organized di- 
 gestion as of a quiet mind," observes the 
 axiomatic and irrefutable author of the 366 
 Menus. Thrice blessed he who has a 
 good conscience and a good cook. Your 
 conscience may be as clear as a mountain 
 brook, however, but without a good diges- 
 tion life becomes a weariness. 
 
 A pleasant dining-room and a well-ap- 
 pointed kitchen, therefore, become among 
 the most important factors in the happiness 
 of the household the best means of defeat- 
 ing that ennui which, according to Schopen- 
 hauer, fills the moiety of a man's life. The 
 Savarins, the La Reynieres, and the Baron 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 173 
 
 Brisses can never be too many. " I regard 
 the discovery of a new dish/' said the late 
 Henrion de Pensey, the magistrate (accord- 
 ing to M. Royer Collard), of whom regen- 
 erated France has most reason to be proud, 
 "as a far more interesting event than the 
 discovery of a star, for we always have 
 stars enough, but we can never have too 
 many dishes; and I shall not regard the 
 sciences as sufficiently honored or adequate- 
 ly represented among us until I see a cook 
 in the first class of the Institute." 
 
 They manage these things better in 
 France, though the art of gastronomy of 
 late years has advanced as rapidly in this 
 country, perhaps, as any of its sister arts. 
 It is no longer a burden to approach the 
 dinner-table; and while we may not have 
 transposed the maxim that Harpagon 
 deemed so noble, nevertheless, it may be 
 affirmed, in the strict sense of the expres- 
 sion, that we no longer "eat to live." For 
 is not this among the highest of arts a 
 sauce "that, when properly prepared, will 
 enable one to eat an elephant ? " as Grimod 
 de la Reyniere observes in the Almanach 
 des Gourmands. With an abundant sup- 
 ply of herbs and flavorings, a hygienic ap- 
 preciation of their virtues, and a refined, 
 discriminating taste, all is possible. The 
 "palate is flattered" and the stomach is 
 not fatigued. If the cook or the person 
 
174 The Story of my House. 
 
 who employs him would only carry out 
 the advice the Almanach prescribes, in or- 
 der that the cook's palate may retain its ex- 
 quisite sensibility, and the trained papillae 
 of his tongue forever command their cun- 
 ning! 
 
 These fine savors, these subtle aromas 
 of a delicious dish, delicate as the fragrance 
 of a wild flower, and companions of the 
 liquid essences of the Gironde, the Cote 
 d'Or, the Marne, and the Rheingau when 
 conceived and executed by a true priest or 
 priestess of the range, how they refresh the 
 jaded spirits and turn the lowering winter 
 sky into couleur de rose ! It remained for 
 a woman, the late Mrs. Mary Booth, to give 
 to posterity the most delicious epigram that 
 has yet been uttered regarding dinners and 
 dinner-giving: " A successful dinner is the 
 best thing which the world can do in the 
 pursuit oi pleasure. It is the apotheosis of 
 the present, and the present moment is all 
 we can call our own." Neither let us for- 
 get for a single instant, where dinner-giv- 
 ing is concerned, the golden maxim of 
 Baron Brisse : "A host whose guest has 
 had to ask for anything is a dishonored 
 man!" 
 
 Let the dinner be served in a well-lighted, 
 spacious, and pleasantly furnished room ; let 
 the chairs be easy, the guests not less than 
 eight nor more than ten (les diners fins se 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 175 
 
 font en petit comite], the linen spotless, the 
 service faultless. Let the wines not exceed 
 four a light hock, redolent of the fruit of 
 the Riesling; a glass or two of Montepul- 
 ciano or of Pichon-Longueville, two flutes 
 of half dry champagne (cider rather than 
 " brtit ") or sparkling dry Saint-Peray ; and 
 for the after-taste the last taste of sweets 
 the perfumed sunshine of Sauternes, Lafau- 
 rie, or La Tour Blanche of a well-succeeded 
 year, iced to snow. "A glass of wine/' 
 Richard Sheridan used to say, "would en- 
 courage the bright thought to come; and 
 then it was right to take another to reward 
 it for coming." Let the courses not ex- 
 ceed seven, including the salad ; let the 
 room be well ventilated ; the flowers mildly 
 stimulating rather than cloying in their fra- 
 grance ; let the repast not exceed two and 
 a half hours in duration and, for the pres- 
 ent at least, we are 
 
 Notes in that great symphony 
 Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres. 
 
 The senseless practice of decanting wine can 
 not be too strongly condemned. A delicate 
 wine seems never the same as when poured 
 from the bottle in which it has ripened and 
 in which it has concentrated its odors. 
 The practice, moreover, is incongruous ; for 
 even he who decants his "claret" would 
 not think of needlessly dissipating the bou- 
 
176 The Story of my House. 
 
 quet of his hock. As for the matter of sedi- 
 ment being avoided by decanting, decanted 
 wines are invariably seen in a clouded con- 
 dition, their bloom having been brushed 
 off by the very process of decanting. By 
 laying all bottles on their side, with the 
 label uppermost, while they remain in the 
 repose of the cellar, and then placing them 
 upright a day or a few hours before they 
 are required, the question of sediment is at 
 once disposed of. Then, if the wine be 
 carefully poured, label upward, it wells 
 forth as limpid as a woodland spring. 
 
 Equally to be censured is the increasing 
 custom observing wine in colored glasses 
 a fashion inaugurated by the gentler sex in 
 order to add a supposititious life to the table. 
 Apart from the great mistake of thus mask- 
 ing the color of the wine itself, and thereby 
 impairing its attractiveness to the eye, there 
 is no color produced by the most cunning 
 artificer in glass which approaches the col- 
 ors extracted from the skin of the grapes 
 themselves. 
 
 What green Bohemian glass may equal 
 in hue this golden green of Liebfrauenmilch 
 that so enhances the flavor of these speckled 
 trout which but yesterday were swim- 
 ming amid the waving watercresses of the 
 stream ? 
 
 Or shall I obliterate the lovely color of 
 Bordeaux which, captivating the sense of 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 177 
 
 seeing, thus additionally heightens through 
 the imagination the exquisite bouquet and 
 flavor of the grand growths of the Medoc ? 
 Disguised in an opaque receptacle, how 
 may I enjoy the liquid gold of Sauternes or 
 the deep violets and purples which dance 
 and gleam in a glass of Cote Rotie ? Yet 
 more than clear crystal is required in the 
 ideal wine-glass. The most delicious nec- 
 tar loses half its virtues if drunk from a thick 
 glass or a sharp, rough rim, as the foaming 
 juice of Champagne is deprived of its great- 
 est charm its bewitching, mantling life 
 when served in the flat tumbler that deadens 
 its sparkle and its bead. 
 
 It was not without just reason that Boi- 
 leau declared : 
 
 On est savant quand on boit bien ; 
 Qui ne salt boire ne salt rien. 
 
 Who drinketh well his wisdom shows; 
 Who knows not drinking nothing knows. 
 
 And Jean le Houx, in the dedication of 
 his sparkling Vaux de Vire anacreontics 
 which are unique in the languages asserts 
 that his best verses were produced by 
 drinking good wine, while inferior wine 
 was responsible for the poorest. It would 
 be interesting to know what special wines 
 inspired the incomparable tribute to his 
 nose 
 
178 The Story of my House. 
 
 . . . Duquel la couleur richement particippe 
 Du rouge et violet, 
 
 or whether it was white or red wine that 
 drew forth the frolicsome stanzas addressed 
 to Magdaleine. 
 
 Le Houx deserves to be classed among 
 the great philosophers. It is to be regret- 
 ted, however, that his philosophy did not 
 extend to dining as well as wining though, 
 for that matter, the eight little i8mo vol- 
 umes of the Almanach des Gourmands,* 
 justly classed by Monselet among the great 
 forgotten books, leave nothing to be desired 
 on the subject of epicurism in its most in- 
 finitesimal and far-extending details. The 
 humor and verve are exquisite, while La 
 Reyniere's style might come under the 
 definition of Remy Belleau "well-coupled 
 and properly sewn words, graces and fa- 
 vors of a well-chosen subject, and I do not 
 know what happy chance (et ne sfay quel 
 heur), which truly accompanies those who 
 write well." Only, the Almanach is in 
 prose. With all due regard for Berchoux 
 and his poem in four cantos, La Gastrono- 
 mic, the editions of which are almost as 
 numerous as the stars in the Milky Way, 
 the French genius is yet to appear who 
 
 * Almanach des Gourmands. Servant de Guide 
 dans les Moyens de Faire Excellente Chere; Par un 
 Viel Amateur. Troisieme Edition. A Paris 1804-1812. 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 179 
 
 may do full justice in verse to the pleasures 
 of the table. 
 
 Le Houx, how fine his touch! and how 
 melodiously he plays upon all the strings 
 of the oenologistic harp ! 
 
 I am brave as a Caesar in wars where they fight 
 With a glass in the left hand and jug in the right. 
 Let me rather be riddled by drinking my fill 
 Than by those cruel balls that so suddenly kill ! 
 
 'Tis the clashing of bottles to which I incline; 
 And the pipes and the rundlets, all full of red wine, 
 Are my cannon of siege, which are aimed without fault 
 At the thirst, the true fortress I mean to assault. 
 
 'Tis far better in tumbler to shelter one's nose, 
 Where 'tis safer than in a war-helmet from blows. 
 Better leader than trumpet or banner is sign 
 Of the ivy and yew bush that show where there's wine. 
 
 It is better by fireside to drink muscadel 
 Than to go on a rampart to mount sentinel. 
 I would rather the tavern attend without fail 
 Than I'd follow my captain the breach to assail. 
 
 All excesses, however, I hate and disclaim, 
 
 Not a toper by nature, but only in name. 
 
 Jolly wine, bringing laughter and friendly carouse, 
 
 I have promised, and ever will pay you my vows.* 
 
 And in another of his mirthful, vinous 
 phantasies : 
 
 To flee from my sadness, yet stay in one place, 
 I take horn and staff, and I practice the chase. 
 
 Catch, catch! 
 
 Drink, drink! 
 
 * Translation of J. P. Muirhead, M. A. 
 
 12 
 
i8o The Story of my House. 
 
 Hip, hip! 
 Catch, catch! 
 Keep watch 
 Lest it slip! 
 
 My game is the thirst, which 1 don't want to catch. 
 But only to make it decamp with dispatch. 
 
 The goblet's my bugle, which splendidly sounds 
 When I lustily blow; the bottle's my hounds. 
 
 The table's my forest and hunting-field green 
 When close set with covers for friends and me seen. 
 
 I blow on my bugle, and, loud though he cry, 
 Thirst soon will break cover, or else he must die. 
 
 O sweet-sounding bugle, mouth-instrument dear! 
 This pastime is charming when bedtime is near. 
 
 Catch, catch! 
 
 Drink, drink! 
 
 Hip, hip! 
 
 Catch, catch! 
 
 Keep watch 
 
 Lest it slip! * 
 
 But Le Houx's charming eulogies are by 
 no means confined to wine. Cider, among 
 the most refreshing and prophylactic of sum- 
 mer beverages when well made, evokes al- 
 most equally the playful strains of his lyre. 
 Not less renowned than the juice of the ap- 
 ple of Devonshire is the potent apple juice 
 of Normandy, and even in his reference to 
 this there constantly occurs the oft-repeated 
 refrain : 
 
 Drinking is sweeter than a kiss to me. 
 * Translation of J. P. Muirhead, M. A. 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 181 
 
 The true raison d'etre of the Vaux de 
 Vire, it may be stated, was a jealous wife. 
 Since the time of Le Houx there have been 
 other jealous spouses that have driven their 
 husbands to the bottle or to something 
 worse; but none have done so with such 
 smiling effect as the wife of the wine-lov- 
 ing lawyer-poet of Vire. 
 
 With the wine at the proper tempera- 
 ture (and this point it is the bounden duty 
 of the host to personally superintend), a 
 few well-prepared courses partaken of with 
 congenial friends amid pleasant surround- 
 ings will prove far more agreeable and 
 leave more grateful remembrances than the 
 most elaborate banquet. In dining, more 
 than in anything else, quality rather than 
 quantity paves the way to happigess. 
 The petit, and not the grand diner is the 
 grace of the table. Like many of the ac- 
 cidental things of life the chance meeting, 
 the suddenly conceived excursion, the un- 
 expected visit from out-of-town friends 
 it is often the impromptu repast which in- 
 spires the most delightful souvenirs. 
 
 It was years ago, though I remember it 
 as distinctly as if it were yesterday, when I 
 found my friend St. Ange, after an absence 
 of many months, ensconced in the library, 
 La Gastronomic in one hand and the epicu- 
 rean epigrams of Martial in the other. 
 
 A Julienne soup, some smelt with a tar- 
 
1 82 The Story of my House. 
 
 tare sauce, sheep's tongues d la Jardiniere, 
 quail, and an endive salad were to compose 
 the dinner. My guest's rosy face took on an 
 added luster. His eyes brightened percep- 
 tibly at the mention of the quail. 
 
 " Let me prepare them ! " he exclaimed. 
 " I will show you how to make a salmis of 
 quail that is not down in the cook-books ; 
 it is composed as you would blend and 
 form an exquisite perfume : 
 
 Thy crown of roses or of spikenard be ; 
 A crown of thrushes is the crown for me.* 
 
 I term it a salmis d la bourgeois gentilhom- 
 me ; like Moliere's comtdie-ballet, it is pi- 
 quant and full of delightful surprises. Give 
 me the quail, the shallots, the truffles, the 
 mushrooms, and you will never forget me! " 
 
 There were four larded quails, freshly 
 roasted. 
 
 He took a piece of unsalted butter the 
 size of an egg, placed it in the porcelain 
 sauce-pan, and allowed it to liquefy. When 
 it began to bubble, he put in two shallots 
 and two sprigs of parsley finely minced, 
 stirring until browned, adding a teaspoon- 
 ful of sifted flour. When well incorporated, 
 he supplemented this with two cupfuls of 
 bouillon, a pinch of salt, and for the bouquet 
 garni a third of a bay-leaf, two cloves, a 
 
 * Martial. Elphinston's translation. 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 183 
 
 small piece of cinnamon, a pinch of thyme, a 
 dash of allspice and the merest trifle of nut- 
 meg. Next he added two sliced truffles of 
 Perigord, the juice of a can of button mush- 
 rooms, a tablespoonful of cognac, a table- 
 spoonful of water, and a wine-glass each of 
 Chablis and St. Julien. 
 
 His face glowed, his hazel eyes spar- 
 kled, and every little while he tasted of the 
 savory liaison. 
 
 After pouring in the wine, he allowed 
 the sauce to boil until reduced to the desired 
 consistency. The can of mushrooms was 
 then added ; and about ten minutes before 
 serving, one of the quail was permitted to 
 simmer in the perfumed sauce. Immedi- 
 ately previous to placing the salmis in the 
 chafing-dish, and decorating it with crou- 
 tons, he dropped in a pepper-corn and 
 stirred briskly. 
 
 " f Voilti qui est Men ; ' c'est par fait, 
 mon cher ! " he said with a smile ; (f le sal- 
 mis a bien rtussi ! 
 
 "I always use a good many herbs and 
 seasonings," he continued, "though I em- 
 ploy them only in very small quantities. 
 By using them, infinite variety of flavorings 
 may be produced, and they are, moreover, 
 a great tonic to the stomach if dealt out by 
 a judicious hand. Hence the superiority 
 of good French cooking; variety is the 
 spice of digestion. Indeed, pleasing savors 
 
184 The Story of my House. 
 
 or sapid impressions usually exert the 
 greatest influence upon the function of 
 digestion. If they are good and agreeable, 
 th secretion of the gastric juice is abun- 
 dant, mastication is prolonged, deglutition 
 and chylification are easy and rapid. If 
 they are bad or repugnant, mastication be- 
 comes a labor, deglutition difficult, and a 
 distressed feeling is the inevitable result. 
 
 " Perfection in cooking consists in render- 
 ing all such substances as may be utilized 
 for food as agreeabje to the taste as they 
 are easy to digest. The cook, therefore, 
 besides possessing a palate of extreme deli- 
 cacy, should be thoroughly acquainted with 
 the hygienic properties of all the herbs and 
 seasonings he employs, and this equally 
 with reference to their effect upon the stom- 
 ach as with regard to their pleasing im- 
 pression upon the organ of taste. All 
 spices and kindred stimulants should be 
 used with the utmost tact and discrimina- 
 tion. 
 
 11 But the pleasures that flit about the 
 well-appointed table the appetite which is, 
 after all, the best of sauces and that leads to 
 good digestion and consequent health and 
 enjoyment of the other pleasures of life 
 depend upon more than the chef and the 
 cuisine. Back of the most seductive dish 
 and piquant sauce, there remains the capa- 
 city to enjoy them, which is alone to be at- 
 
A Blue- Violet Salad. 185 
 
 tained in its fullest measure by regular hab- 
 its (habits as regular, at least, as rational 
 pleasure and recreation will allow) ; and 
 that greatest and purest of tonics and pro- 
 phylactics exercise in the open air." 
 
 In due time the entrte was partaken of. 
 The impromptu chef had upset the kitchen 
 from casserole to pot-au-feu> but his salmis 
 was worthy of Careme. 
 
 There was a great bunch of double vio- 
 lets on the table, the lovely dark blue vari- 
 ety (Viola odoratissima fl. pi.) with the 
 short stems, freshly plucked from the violet 
 frame of the garden, and the room was 
 scented by their delicious breath. 
 
 A bowl of broad-leaved Batavian endive 
 blanched to a nicety and alluring as a siren's 
 smile was placed upon the table. I almost 
 fancied it was smiling at the violets. A 
 blue -violet salad, by all means! there are 
 violets, and to spare. 
 
 On a separate dish there was a little 
 minced celery, parsley, and chives. Four 
 heaping salad -spoonfuls of olive oil were 
 poured upon the herbs, with a dessertspoon- 
 ful of white-wine vinegar (the best in the 
 world comes from Orleans, France), the 
 necessary salt and white pepper, and a 
 tablespoonful of Bordeaux. The petals of 
 two dozen violets were detached from the 
 stems, and two thirds of them were incor- 
 porated with the dressing. The dressing 
 
1 86 The Story of my House. 
 
 being thoroughly mixed with the endive, 
 the remaining flower petals were sprinkled 
 over the salad and a half-dozen whole vio- 
 lets placed in the center. 
 
 The lovely blue sapphires glowed upon 
 the white bosom of the endive! It was the 
 true sequence of the salmis. 
 
 A white-labeled bottle, capsuled Yquem, 
 and the cork branded " Lur Saluces," was 
 served with the salad. You note the subtle 
 aroma of pine-apple and fragrance of flower 
 ottos with the detonation of the cork the 
 fine vintages of Yquem have a pronounced 
 Ananassa flavor and bouquet that steeps the 
 palate with its richness and scents the sur- 
 rounding atmosphere. 
 
 Now try your blue-violet salad. 
 
 Is it fragrant ? is it cool ? is it delicious ? 
 is it divine ? 
 
X. 
 
 FOOTSTEPS OF SPRING. 
 
 . . . The yong Sunn 
 Hath in the Ramm his halve cours yrunn. 
 
 CHAUCER. 
 
 In the earlier year when the chill winds blow 
 The breath 01 buds with the breath of snow, 
 
 And the climbing sap like a spirit passes 
 Through trunks unscreened from the noonday glow, 
 
 O'er the wind-frayed weeds and the withered grasses 
 
 And the leaves that linger in layered masses, 
 March, the Master of Hounds, doth go 
 
 To hunt the hills and the wet morasses. 
 
 C. H. LUDERS. 
 
 Y books, my flowers, and my col- 
 orful interior surroundings do 
 much to relieve the monotony of 
 the long winter months. Not 
 until Aries appears for his ac- 
 customed charge upon the spring do I yearn 
 intently for its advent. Then the days seem 
 the longest the tedious days of waiting; 
 the longest days, which are to come, will 
 be the shortest. For the days may not be 
 measured by the length, but by the flight 
 of the hours and the beauty they bring; the 
 
1 88 The Story of my House. 
 
 sun and the shadows shorten the longest 
 day. 
 
 Does not a restlessness come to man with 
 the ascending sap in the trees, when he 
 likewise would cast off the inertia that has 
 possessed him, and respond to the magical 
 touch of the sun ? There is much that is 
 beautiful in the mythopoeic representation 
 of the seasons. All winter, says the legend, 
 the sweet sunshine is chased by the relent- 
 less storm, now hiding beneath the clouds, 
 now below the hills, showing herself for a 
 moment merely to flee again. But, finally 
 becoming bolder, the Sunshine advances to 
 meet the Storm, who, captivated by her 
 beauty, woos her as he pursues her, and 
 wins her for his bride. Then is there great 
 rejoicing upon the earth, and from their 
 union are born plants which spring from its 
 surface and spangle it with flowers. But 
 every autumn the Storm begins to frown 
 anew, the Sunshine flees from him, and the 
 pursuit begins again. 
 
 Is not the sunshine, more than anything 
 else, the prelude to spring ? How it sifts 
 and permeates through the windows into 
 one's very being, this first March sunshine! 
 Looked at from within it is already spring 
 without, so luminous the atmosphere and 
 so soft the shadows. Perfectly aware am I 
 that it may not continue and that the storm 
 will cause the sunlight to hide itself again, 
 
Footsteps of Spring. 189 
 
 just as it has done so often before when it 
 merely gleamed for a moment from the 
 edge of the cloud. Even now the fickle 
 sun sinks behind a sharp dark band in the 
 west. The mole must retreat to his bur- 
 row ; to-morrow the storm and the snow ! 
 At least the flowers will be shielded from 
 the chilling blasts, and Nature work her 
 own reward. Still must the north wind 
 beat ere the south breeze may blow. But 
 how, while it lasts, the sunlight warms 
 where it falls, drawing a scarlet aureole 
 from the maple, setting the snow-banks 
 free, and liberating the ice-locked streams. 
 
 Every morning now must the Sun rise 
 earlier to fulfill his task. The buds of a 
 million forests long for his touch, hillsides 
 of spring beauty and violets are eager for 
 his approach, the flowers in every meadow 
 and woodland are awaiting his alchemy. 
 Already the willow catkins have stirred at 
 his caress. The shrubby dogwood has felt 
 his force, and kindles into flame. The 
 wands of the golden willow are gilded 
 anew; the red horn of the great aroid is 
 peering from the mold. 
 
 Think of his task! To clear the earth of 
 its coverlet of snow and clarify the streams ; 
 to burst the chrysalis and put forth the leaves ; 
 to push up the grass blades and perfume the 
 flowers ; to breathe upon and resuscitate all 
 the dormant world of vegetable and ani- 
 
190 The Story of my House. 
 
 mal life. The leaflets upon leaflets and fern 
 fronds upon fern fronds the sunshine must 
 unfold; the acres of grain and the clover 
 fields it must fall upon; the myriad fruits it 
 must ripen ! 
 
 Lo! how marvelous the task; a smile 
 and a summons for all ! 
 
 Down in the hollows of the wood where 
 the wind-flowers grow, under the meadow- 
 grasses where the blue flag and lily bulbs 
 wait, below the waters to bid the marsh 
 marigolds and arrowheads rise, into the far- 
 thest swamps where the orchid hides, in 
 waste places where tares and teazles crowd, 
 on countless hillsides and in countless val- 
 leys must the sunbeams penetrate and 
 quicken to awakened life. And all this 
 gradually, little by little, day by day, hour 
 by hour, bringing forth each blossom at 
 its appointed time, giving the butterfly his 
 wings, providing the bee his sustenance. 
 What is there here on earth to compare with 
 the miracle of returning spring, the labor and 
 strength of the Sun ? The power of Her- 
 cules a trillion fold is concentrated in the 
 rays that are loosing the fetters of the streams 
 to-day. Lo! the marvel of the renascent 
 
 B*ar, when Earth renews her youth and 
 ature is born again. 
 
 The March days pass, and more and 
 more is the Sun's strength felt. His vassals, 
 the showers and the south winds, he calls 
 
Footsteps of Spring. 191 
 
 to aid him in his task ; and at once the 
 grasses and larches turn green and arbutus 
 and bloodroot are fanned into bloom. A 
 mile away the sunshine lights the hills; a 
 league away it burnishes and warms the 
 river. Daily the beams stream upon the 
 earth and reveal fresh treasures. Swiftly a 
 shadow steals along the hills. The tem- 
 pered April rain falls from the gray April 
 sky. Responsive, the sward assumes a 
 brighter green, the daffodil a richer gold. 
 The sap mounts to the topmost branches 
 and penetrates the minutest twigs. Day by 
 day the naked sprays are feathered by the 
 pushing buds. A scarf of green is flung 
 across the copse. The shadblow silvers the 
 woods, columbine and cranesbill throng the 
 slopes, and hepatica and dog-tooth violet 
 nod to the quickening breeze of spring. 
 
 The spring days pass, but the miracle 
 remains ; hourly a new marvel is wrought 
 by the sunlight and the shower. The oriole 
 appears and orchards burst into bloom ; the 
 wood-thrush sings and the dogwood and 
 wild thorn join the flowering pageant. The 
 warm perfumed breath of the new year 
 floats upon the air the breath of flower 
 and grass and expanding bud. Nature's 
 color-box opens anew ; her brush is laid 
 upon each petal with what consummate 
 address and variety ! pink upon the petals 
 of the peach, a flush on the cheek of the 
 
192 The Story of my House. 
 
 apple bloom, a gloss of gold upon the but- 
 tercup. The Trillium thrusts up its snowy 
 triangles, the gold-thread its white stars, 
 and banks become purple with violets. 
 Tiny polypody and oak-fern replume the 
 stumps and bowlders. From the frost- 
 smitten meadows and waste places rise 
 fresh pennants of green. Unfurled is the 
 flag of spring. And the hues and odors 
 that are still in embryo and the sunshine is 
 preparing all the sweets of June and the 
 infinite beauties of midsummer, the wealth 
 of the roses, the clover bloom, the laby- 
 rinthine tangle of wild flowers, even to the 
 asters and colored leaf of autumn. The 
 foam and surge of the apple bloom are but 
 a wave of the color and fragrance that is to 
 be. SEons ago the March sunlight fell upon 
 the flowers and primeval nature. Vegeta- 
 tion welcomed it then as it welcomes it 
 now. Next year and the next year and 
 centuries hence will it fall upon the earth 
 and work out the miracle of spring. Is it 
 not new and ever beautiful, this vernal res- 
 urrection ? That we, too, possessed this 
 subtle alchemy and might extract this elixir 
 from the April sun ! 
 
 How the wings of the doves glisten and 
 mirror the rays as I watch them floating by 
 my windows ! 1 love my flock of doves 
 the dove is so associated with the relent- 
 ment of the elements and the olive leaf of 
 
Footsteps of Spring. 193 
 
 spring. A monotonous life they lead in 
 their diurnal circlings round the barn and 
 their self-same route over their circum- 
 scribed domain a monotonous life, at 
 least, it appears to the observer, while 
 probably the very reverse to them. Every 
 load of grain which comes to the neighbor- 
 ing barns they may note from their vantage- 
 ground and meditate upon its special vir- 
 tues. The droppings of the barley now 
 being stored in yonder granary undoubted- 
 ly form as weighty a subject to them as the 
 fluctuations in the market do to the malt- 
 ster himself. Then the incertitude which 
 must attend the obtaining of their supply 
 of food naturally furnishes them with a con- 
 stant source of speculation; besides, who but 
 they themselves may know what petty bick- 
 erings and jealousies form the daily routine 
 of their inner life ? The jaunty leader of the 
 flock who curves his iris neck so proudly 
 may be the humblest of hen-pecked fathers in 
 the privacy of his home; and what appears 
 to be the approving cooings of devoted 
 dames may be only a prosaic homily on the 
 part of his exacting wives. 
 
 My flock of doves seem alway idling 
 and courting the sunbeam. Now, appar- 
 ently, they are drifting aimlessly upon the 
 air ; again they veer suddenly, to turn a 
 gleaming wing for me to admire. With 
 what indescribable grace the circling forms 
 
194 The Story of my House. 
 
 hover over the eaves after each of their 
 tours of investigation, the swiftly fanning 
 wings seeming to cease their motion simulta- 
 neously as the flock alights, and once more 
 preens its iris in the sun. Indecision is a 
 characteristic of my flock of doves always 
 uncertain of the direction they would take, 
 and apparently never satisfied for more than 
 a passing moment with their surroundings. 
 No sooner have they flown to the meadow 
 beyond the copse than they are back again ; 
 and scarcely have they perched upon the 
 roof or discovered fresh pickings ere they 
 take flight in another direction, to return as 
 quickly. Is it that they, like the rest of us, 
 are never content, and that much must have 
 more ? I should like to quote them a lyric 
 from John Wilbye's Second Set of Madri- 
 gals, which possibly they may not have 
 heard : 
 
 I live, and yet methinks I do not breathe; 
 
 1 thirst and drink, I drink and thirst again; 
 
 I sleep, and yet do dream I am awake; 
 
 I hope for that 1 have; I have and want; 
 
 1 sing and sigh ; I love and hate at once. 
 Oh tell me, restless soul, what uncouth jar 
 Doth cause in store such want, in peace such 
 war? 
 
 RISPOSTA. 
 
 There is a jewel which no Indian mines 
 Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit; 
 It makes men rich in greatest poverty, 
 Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, 
 
Footsteps of Spring. 195 
 
 The homely whistle to sweet music's strain : 
 Seldom it comes, to few from heaven sent, 
 That much in little, all in naught Content.* 
 
 The first of the migratory flocks have 
 come. Is it the robins or the bluebirds 
 first, or the omnipresent song-sparrow 
 scattering his notes like a shower ? Warm 
 as the scarlet of his wings is the greeting of 
 the starling from his haven in the reeds ; 
 and ah ! how sweet the carol of the mead- 
 ow-lark from the distant fields. Again I 
 
 * The student of French poetical literature will 
 notice the marked resemblance in expression of a por- 
 tion of this lovely lyric of fourteen lines and the fol- 
 lowing prettily turned quator^ain by a singer of the 
 sixteenth century : 
 
 le vis, ie meurs: ie me brule & me noye, 
 I 'ay chaut estreme en endurant froidure: 
 La vie m'est & trop molle & trop dure. 
 I'ay grans ennuis entremeslez de ioye: 
 
 Tout a un coup ie ris & ie larmoye, 
 Et en plaisir maint grief tourment i 'endure: 
 Mon bien s'en va, & a iamais il dure: 
 Tout en un coup ie seiche & ie verdoye. 
 
 Ainsi Amour inconstamment me meine: 
 Et quand ie pense auoir plus de douleur, 
 Sans y penser ie me treuue hors de peine. 
 
 Puis quand ie croy ma ioye estre certeine, 
 Et estre au haut de mon desire heur, 
 II me remet en mon premier malheur. 
 
 OEuuREs DE LOUIZE LAB LioNNoizE. A Lion par Ian 
 de Tournes, M.D.LVI. Auec Priuilege du Roy. 
 
 13 
 
196 The Story of my House. 
 
 hear the warble which the blackbird 
 dropped when flying over the autumnal 
 stubbles, only it has a cheeriness that is 
 alone brought forth by sunshine and the 
 lengthening days. Little flutings and grace 
 notes rise from sheltered thickets and sunny 
 hollows assemblages of snow-birds, Can- 
 ada sparrows, and red -polls practicing 
 their Fruehlingslied. The white-throated 
 sparrow's silver strain I hear on every side, 
 the very beat of the spring-tide and song 
 of the sunshine. Even the voice of the 
 crow has a softer tone. From my study 
 windows I watch the sable hosts returning 
 to their roost in the distant wood. I see 
 them slowly filing by during the winter, at 
 the appointed hour, but less numerously, 
 and seldom audibly. Now they voice their 
 passage ; their shadows cast a sound. From 
 time immemorial they have occupied a 
 roost in the same wood, their numbers 
 apparently neither increasing nor diminish- 
 ing. The first squads fly over early in the 
 evening, re-enforcements arriving continual- 
 ly until dusk. They come from all directions, 
 the total assemblage numbering perhaps a 
 thousand. Above the tree-tops, for half an 
 hour before dark, there ascends a weird 
 chorus of evening, composed of every shade 
 of corvine basso, and basso frofondo. 
 Borne from afar on the still evening air, the 
 hoarse notes come to me mellowed and 
 
Footsteps of Spring. 197 
 
 subdued a fitting ave of the darkening 
 day. 
 
 Later, the first swallow races by, with 
 the first moth in his bill, urged on the 
 wider wings of the south wind the first 
 swallows, rather; for there is not only one 
 but a score coursing through the ether, ex- 
 ultant in the freedom of existence. Do 
 they, indeed, drop from the sky some bland 
 spring morning spirits of dead children 
 revisiting their homes as the fanciful Ro- 
 man legend has it? How swiftly they 
 cleave the air with their forked tail and 
 sickle-shaped wings ! We marvel at the 
 soaring of the hawk, balancing himself in 
 an ever-widening and ascending circle, 
 ever tracing the curve of beauty. We 
 wonder at the agility of the humming-bird, 
 and his power of suspension in mid-air 
 over a flower. But the hawk barely flaps 
 a pinion, sustained through some inexpli- 
 cable agency in overcoming the natural 
 force of gravity; and the humming-bird 
 every little while rests from the friction of 
 the air. Is not the perpetual flight of the 
 swallow, his unceasing motion and inces- 
 sant turning upon himself a greater wonder ? 
 
 I stand on the margin of the stream just 
 before an impending shower, when a con- 
 course of hirundines is intent upon the 
 capture of its prey. The surface is dimpled 
 by the constant rising of feeding trout, and 
 
198 The Story of my House. 
 
 brushed every now and then by a bird 
 drinking on the wing. It is a favorite 
 haunt of both fly-catchers and swallows, 
 lured by the rich insect fauna that congre- 
 gate above the still expanse of water, the 
 ephemerina dancing their joyous dance of 
 an hour. The stream is scarcely a rod and 
 a half wide. It is almost overarched with 
 bushes and trees, and abounds with curves. 
 There are at least forty swallows hawking 
 over it, all chasing above the glassy surface, 
 ceaselessly coming and going, swift as mis- 
 siles sprung from a sling. Yet not a cat- 
 kin of the alder tangle or blade of the 
 rushes is so much as grazed by a wing; 
 not a barbule of one bird ruffled by the 
 feather of another, amid all their lightning 
 turns and curvatures. It is the same in 
 their chase over a field when attracted close 
 to the earth by insects. It is the same in 
 their coursing through the air which I see 
 through my windows, only they have but 
 their fellows, and no other objects to avoid. 
 Yet even then their flight is a perpetual 
 wonder. 
 
 Sacred to the penates the swallow was 
 rightly held ; it were a Vandal who would 
 harm them. Beloved wherever they roam 
 the sky, Procne has, nevertheless, been 
 comparatively neglected by the Muse, while 
 Philomela has received the greater homage. 
 Is not the swallow's warble sweet, asso- 
 
Footsteps of Spring. 199 
 
 ciated as it is not only with the swallow's 
 beauty, but with our very houses and barns 
 and the blue sky that bends above them ? 
 Best known of all individual "pursuers of 
 the sun " is the bird mentioned in the fifth 
 stanza of the Elegy: 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed; 
 
 and his companion of the Winter's Tale, 
 wheeling between daffodils and violets. 
 Keats's line is among the most expressive 
 that have been written on the bird : 
 
 Swallows obeying the south summer's call. 
 
 Hood's simile is also fine: 
 
 Summer is gone on swallow's wings. 
 
 Gay, in The Shepherd's Walk, has the 
 swallow do graceful duty as a weather- 
 prophet: 
 
 When swallows fleet soar high and sport in air, 
 He told us that the welkin would be clear. 
 
 Athenaeus has referred as happily to the 
 bird as any of the old Greek poets in a frag- 
 ment, The Song of the Swallow : 
 
 The swallow is come, she is come to bring 
 The laughing hours of the blithesome spring 
 The youth of the year and its sunshine bright 
 With her back all dark and her breast all white. 
 
 From the Fables of Lessing I learn that 
 the swallow was originally as harmonious 
 
200 The Story of my House. 
 
 and melodious a songster as the nightingale, 
 until, becoming wearied of dwelling in lone- 
 ly thickets to be heard and admired only by 
 peasants and shepherds, she forsook her 
 numble friends and took flight to the town. 
 But, in the mad rush of the city, men found 
 no time to listen to her heavenly lay, for- 
 getting which, by and by, instead of sing- 
 ing she learned to build. 
 
 I recall no reference to the swallow, 
 however, comparable to Charles Tennyson 
 Turner's, in one of his many lovely sonnets, 
 Wind on the Corn. Not only the swallow 
 himself is there, wheeling and curveting in 
 all his buoyant grace, but the wind which 
 accelerates his speed, and the rippling wheat 
 field he loves to woo. The sonnet must be 
 read in its entirety, and to recall it calls for 
 no apology ; it becomes the more beautiful 
 the more frequently it is read : 
 
 Full often as I rove by path or stile 
 
 To watch the harvest ripening in the vale, 
 Slowly and sweetly, like a growing smile 
 
 A smile that ends in laughter the quick gale 
 Upon the breadths of gold-green wheat descends; 
 
 While still the swallow, with unbaffled grace, 
 About his viewless quarry dips and bends 
 
 And all the fine excitement of the chase 
 Lies in the hunter's beauty; in the eclipse 
 
 Of that brief shadow how the barley's beard 
 Tilts at the passing gloom, and wild rose dips 
 
 Among the white-tops in the ditches reared; 
 And hedgerow's flowery breast of lacework stirs 
 Faintly in that full wind that rocks the outstanding firs. 
 
Footsteps of Spring, 201 
 
 Truly Boileau was right in his affirmation 
 a faultless sonnet is in itself worth a long 
 poem ; and Asselineau fine sonnets, like 
 all beautiful things in this world, are with- 
 out price. No less beautiful is Turner's 
 companion sonnet, A Summer Twilight 
 an intaglio cut in green jade where the 
 bat's flitting shadow, instead of the swal- 
 low's flashing wing, imparts life and motion 
 to the scene. 
 
 The first lady-bugs, called forth by the 
 grateful warmth, have left their hibernacle. 
 The first wasps and blue -bottle flies are 
 buzzing and bumping against the south 
 window panes. I catch the first tremolo 
 of the toads and piercing treble of the hy- 
 lodes. 
 
 My first green bullfrog, too, "whom 
 the Muses have ordained to sing for aye." 
 Again I hear his grand diapason, just as I 
 heard it last year and every year before as 
 long as I can remember. Apparently from 
 the same place in the marsh, amid the 
 pond-weeds and water-plantains, where he 
 suns himself and dozes by day, and launches 
 his maestoso at night. I wonder if it is really 
 the same frog, with his great yellow ears 
 and blinking eyes, and if ever he grows old ? 
 It is the old voice from the old place, more 
 powerful and sonorous than the voices of 
 his fellows. What a fine time he has of it 
 slumbering in the ooze throughout the 
 
202 The Story of my House. 
 
 winter, while I am shaking with the cold ; 
 cool and comfortable throughout the sum- 
 mer, when I am sweltering with the heat; 
 with nothing to do but bask and bathe, or 
 thrust out his long tongue for the flies that 
 are foolish enough to think him asleep. I 
 heard him just two days earlier this year 
 than last, May 14, ten days later than the 
 first swallow to make his presence known. 
 It is said he must thrice put on his specta- 
 cles ere he permanently deserts his couch in 
 the mire i.e., look through the ice three 
 times before he rises with triumphant song. 
 He is invariably the latest of the spring 
 choristers, and at once his magnificent 
 basso completes the vernal pastoral. 
 
 1 wish 1 might obtain the recipe of his 
 spring bitters. Is it water-cresses or water- 
 plantain ? It is evident he grows younger 
 with advancing years. "The croaking of 
 frogs," said Martin Luther, "edifies noth- 
 ing at all; it is mere sophistry and fruit- 
 less." But, unlike the frog, Luther did 
 not relish a Diet of Worms ; and I am not 
 sure that the woodcuts of the old reformer 
 do not resemble the head of my friend of 
 the swamp, whose melody floats so se- 
 renely through the summer dusks. Hor- 
 ace, generally correct, was wrong with re- 
 spect to the frog : 
 
 . . . Ranaeque palustres 
 Avertunt somnos. 
 
Footsteps of Spring. 203 
 
 The frog's is a somnolent voice if heard at 
 a proper distance. One should not expect 
 harmony from wind instruments in the first 
 row of the orchestra chairs. If one's frogs 
 annoy one, he should remove his swamp 
 or his house. The orchestra of Nature calls 
 for its bassoon and its cymbals the bull- 
 frog and the cicada. 
 
 A new poet has recently appeared in the 
 Dominion. Among his many poems of 
 pronounced freshness and beauty is one on 
 the frog more strictly speaking, five po- 
 ems, for the panegyric consists of five con- 
 nected sonnets. Not alone does this grace- 
 ful lyrist and keen interpreter of Nature place 
 the frog as the grand diurnal musician of 
 spring, but he accords him a no less exalted 
 place as a soothing minstrel of the estival 
 night. I should be guilty of ingratitude to 
 my resonant friend of the swamp did I not 
 append the fourth sonnet of the musical 
 quintet : 
 
 And when day passed and over heaven's height, 
 Thin with the many stars and cool with dew, 
 The fingers of the deep hours slowly drew 
 
 The wonder of the ever-healing night, 
 
 No grief or loneliness or rapt delight 
 
 Or weight of silence ever brought to you 
 Slumber or rest; only your voices grew 
 
 More high and solemn ; slowly, with hushed flight, 
 
 Ye saw the echoing hours go by, long-drawn, 
 Nor ever stirred, watching with fathomless eyes 
 And with your countless clear antiphonies 
 
 Filling the earth and heaven, even till dawn, 
 
2O4 The Story of my House. 
 
 Last risen, found you with its first pale gleam, 
 Still with soft throats unaltered in your dream.* 
 
 Clearly Horace was at fault. The Greeks 
 thought better of the musical piper of the 
 marsh ; but it has remained for the Canadian 
 poet to chant more sweetly of him than 
 Theocritus and Aristophanes. 
 
 After the treble of the hylodes, suddenly 
 the first bee hums by in quest of the await- 
 ing flower. The first butterfly flutters past, 
 the first night-hawk booms, the first bat 
 hunts against the crimson afterglow, and, 
 behold! it is spring. "The weather of the 
 Renouveau/' old Ronsard hymned it the 
 miracle of the sunshine, the south wind, and 
 the shower. 
 
 * Among the Millet, and other Poems. By Archi- 
 bald Lampman. Ottawa: J. Durie and Son. 1888. 
 Pp. 151. 
 
XI. 
 
 MAGICIANS OF THE SHELVES. 
 
 Around the hardest cark and toil lies the imagina- 
 tive world of the poets and romancists, and thither we 
 sometimes escape to snatch a mouthful of serener air. 
 ALEXANDER SMITH, DREAMTHORP. 
 
 Let that which I borrow be survaied, and then tell 
 me whether I have made good choice of ornaments to 
 beautify and set forth the invention. ... 1 number 
 not my borrowings, but I weigh them. And if I would 
 have made their number to prevaile, I would have had 
 twice as many. MONTAIGNE, OF BOOKES. 
 
 F my rugs and porcelains are a 
 study and delight in color, what 
 shall I say of my books, these 
 manifold colors and hues of the 
 mind that rejoice the inward 
 eye ? When what Francois de Sales terms 
 a "dryness of soul" comes over me, are 
 not the genii of the library alway ready to 
 instruct and charm ? Not a myth, but a 
 reality is the fabled lamp of Aladdin, lumi- 
 nous still on many an immortal author's 
 page. 
 
206 The Story of my House. 
 
 " Un bon feu, des limes, et des plumes, 
 que de ressources contre I' ennui! ' ex- 
 claims De Maistre. With a well-chosen 
 library, even sickness loses its sting, and 
 often a good book may prove a more effi- 
 cient remedial agent than a physician's 
 draught. Somewhere among the volumes 
 there exists a balm for nearly every ill- 
 books to stimulate and books to soothe, 
 books for instruction and books for ennui. 
 Every mood of the mind should be reflected 
 from the library shelves, just as Bacon holds 
 it that in the royal ordering of gardens 
 there ought to be gardens for every month 
 in the year. Books there should be in 
 abundance that may be read again and 
 again ; books that may be taken in install- 
 ments, every page of each one of which is 
 a golden page ; books to pore over as a miser 
 conns his gold ; books to be dipped into, or 
 looked at "with half-shut eyes/' From 
 each page or each chapter of a good book 
 there should be extracted a beautiful thought, 
 as the wind in passing through a wood 
 draws from each tree a musical note. That 
 we possessed the memory of Scheherazade 
 and could remember the books we have 
 read ! 
 
 No doubt, books are the great instruct- 
 ors, though Gautier's idea is an excellent 
 one, that each college possess a well- 
 equipped ship to make the voyage around 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 207 
 
 the world to read the universal book, the 
 best written book of all. Unfortunately, 
 every one may not sail round the world, 
 but very many of us must be content, like 
 De Maistre, with a voyage around our 
 room. And wise, far-seeing Pascal long 
 ago told us that nearly all our troubles arose 
 from our not knowing how to remain in 
 our own room. Perhaps, on the whole, 
 this is among the pleasantest ways of jour- 
 neying. You have but to step on board 
 one of the numerous crafts in waiting, and 
 with no further trouble than that of turning 
 over the pages, set sail for any port of the 
 universe. All this with a merely nominal 
 price for passage, and relieved of every dis- 
 comfort of travel. 
 
 May I not, with Symonds, muse upon 
 the staircase of the Propylaea and wander 
 through the theatre of Dionysus ? Do I 
 not visit the most romantic of all castles 
 with Thomson ? and what wood so cool 
 and shadowy to stroll in as the forest of 
 Arden ? With Jennings I ramble among 
 the Derbyshire hills and breast the breeze 
 of the Sussex Downs; with Hamerton I 
 float down the Unknown River; and with 
 Higginson rock in a wherry and lounge 
 about the Oldport wharves. Arm in arm 
 with sweet Mariette, Murger again leads me 
 through the Latin Quarter and the old lilac- 
 scented gardens of the Luxembourg. Re- 
 
208 The Story of my House. 
 
 posing in my easy chair, I may almost 
 make the tour of the world in the sprightli- 
 est, most instructive company it is possible 
 to imagine Dumas pre, in his inimitable 
 Impressions de Voyage, is my guide, phi- 
 losopher, and friend. The delightful dinners 
 he invites me to, the delicious wines he 
 sets before me, the sparkling anecdotes 
 that are ever bubbling from his entrancing 
 pen ! I mount his easy Pegasus with De 
 Amicis, and exchange the blinding snow for 
 soft Andalusian sunshine. What an enter- 
 taining raconteur I have in Francis Francis 
 to explain the traditions of manor and castle, 
 and discourse upon British scenery; and 
 what lovely trout 1 catch when, rod in 
 hand, 1 follow him By Lake and River ! 
 Hawthorne raises his wand, and I am saun- 
 tering through the Borghese gardens. With 
 Jefferies I accompany lovely Amaryllis at 
 the Fair; and with Robinson I wander 
 through an Indian Garden and listen to the 
 bulbul's song. There is no dust, the 
 sun does not glare, I require no waterproof 
 or courier in these easy voyages. I turn 
 the enchanted pages, and the sun shines for 
 me at just the right angle. My rambles 
 never fatigue, however long the lane or 
 steep the hillside. I need not worry over 
 the arrival or departure of trains, dispute 
 with landlords, or bother with luggage. At 
 a signal, my ship is in waiting, ready to 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 209 
 
 stop at the port I designate ; in an hour a 
 smooth roadbed carries me across a king- 
 dom, without a delay, without a jar. There 
 can be nothing more delightful than these 
 imaginary journeys. 
 
 " The ever- widening realm of books ! " 
 Over two centuries ago, echoing the voice 
 of the ancients, Henry Vaughan decried 
 against their constantly increasing multi- 
 tude: 
 
 ... As great a store 
 
 Have we of books as bees of herbs, or more; 
 And the great task to try, then know the good, 
 To discern weeds and judge of wholesome food, 
 Is a rare scant performance. 
 
 What a sifting there must be among them 
 some day, as the volumes continue to accu- 
 mulate the mediocre cast aside to make 
 room for the meritorious ! Will there not 
 eventually be some invention to preserve old 
 books, an enamel for musty tomes, as wood 
 is vulcanized or bodies are embalmed ? Or 
 must many works now existing in numer- 
 ous volumes be reduced to extracts to find 
 shelf-room for them all ? 
 
 But to those who may be anxious re- 
 garding the accumulation of books, De 
 Mercier offers this consolation: " The inde- 
 fatigable hand of the grocers, the druggists, 
 the butter merchants, etc., destroy as many 
 books and brochures daily as are printed ; 
 the paper-gatherers come next; and all 
 
210 The Story of my House. 
 
 these hands, happily destructive, preserve 
 the equilibrium. Without them the mass 
 of printed paper would increase to an in- 
 convenient degree, and in the end chase all 
 the proprietors and tenants out of their 
 houses. The same proportion is to be ob- 
 served between the making of books and 
 their decomposition as between life and 
 death a balm 1 address to those that the 
 multitude of books worries or grieves." 
 
 What works will survive, and what 
 books shall we read? "If the writers of 
 the brazen age are most suggestive to thee, 
 confine thyself to them, and leave those of 
 the Augustan age to dust and the book- 
 worms," says the transcendentalist of Wai- 
 den. " Something like the woodland 
 sounds," the same author observes, "will 
 be heard to echo through the leaves of a 
 good book. Sometimes I hear the fresh 
 emphatic note of the oven-bird and am 
 tempted to turn many pages; sometimes 
 the hurried chuckling sound of the squirrel 
 when he dives into the wall." " In science 
 read by preference the newest works; in 
 literature the oldest. The classic literature 
 is always modern. New books revive and 
 redecorate old ideas; old books suggest 
 and invigorate new ideas," says Bulwer. 
 For knowledge of the world and literature, 
 for polished grace of diction, for elevated 
 and refined thought, and for the rhythm of 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 2 1 1 
 
 beautiful prose, Bulwer might have called 
 attention to his own essays, individual in 
 the language. The publisher is yet to be 
 thanked who will present Life, Literature, 
 and Manners in a worthy and convenient 
 form. 
 
 We read and learn and forget from the 
 classics and the modern novelist as well. 
 I sometimes wonder how posterity will 
 regard the great writers of the present 
 generation whether Holmes will hold a 
 more exalted place a century hence, or the 
 Scarlet Letter fade. Will a mightier 
 Shakespeare rise, and a sweeter Tennyson 
 sing ? And instead of sending posterity to 
 Addison and Goldsmith for beautiful style, 
 will the twenty-first century mentor refer 
 the reader to a Spectator of an age that is 
 yet to dawn ? 
 
 The multitude of books one should 
 read ! It takes one's breath away to think 
 of the titles. They are as innumerable as 
 the buttercups of the meadow. Think of 
 them ! the miles and leagues of folios, 
 quartos, octavos, duodecimos, 16, 18, 24, 
 and 32 mos. on every conceivable subject that 
 are sent out every year ! The rows and 
 rows of shelves, fathoms deep, of old books 
 in numberless editions, cut and uncut, in 
 cloth, parchment, sheep, pigskin, and calf, 
 reposing in the book-stalls and libraries ! 
 Books grave and gay, comic and serious, 
 
212 The Story of my House. 
 
 storehouses of knowledge that are con- 
 stantly shifting hands; others precious be- 
 yond price that are buried out of sight, 
 their beautiful thoughts unread ! The tons 
 and tons of printed pages, in poetry and 
 prose, awake and asleep in the public and 
 private libraries of the great cities ! They 
 are as clover-tops in a field. 
 
 ' ' The best hundred books ! " Who shall 
 single them out from the mighty multitude ? 
 It is like attempting to name the most 
 beautiful flower, the most lovely woman 
 no one may know them all, and every one 
 has his preferences. In life, art, and the 
 study of literature it is at best a difficult 
 question to point out the right way, as 
 there are numerous considerations which 
 require to be left largely to the discrimina- 
 tion of the person most concerned. 
 
 To decide on the merits of a work one 
 may not take another's opinion; one must 
 needs read, mark, and digest it for himself. 
 The reader who blindly submits to the dic- 
 tum of another rarely does so to advantage. 
 Far better to please one's self and scout the 
 arbiters. Every person should form his 
 own estimate of the merits or demerits of a 
 work. When Robert Buchanan terms the 
 author of such exquisite verse as Les Taches 
 Jaunes, and such finished prose as La Morte 
 Ampureuse "a hair-dresser's dummy of a 
 stylist," how is one to be governed in the 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 213 
 
 choice of his reading, save from the stand- 
 point of his own taste ! Because Sir Ora- 
 cle admires Gil Bias and the Pantagruel, is 
 no reason why you should do so, and be- 
 cause a Taine may proclaim Pope a pur- 
 loiner and a mere juggler of phrase it does 
 not necessarily follow that the Essay on 
 Man is not one of the brightest jewels of 
 the language. Wisest is he who maps 
 out his own course of study and reading. 
 The predication of others can not make 
 that pleasing to him which is in utter vari- 
 ance to his tastes and sympathies. "A 
 literary judgment is generally supposed to 
 be formed by canons of criticism," remarks 
 Van Dyke, "but the canons are generally 
 individual canons, and the criticism is but 
 the synonym of a preference." 
 
 Often the bell-wether leads the flock 
 astray. Carlyle would have had A Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream written in prose, 
 and declared that Tennyson wrote in verse 
 because the schoolmaster had taught him it 
 was great to do so, and had thus been 
 turned from the true path for a man. 
 Emerson was always interested in Haw- 
 thorne's fine personality, but could not 
 appreciate his writings, while, equally 
 strange, the author of the exquisite Prose 
 Idyls extols the labored Recreations of 
 North. Holmes "never felt to appreciate 
 Irving as the majority look upon him," and 
 
214 The Story of my House. 
 
 thinks the Sketch-Book "an overrated 
 affair." Fitzgerald did not like In Memo- 
 riam, The Princess, or The Idyls, and wished 
 there were nothing after the 1842 volume. 
 In Memoriam has the air, he says, of being 
 evolved by a poetical machine of the very 
 highest order. Voltaire thought the /Eneid 
 the most beautiful monument which re- 
 mains to us of all antiquity. Peignot, in his 
 erudite Traite du Choix des Livres, terms 
 the Georgics the most perfect poem of 
 antiquity, thereby echoing the opinion of 
 Montaigne, who pronounced it "the most 
 accomplished peece of worke of Poesie." 
 
 Edmund Gosse finds Tristram Shandy 
 dull; Bulwer asserts that only writers the 
 most practiced could safely venture an oc- 
 casional restrained imitation of its frolicsome 
 zoneless graces. Possibly Horace Walpole 
 comes nearer the mark in referring to it as 
 a very insipid and tedious performance, 
 though he might have defined it as a re- 
 markable work on obstetrics. 
 
 Skipping Don Quixote and the Vicar of 
 Wakeneld, and not having read Die Wahl- 
 verwandtschaften, Jane Eyre, My Novel, 
 Rob Roy, The Three Musketeers, The Scar- 
 let Letter, Charles O'Malley, and how 
 many others ! La Harpe terms Tom Jones 
 "the foremost novel of the world " (le pre- 
 mier roman du monde). So, I believe, 
 does Lowell. Wilkie Collins, shortly be- 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 2 1 5 
 
 fore his death, gave the honor to The Anti- 
 quary. The same renowned critic (La 
 Harpe), considered the Divine Comedy "a 
 stupidly barbarous amplification " (une am- 
 plification stupidement barbare) ; Mezieres, 
 another French critic, thinks it deserves to 
 be termed "the epopee of Christian peo- 
 ples" (elle merite d'etre appelee I' epopee 
 des peuples Chretiens). 
 
 "We read the Paradise Lost as a task," 
 growls Dr. Johnson. "Nay, rather as a 
 celestial recreation," whispers Lamb. "I 
 would forgive a man for not reading Mil- 
 ton," Lamb naively adds, "but I would 
 not call that man my friend who should be 
 offended with the divine chit-chat of Cow- 
 per." Again, though I myself may see 
 much to praise but less to please in Para- 
 dise Lost, infinitely preferring Lycidas, the 
 Allegro, and the Penseroso, 1 may, never- 
 theless, admire Lamb; and though 1 may 
 recognize the worth of Mezieres, 1 may dis- 
 like the Divine Comedy. All of us may 
 not care for the Pilgrim's Progress or 
 Hudibras; and some may prefer Cellini's or 
 Rousseau's autobiography to Boswell's bi- 
 ography, it is not always so easy to read 
 and admire the books one should read and 
 admire from another's standpoint. 
 
 What two persons look at things pre- 
 cisely the same ? Human thought and hu- 
 man opinion are as varied as the expression 
 
216 The Story of my House. 
 
 of the human face. " There never was in 
 the world two opinions alike, no more than 
 two hairs or two grains. The most uni- 
 versal quality is diversity," observes Mon- 
 taigne. " An opinion," says the sparkling 
 author of Bachelor Bluff, * ' is simply an angle 
 of reflection, or the facet which one's indi- 
 viduality presents to a subject, measuring 
 not the whole or many parts of it, but the 
 dimensions of the reflecting surface. It is 
 something, perhaps, if the reflection within 
 its limits is a true one." There are particu- 
 lar writers that, never widely popular, will 
 always have their particular admirers, and 
 we all of us have our special subjects or 
 predilections that we wish to know most 
 about, or are most interested in. 
 
 ff L'histotre c'est mo gibier en matter e 
 des liures, ou la poesie que i'ayme d'vne 
 particuliere inclinatio ' (history is my 
 game in the chase for books, or poetry, 
 which I especially dote upon), again ob- 
 serves Montaigne. Montaigne is so quaint 
 he should be mused over in an old edition ; 
 it is like gathering mushrooms from an old 
 pasture on a hazy autumn day. Plainly, it 
 is out of the question to read everything 
 even on a single subject, and many good 
 books are practically unattainable. The 
 Book-Worm, perched upon his ladder with 
 a duodecimo in one hand, a quarto under 
 his arm, and a folio between his knees, has 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 217 
 
 at least four sealed volumes. Each person 
 will read preferably such books as are in 
 keeping with his tastes and line of thought, 
 though he will greatly stimulate and enlarge 
 his thought by also reading books diamet- 
 rically opposed to his taste. The somewhat 
 prosy mind will be benefited by familiarity 
 with the poets; the super-poetic is improved 
 by the balance and adjustment to be found 
 in the study of works of reason and criticism. 
 
 But even then we may not read "the 
 best hundred books" of some one else's 
 choosing. " We are happy from possessing 
 what we like, not from possessing what 
 others like," La Rochefoucauld remarks ; 
 and his maxim is pertinent to the library. 
 Tastes will ever differ in books and in bind- 
 ings, in epics and in lyrics. Many nice 
 people one knows, but one has not the 
 time, neither does one care to make bosom 
 friends of them all. Or, to cite Goldsmith, 
 "Though fond of many acquaintances, I de- 
 sire an intimacy only with a few." Seldom 
 do we admire in age that which captivates 
 us in youth, and that which moves us in 
 one mood may not appeal to us in another. 
 
 The most omnivorous book-worm can 
 read comparatively little. Those who read 
 slowly and digest what they read if there 
 is time in life to read slowly may read still 
 less. There is much in Bulwer's sentence: 
 "Reading without purpose is sauntering, 
 
218 The Story of my House. 
 
 not exercise. More is got from one book 
 on which the thought settles for a definite 
 end than from libraries skimmed over by a 
 wandering eye. A cottage garden gives 
 honey to the bee, a king's garden none to 
 the butterfly/' 
 
 A happy remark with reference to the 
 best - hundred - books controversy is that 
 credited to Herman Merivale -- " those 
 books which everybody says everybody 
 else must read, but never reads himself." 
 "We praise that which is praised much 
 more than that which is praisable," is a 
 pithy saying of La Bruyere. Charles Lamb 
 included in his catalogue of ff books which 
 are no books generally all those volumes 
 which 'no gentleman's library should be 
 without." The author of that delicious 
 anonymity, A Club of One (A. P. Rus- 
 sell), the failure to read which should send 
 the delinquent to Coventry, is more of a 
 philosopher than many of the professed lit- 
 erary law-givers. It is true he presents a 
 list of his favorite books, but the list num- 
 bers considerably over two hundred, and 
 these are delicately suggested, and not dic- 
 tated in a perfunctory way; I have nro doubt 
 he has since added two hundred more. He 
 must have read and remembered ten times 
 a hundred to write the volume in question, 
 and ransacked whole libraries to compose 
 the companion volumes, Library Notes and 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 219 
 
 In a Club Corner, veritable mines of spark- 
 ling sayings, sententious precepts, and lit- 
 erary anecdote. 
 
 Dana and Johnson have selected Fifty 
 Perfect Poems with excellent judgment, no 
 doubt, though who was responsible for the 
 insertion of numbers forty-three and fifty is 
 not stated in the preface. The Elegy, the 
 Ode on a Grecian Urn, The Lotus Eaters, 
 and a half-dozen other selections every one 
 must have included in a similar collection. 
 But beyond this dozen or so of immortal 
 poems that by no possibility might be omit- 
 ted, it is safe to say that almost any other 
 anthologist would have gathered Chrys- 
 anthema totally different so varied are in- 
 individual tastes both in poetry and prose. 
 The fifty best poems and the hundred best 
 books to Dobson may not be the hundred 
 best books and the fifty best poems to Gosse 
 or Lang. The marvel is how Johnson and 
 Dana could agree. 
 
 The scholar and the student who live for 
 their books, the author, the man of elegant 
 leisure, or the bibliophile may be benefited 
 by a very large library, and share their bene- 
 fits with the world ; though there is often no 
 little truth in what Gerard de Nerval said of 
 the latter in a peryerted sense of the term : 
 "A serious bibliophile does not share his 
 books; he does not even read them himself 
 for fear of fatiguing them." 
 
22O The Story of my House. 
 
 "The amateur is born," Derome goes 
 on to say in Le Luxe des Livres; " he holds 
 the Muses captive. If books could speak 
 they would pronounce him a hard jailer. 
 The bibliophiles ruin themselves in their 
 calling, neglecting their duties to their fami- 
 lies. Such are not men of letters, they are 
 bibliotaphes. They bury their books, they 
 dp not possess them. . . . The luxury of 
 bindings is extended to profusion. It is the 
 fete of red morocco and tawny calf." La 
 Rousse thus defines the term bibliotaphe: 
 " From the Greek biblion, book; tapho, I in- 
 ter, I hide. i. He who lends his books to 
 no one, who buries them, inters them in his 
 library. 2. A reserved portion of a library 
 where precious works or works that one 
 does not wish to communicate are locked 
 up." Nodier made still another discrimina- 
 tion, that of the bibliophobe whom he thus 
 describes: "The bibliophobe would see 
 nothing out of the way in burning libraries. 
 He sells the copies that are dedicated to 
 him, and does not return the service. ' ' 
 
 Between the bibliophile and the biblio- 
 mane Nodier draws this distinction : "The 
 bibliophile chooses his books, the biblio- 
 mane entombs them ; the bibliophile appre- 
 ciates, the other weighs; the bibliophile has 
 a magnifying glass, the other a fathom 
 measure." But the close consanguinity 
 which exists between the book-lover and 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 221 
 
 the book-collector; the narrow strip divid- 
 ing terra firma from the dangerous marsh 
 ever lighted by ignes-fatui that lure the 
 pursuer on and on, is well defined by Bur- 
 ton in the introduction to The Book Hunter, 
 where, referring to the class for whom the 
 volume was written, he finds it difficult to 
 say whether he should give them a good 
 name or a bad, whether he should charac- 
 terize them by a predicate eulogistic or a 
 predicate dyslogistic. 
 
 We all know of the man who paid a 
 fabulous sum for a copy of a very rare work, 
 only to consign it to the flames on receiv- 
 ing it, in order that his own copy might 
 have no duplicate. This is an exceptional 
 form of the bibliolythist, or book-burner. 
 Among this class are included authors 
 ashamed of their first writings, authors who 
 have changed their political or religious 
 views, or who have eulogized a friend who 
 has become a bitter enemy. There exists 
 another form of the bibliolythist which Fitz- 
 
 erald has omitted from his Romance of 
 ook-Collecting the "burking " of a work 
 by one who has been assailed. I know of a 
 standing offer from a gentleman of three dol- 
 lars apiece for every copy that booksellers 
 send him of a certain volume which retails 
 for a fifth of the price. The work contains 
 a reflection on one of his ancestors, and as 
 soon as the volumes are received they are 
 
222 The Story of my House. 
 
 burned. But the book -burner is by no 
 means a modern institution, Nero and Caliph 
 Omar still remaining the greatest of bibli- 
 olythists. 
 
 I would suggest as another desirable 
 term to add to the lexicon of the bibliopho- 
 list the term bibliodcemon, or book-fiend a 
 designation expressive of something more 
 than the ordinary significance of ^book- 
 borrower," innocent enough, no doubt, in 
 some of his milder forms, but exasperating 
 to the last degree in his most depraved 
 phases. The borrowing of a reference book 
 or a volume, a chapter or a page of which 
 may touch upon a subject that one desires 
 to consult merely for the time being, is a 
 matter apart. So also is the exchange of 
 books between friends, or the borrowing 
 of a work not readily procurable, the recipi- 
 ent on his part standing ready to return the 
 courtesy, and forthwith restoring the vol- 
 ume unsullied. 
 
 Promptness in returning and scrupulous 
 care of a volume are the tests which dis- 
 tinguish the comparatively harmless form 
 of the borrower from the aggravated and 
 exasperating one. The miserly practice of 
 borrowing books, books from which the 
 well-to-do borrower seeks to derive pleas- 
 ure or benefit without returning a just 
 equivalent, simply to shirk the trifling cost 
 of the volume he covets, deserves the se- 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 223 
 
 verest stricture. Such are library dead- 
 heads and defaulters to publishers and au- 
 thors. It is this form of the bibliodaemon 
 who retains desumed copies for an indefi- 
 nite period, trusting the loan may be for- 
 gotten; and who, deaf to all ordinary ap- 
 peals and reminders, only relinquishes the 
 volume frequently maltreated when vir- 
 tually wrested from him at his home. The 
 celebrated French bibliophile Pixerecourt 
 had inserted on the frontal of his library- 
 case these pertinent lines : 
 
 Tel est le triste sort de tout livre prete : 
 Souvent il est perdu, toujours il est gate. 
 
 Each book that's loaned the same sad fate overtakes 
 Tis either lost or sent back with the shakes. 
 
 There really exists no reason why books 
 should be loaned there are always the pub- 
 lic libraries in which the borrower may ply 
 his trade. 
 
 A former shepherd of the printed flocks 
 in the library of a neighboring town relates 
 an incident illustrating a singular form of 
 book borrowing, the offender being a di- 
 vine. Passionately fond of books, he would 
 take them home, forgetting to return them, 
 and when interrogated would always find a 
 happy excuse, the store of borrowed books 
 meanwhile accumulating. "A scholar and 
 a man of exemplary character and fine 
 sensibilities, I did not wish to wound his 
 
224 The Story of my House. 
 
 feelings by an imperative demand, being 
 convinced from what I knew of him, that 
 it was a slight lesion rather than a fracture 
 of the mind which caused the delinquency. 
 1 therefore awaited his departure, and one 
 morning, driving to his home with a buggy 
 and a basket, I took possession of the bor- 
 rowed volumes. He never referred to it. I 
 do not think he even missed them. His 
 passion was the joy of first readings, and 
 ne was proverbially forgetful." 
 
 My scintillant and learned friend the 
 Doctor, who for years graced the Greek 
 chair at the University, and whose name is 
 a household word among scholars, as his 
 presence is a ray of sunlight wherever he 
 appears, contributes this supplement to the 
 lexicon of the book-lover. The general 
 reader will skip this passage; the bibliophile 
 will thank him: 
 
 Bibliodcemon : a book-fiend or demon. 
 
 Biblioleter 
 
 Bibliopollyon \ a book-destroyer, ravager, or waster. 
 
 Bibliopbtbor ) 
 
 Biblioloigos : a book-pest or plague. 
 
 Bibliocbarybdis : a Charybdis of books. 
 Biblioriptos : one who throws books around. 
 
XII. 
 
 MAGICIANS OF THE SHELVES. 
 
 n. 
 
 As wine and oil are imported to us from abroad, so 
 must ripe understanding and many civil virtues be im- 
 ported into our minds from foreign writings. MILTON. 
 
 It is pleasant to take down one of the magicians of 
 the shelf, to annihilate my neighbor and his evening 
 parties, and to wander off through quiet country lanes 
 into some sleepy hollow of the past. CORNHILL MAGA- 
 ZINE, RAMBLES AMONG BOOKS. 
 
 was held by Disraeli that liter- 
 ature is in no wise injured by 
 the bibliophile, since though the 
 worthless may be preserved, 
 the good is necessarily protect- 
 ed, he no doubt having in mind the death 
 of the collector and subsequent sale of his 
 library. For though the bibliophile may 
 stint his family and hoard his golden leaves 
 and tooling, at least he abhors dog's-ears and 
 keeps his treasures clean. La Bruyere, who 
 gave us the delightful maxim, "We only 
 write in order to be heard, but in writing we 
 should only let beautiful things be heard," 
 
226 The Story of my House. 
 
 referred to these accumulations as "tanner- 
 ies," condemning fine bindings, one of the 
 few false dogmas uttered by the sprightly, 
 entertaining author of Les Caractres. Fine 
 bindings not only preserve but beautify fine 
 books; and to the sentiment of La Bruyere 
 I prefer that of Jules Janin: " II faut d 
 I'homme sage et studieux un tome honor- 
 able et digne de sa louange. " ("The wise 
 and studious man should have a volume 
 worthy of his praise.") 
 
 In Edouard Rouveyre's instructive and 
 beautifully-printed manual on bibliography, 
 the question of bindings is summed up in 
 a sentence, fine bindings naturally referring 
 to books that are worthy of beautiful and 
 permanent coverings: "Binding is to ty- 
 pography what this is to the other arts ; the 
 one transmits to posterity the works of the 
 scholar, the other preserves the typographi- 
 cal production for him. . . . The binding 
 of the amateur," he continues, "should be 
 rich without ostentation, solid without 
 heaviness, always in harmony with the 
 work that it adorns, of great finish in its 
 workmanship, of exact execution in the 
 smallest details, with neat lines, and a 
 strongly conceived design."* 
 
 * Connaissances Necessaires a un Bibliophile, par 
 Edouard Rouveyre, Troisieme Edition. Paris, Ed. Rou- 
 veyre et G. Blond, 1883, 2 vols. 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 227 
 
 "The binding of a book/' the Right 
 Honorable W. E. Gladstone succinctly ob- 
 serves, "is the dress with which it walks 
 put into the world. The paper, type, and 
 ink are the body in which its soul is domi- 
 ciled. And these three, soul, body, and 
 habiliment, are a triad which ought to be 
 adjusted to one another by the laws of har- 
 mony and good sense." Jslor should the 
 book-lover neglect to carry out the rules 
 relative to binding laid down by Octave 
 Uzanne in his Caprices d'un Bibliophile: 
 "A book should be bound according to its 
 spirit, according to the epoch in which it 
 was published, according to the value you 
 attach to it and the use you expect to make 
 of it; it should announce itself by its exte- 
 rior, by the gay, striking, lively, dull, som- 
 ber, or variegated tone of its accoutre- 
 ment." 
 
 With regard to the book-cases them- 
 selves, their height should depend upon 
 that of the ceilings, and on the number of 
 one's volumes. For classification and ref- 
 erence, it is more convenient to have numer- 
 ous small cases of similar or nearly similar 
 size and the same general style of construc- 
 tion than a few large cases in which every- 
 thing is engulfed. With small or medium- 
 sized receptacles, each one may contain vol- 
 umes relating to certain departments or 
 different languages, as the case may be ; by 
 15 
 
228 The Story of my House. 
 
 this means a volume and its kindred may be 
 readily found. Thus one, or a portion of 
 one, may be devoted to bibliography, an- 
 other to the philosophers, another to poeti- 
 cal works, another to foreign literature, an- 
 other to reference works, another to books 
 relating to nature, art, etc. 
 
 The style and color of the bindings, 
 also, may subserve a similar purpose; as, 
 for instance, the poets in yellow or orange, 
 books on nature in olive, the philosophers 
 in blue, the French classics in red, etc. 
 Unless methodically arranged, even with a 
 very small library, a volume is often diffi- 
 cult to turn to when desired for immediate 
 consultation, requiring tedious search, es- 
 pecially if the volumes are arranged upon 
 the shelves with respect to size and out- 
 ward symmetry. This may be avoided by 
 the use of small book-cases and a defined 
 style of binding. I refer to the general 
 style of binding; variety in bindings is 
 always pleasing, and very many books one 
 procures already bound and wishes to retain 
 in the original covers. Books, moreover, 
 which are in constant or frequent use 
 should not be placed in too tender colors. 
 Volumes become virtually lost and inaccess- 
 ible in the vast walnut sarcophagi in which 
 they are frequently entombed, and lose 
 the attractive look they possess when more 
 compactly enshrined. Above all things, 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 229 
 
 the book-case should be artistic, artistically 
 plain, except for the richness of the carving. 
 Black walnut I should banish, unless em- 
 ployed exclusively for somber old folios, to 
 accentuate their antiquity. Neither the 
 library nor the study should appear morose 
 or exhale an atmosphere of gloom. 
 
 In a room ten and a half to eleven feet 
 high, five feet is a desirable height for the 
 book-cases. Besides the drawers at the 
 base, this will afford space for four rows of 
 books, to include octavos, duodecimos, and 
 smaller volumes. In some of the cases 
 three shelves may be placed the shelves, 
 of course, should be shifting to include 
 folios, large quartos, and octavos. Where 
 the ceilings are twelve feet high, six feet is 
 a better proportion, this height affording 
 five or four shelves, according to the size of 
 the volumes. By leaving the top of the 
 book-case twelve to thirteen inches wide, 
 ample space will be allowed for additional 
 small books, porcelains, and bric-a-brac. 
 It must be borne in mind that tall book- 
 cases, in addition to the inaccessibility of 
 the volumes on the upper shelves, leave 
 little if any space for pictures on the walls 
 above them ; and that, though books assur- 
 edly furnish and lend an air of refinement 
 to an apartment, they still require the relief 
 and complement of other decorative ob- 
 jects. 
 
.250 The Story of my House. 
 
 The cultured business man who may 
 have the taste but lacks the time for exten- 
 sive reading, the average man or woman 
 who reads for recreation, may derive more 
 benefit from a small library comprised of the 
 best books carefully chosen than from the 
 average large library. " Quid prosunt in- 
 numerabiles libri quorum dominus vix totd 
 vitd, sud indices per legit?" (" Of what use 
 is an innumerable quantity of volumes whose 
 owner may scarcely read the titles during his 
 lifetime ? "1 Seneca justly reasoned. It is not 
 so much the dinner of innumerable courses 
 as a few dishes well prepared. Except to 
 those who read quickly and assimilate read- 
 ily, the large library is apt to consist for the 
 most part of "uncut edges" in the lay- 
 man's sense of the term. 
 
 A good library is rarely suddenly formed. 
 Moreover, if it could be, it were not half as 
 satisfactory as a library added to by degrees, 
 the growth and gradual increase of years. 
 Again, some of the works that were con- 
 sidered a rare treat half a century since are 
 no longer a treat to-day. They have be- 
 come old-fashioned in the same sense as a 
 garment. The critical eighteenth century 
 essay in its entirety, the old style metaphys- 
 ical airing of some pet hobby, or didactic 
 wool-drawing now seem ratner ponderous 
 productions. At present one does not even 
 care to read all of the joint productions of 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 231 
 
 Addison and Steele (particularly the latter's 
 essays), an averment that would have 
 placed one under a ban twenty years ago. 
 Yet even in Johnson's day. the Rambler was 
 more extolled than perused, the publisher 
 complaining that the encouragement as to 
 sale was not in proportion to the raptures 
 expressed by those who read it. 
 
 With the increasing pyramids of books, 
 selection must become proportionately more 
 and more restricted. Equally is this the case 
 with poetry. Many of the ancient bards still 
 figure in the editions of the English poets 
 only to sun their gilded backs on the li- 
 brary shelves and seldom have their pages 
 turned. It were absurd to assert that the 
 Spectator and numerous other productions 
 of a former day will ever become closed 
 volumes. Curiosity, and their fame also, 
 would always cause them to be read by 
 futurity did not their merit preclude the 
 possibility of their ever sinking into obliv- 
 ion. It is very probable, however, that at 
 no distant day many of the immortals will 
 exist in abridged editions. Some authors, 
 like Montaigne, on the other hand, can 
 never be cut down ; their redundancies and 
 embroideries are their charm. 
 
 To our forefathers time was more 
 lenient than it is to us. Somehow the 
 days and the nights were longer, and the 
 old-time reader appeared to find more leisure 
 
The Story of my House. 
 
 and a brighter oil with which to pursue his 
 literary browsings and point his antitheses. 
 " There is a certain want of ease about the 
 old writers/' Alexander Smith remarks 
 (and I recall no one who has expressed it 
 so musically before), " which has an irre- 
 sistible charm. The language flows like a 
 stream over a pebbled bed, with propulsion, 
 eddy, and sweet recoil the pebbles, if re- 
 tarding movement, giving ring and dimple 
 to the surface and breaking the whole into 
 babbling music." 
 
 "When I looked into one of these old 
 volumes," Thoreau characteristically says, 
 "it affected me like looking into an inac- 
 cessible swamp, ten feet deep with sphag- 
 num, where the monarchs of the forest, 
 covered with mosses and stretched along 
 the ground, were making haste to become 
 peat. Those old books suggested a certain 
 fertility, an Ohio soil, as if they were mak- 
 ing a humus for new literatures to spring 
 in. I heard the bellowing of bull-frogs 
 and the hum of mosquitoes reverberating 
 through the thick embossed covers when 1 
 had closed the book. Decayed literature 
 makes the richest of all soils." 
 
 In this age of hurry and concentration 
 who has the time to wade through the hun- 
 dred volumes of Voltaire ? It is, even a task 
 to go through his anthology, Elite de Po- 
 sies Fugitives, in the pretty little two-vol- 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 233 
 
 ume Cazin edition, there are so many more 
 shells than pearls. But one's time is well 
 repaid after all, if only for the sake of find- 
 ing and holding one such exquisite bit of 
 airy verse as M. Bernard's Le Hameau. Is 
 it original, or a translation ? The German 
 poet Gottfried Burger's Das Doerfchen and 
 this are one and the same, except that the 
 latter is somewhat condensed, though 
 equally beautiful. Following M. Bernard's 
 idyl is a panegyric in verse by Voltaire ad- 
 dressed to M. Berger, ' ' who sent him the 
 preceding stanzas," Voltaire's tribute begin- 
 ning: 
 
 De ton Bernard 
 J'aime 1'esprit. 
 C'est la peinture 
 De la nature. 
 
 Bernard, Berger, and Burger ; or Burger, 
 Berger, and Bernard would at first sight 
 seem to be in a tangle. But in rendering to 
 Caesar the things that are Caesar's, 
 
 I praise my dear 
 Sweet village here, 
 
 undoubtedly should be returned to the Ger- 
 man poet. 
 
 In the case of nearly every prolific au- 
 thor some few volumes represent his finest 
 thought. I grant every one has or should ' 
 have a favorite author, one who stands to 
 him on a higher pedestal than all others, 
 an author whom he reveres and loves, and 
 
234 The Story of my House. 
 
 who must be read in every line that was 
 the emanation of his brain. But for one to 
 read every page of Thackeray, Bulwer, 
 Goethe, Dumas, and the host of celebrated 
 romancists, poets, essayists, and philoso- 
 phers, delightful and instructive though 
 they be, is a simple impossibility. 
 
 To return to the change in literary taste, 
 and to instance a marked example, consider 
 Wilson, or Christopher North. "Fusty 
 Christopher," Tennyson termed this pomp- 
 ous arbiter elegantiarum. The tables have 
 been turned since the editor of Blackwood 
 reviled the poet-laureate, and the animus of 
 the criticism on Tennyson might now be 
 applied to its stultified author. What 
 magazine of the present could be induced 
 to publish North's rhapsodies ? An install- 
 ment would seriously damage The Atlantic, 
 Scribner's, or even Maga itself. How tire- 
 some his ceaseless alliteration, his deluge of 
 adjectives, his stream of similes, his invec- 
 tive, his bathos ! 
 
 Many portions of the Noctes, it is true, 
 are marvels of imagination and erudition, 
 and some of his angling conceits are worthy 
 of Norman MacLeod. Others, especially 
 his selections as collected and published by 
 himself under the title of The Recreations, 
 are crusted over with algae of self-conceit. 
 It is the peacock who consciously struts. 
 Pepys's reiterated "I" and quaint egotism 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 235 
 
 are never tiresome ; Wilson's pompous 
 first person plural becomes a weariness. 
 They used to give us Baxter's Saints' Rest to 
 parse, in the olden school days, and I could 
 not help but think that if the saints had 
 such a horrible time, how fortunate it was 
 we lived in a more advanced period. No 
 doubt the schoolmaster might have given 
 us worse books to parse ; and, unquestion- 
 ably, we should be duly grateful that The 
 Recreations were not included. From the 
 a priori to the a posteriori would have been 
 so much harder sailing ! Has not even the 
 long-spun panorama of The Seasons lost 
 something of its charm ? Or, rather, should 
 it not be read in an old edition ? 
 
 Good editions of good books, though 
 they may often be expensive, can not be 
 too highly commended. One can turn to 
 a page in inviting letterpress so much easier 
 than to a page of an unattractive volume. 
 The fine shades of meaning stand out more 
 clearly, and the thought is revealed more 
 intelligibly when clothed in fitting typo- 
 graphical garb. Often it becomes a posi- 
 tive labor to follow many a pleasing author 
 in the small or worn types and poor pa- 
 per with which the publisher mercilessly 
 thrusts him into the world. The reader 
 has virtually to work his passage through 
 the pages and take frequent rests by the 
 way. 
 
236 The Story of my House. 
 
 Poor illustrating is even worse. Who 
 may appreciate the beauties of The Talking 
 Oak in the edition where Olivia is portrayed 
 in the act of kissing a giant bole whose 
 girth scarcely equals her own ? One must 
 ever afterward associate an oak with a fat 
 Olivia. Apparently the artist never read 
 Sir Thomas Wyatt: 
 
 A face that should content me wondrous well 
 Should not be fair, but lovely to behold, 
 
 or William Browne : 
 
 What best I lov'de was beauty of the mind, 
 And that lodgd in a Temple truely faire. 
 
 How dreadful, too, are many of the works 
 illustrated by Cruikshank and Crowquill, 
 which some profess to set such store by 
 because they are held at such a premium 
 by the book dealers ! 
 
 Nearly as reprehensible as poor illus- 
 trating is pilloring the unfortunate author 
 in the stocks of some atrocious color that 
 must develop a cataract if gazed at long and 
 fixedly. " I have been well-nigh ruined by 
 the binder!" exclaimed one of the bright 
 writers and literarians of the day ; and be- 
 fore attempting to read one of his most en- 
 tertaining volumes I stripped it of its fright- 
 ful garb and clothed it in becoming attire. 
 Otherwise one might not follow the ideas, the 
 glaring blue and hideous figure of the origi- 
 nal cover asserted themselves so, strongly. 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 237 
 
 One should always endeavor to procure 
 a good edition to start with ; it is inconven- 
 ient to change editions. You come to as- 
 sociate certain favorite passages of a well- 
 conned author with their place upon certain 
 pages, so that you may instantly turn to 
 them. The passages look strange to you 
 in strange types, and you almost require to 
 be introduced anew. With a change of 
 page the mere thought itself remains the 
 same, only it seems to have altered its ex- 
 pression. Let those who will, prate about 
 a thought being a thought wherever it may 
 exist. Some thoughts there are so airy and 
 delicate they require to be read by one's 
 self they lose a portion of their fragrance 
 if repeated or obtained second hand. They 
 should be savored by the eye and heard 
 only by the inner ear. "The dark line" 
 of the sun-dial "stealing imperceptibly on 
 for sweet plants and flowers to spring 
 by, for the birds to apportion their silver 
 warblings by, for flocks to pasture and be 
 led to fold by" is more sharply defined 
 upon the page of The Old Benchers of the 
 Inner Temple, the page where I first saw 
 it, than it can ever appear to me upon any 
 other page. Again, many flowers one en- 
 joys most upon the uncut stalk. They may 
 not be plucked and retain the full aroma 
 they distill amid their natural surroundings. 
 So that a quoted sentence from want of 
 
2)8 The Story of my House. 
 
 connection often loses much of the charm 
 it presents upon the author's page. And 
 yet, on the other hand, quotation, when judi- 
 ciously employed, not unfrequently places 
 the author quoted in his most iavorable 
 light, while forming equally a pleasing com- 
 plement to the page of the writer himself. 
 Montaigne's fleurons of citation, woven 
 from his scholastic and inexhaustible loom, 
 what were the Essays without them ? 
 limpid brooks and springs ever pouring 
 their sparkling waters into the meandering, 
 smooth-flowing river of the text. Merely 
 by the change of type, quotation relieves 
 the monotony of the page, while, with 
 great writers, apt citation lends added em- 
 phasis and beauty to the thought, just as 
 the art of damascening enriches a fine 
 blade. 
 
 Good editions are everything in reading. 
 Even the fragrant mint of Lamb possesses 
 a heightened pungency to me when gath- 
 ered along the cool, broad margins of a Lon- 
 don imprint. Not only the mind through 
 the personality or charm of the thought ex- 
 pressed, and the ear through the harmony 
 and lucidness of the style with which it is 
 littered ; but equally the eye, in the outward 
 garb with which the thought is clothed, 
 should be gratified in reading a beautiful 
 book. The printer it is who contributes 
 the finishing touches and heightens the re- 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 239 
 
 flective surface. Elia's buoyant, playful 
 graces have, perhaps, received their most 
 exquisite and appropriate setting in the two 
 little volumes of the Temple Library, print- 
 ed by the Chiswick press, the smaller being 
 preferable to the large paper edition. 
 
 It is pleasant to have some authors both 
 in an early and a late edition. If 1 desire 
 the notes, the full-page illustrations, and an 
 amplified text, 1 choose the edition of The 
 Complete Angler illustrated by Stothard 
 and Inskipp and annotated by Sir Harris 
 Nicholas. If I wish to get still nearer Wal- 
 ton to hear more plainly his birds con- 
 tending with the echo, to pluck his culver- 
 kees and ladysmocks, to smell his prim- 
 roses, and admire the very " shape and 
 enameled color of the trout it joyed him 
 so to look upon," I read him in the old 
 spelling and old font of the fac-simile re- 
 print of the first edition. Moreover, for the 
 sake of making comparisons, it is often de- 
 sirable to have an early as well as a late 
 edition of a favorite author. So subtle, in- 
 deed, are the niceties of reading they may 
 scarcely be defined. How delightful the 
 mere cutting of the edges of the book one 
 longs to read, and the occasional dip into 
 the pages as you turn the leaves ! 
 
 Of a few favorite authors it is desirable to 
 possess two copies, one in an inexpensive 
 form to take when traveling. A trunk- 
 
240 The Story of my House. 
 
 maker is yet to appear who will contrive an 
 apartment that will enable one to pack books 
 so they may receive no possible injury the 
 one thing Addison's Trunk-maker of the 
 Upper Gallery neglected. Besides, apart 
 from the friction in its receptacle, a valuable 
 book is liable to other injuries, or loss while 
 traveling. The traveling volume should be 
 small, securely bound, light in the hand, 
 and not too bulky for the pocket. 
 
 But an old book of all books for true de- 
 light! The pleasure of reading Chaucer or 
 Spenser is doubled by the types and the as- 
 sociations of the past. The foxed and faded 
 pages are like the rust on antique bronzes, 
 the lichens on an old wall. 
 
 In the preface to Wheatley's The Dedi- 
 cation of Books reference is made to this 
 fascination which is conferred by an ancient 
 font upon an ancient page. " There is," 
 remarks the author, "a delicate flavor of 
 antiquity and a certain quaint charm in the 
 old print of the books from which many of 
 the dedications have been drawn that seems 
 to depart when the same sentences are 
 printed in modern type, and we are apt 
 sometimes to wonder what it was that we 
 originally admired. The bouquet has fled 
 while we were in the act of removing the 
 cork from the bottle/' Present, too, with 
 the charm of the olden page itself is the 
 thought of who may have first turned the 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 241 
 
 pages when the book you are reading was 
 in its fresh and spotless leaf, and whose 
 hand it was that traced the annotations 
 which embroider its margins. 
 
 To revert in parentheses to the sun-dial, 
 Mrs. Gatty's monograph, recently repub- 
 lished and extended,* contains thousands 
 of mottoes and references to the clock of 
 nature taken from numerous languages, but 
 none equal to Lamb's apostrophe. So far 
 as references to the passage of time are 
 concerned, there can be none more ex- 
 pressive than Ronsard's lines : 
 
 Le temps s'en va, le temps s'en va, madame! 
 Las! le temps non: mais nous nous en aliens. f 
 
 Singularly, the beautiful sonnet in which 
 these lines occur was one which had been 
 cast aside by Ronsard from the later edi- 
 tions of his works, and was only reprinted 
 in Buon's edition of 1609. Still more singu- 
 lar it seems that the "Prince of Poets" 
 should have remained comparatively un- 
 appreciated for two centuries until reintro- 
 duced by St. Beuve. Am I mistaken in 
 thinking there is a pronounced resemblance 
 
 * The Book of Sun-Dials. Collected by Mrs. Alfred 
 Gatty. New and enlarged edition. London: George 
 Be\l and Sons, 1889. Pp. viii, 502. 
 
 f Time goes, you say? Ah, no! 
 
 Alas, Time stays, we go ! 
 
 (Austin Dobson's translation.) 
 
242 The Story of my House. 
 
 between this sonnet and Shakespeare's 
 " When I do count the clock that tells the 
 time"? 
 
 Chaucer's 
 
 For tho' we sleep, or wake, or rome, or ride, 
 Ay fleeth the time, it will no man abide, 
 
 and Spenser's 
 
 Make hast, therefore, sweet Love, whilst it is prime, 
 For none can call again the passed time, 
 
 are as fine as any of the allusions by the 
 classic poets who have festooned and inter- 
 twined the passing hour with rosebuds and 
 asphodels. 
 
 I find the Book of Sun-Dials a delightful 
 volume to take up when in a meditative 
 mood. It needs, withal, a still room and 
 a still hour to be read in, an environing 
 quietness like the whisper of the gnomon 
 itself. Then rambling through the pages, 
 the present becomes absorbed by the past 
 as you muse over the icons of the dials and 
 moralize upon the quaint inscriptions. 
 Transcribed in large Italic type, the mottoes 
 stand out with the vividness of an epitaph 
 graven upon a tomb, voices from posterity 
 preaching from the perennial text: 
 
 As Time And H cures Passeth Awaye 
 So Doeth The Life Of Man Decaye. 
 
 Often as you contemplate the time-posts 
 and their intaglios do they absorb the at- 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 243 
 
 tention afresh, casting new shades of mean- 
 ing from the sentient styles. They trans- 
 port you into gardens where old-fashioned 
 flowers and historic yew-trees grow, they 
 conduct you through old churchyards among 
 neglected graves, they deliver their homilies 
 from weather-beaten walls, and their pathos 
 appeals from many an ancient sanctuary 
 and moss-grown lintel. How noiselessly, 
 how serenely they mark the flight of time ! 
 It is Time itself inaudibly counting the 
 hours ; the day suavely balancing its silent 
 periods. They mirror primitive time, re- 
 moved from the present turmoil, when the 
 sun was the pendulum and the shadow the 
 index-hand. Associated with Nature by 
 ties the most endearing, by the golden sun- 
 shine, the murmuring breeze, and the songs 
 of birds, the dial becomes, as it were, a re- 
 flective facet of external Nature in her gra- 
 cious moods, its very shadow representing 
 sunlight, the sunlight absent where the 
 $hadow is not. The sun-dial has molded 
 itself to grace, and with rare exceptions its 
 mottoes are happily chosen, attesting hours 
 of meditation in forming an epigram or 
 shaping a poetic fancy to blend with the 
 shifting shadow. Certainly many of the 
 sentiments collated in the monograph re- 
 ferred to are of more than passing interest. 
 Their pathos and their quaintness set one 
 dreaming. 
 16 
 
244 The Story of my House. 
 
 Among the many inscriptions which ar- 
 rested me while first turning the leaves, a 
 few may be appended without, I trust, 
 fatiguing the reader. Let her or him mor- 
 alize a moment, and consider life from the 
 standpoint of the dial, now grave, now gay; 
 now lively, now severe. Though Time 
 hurries mankind it has apparently not hur- 
 ried the dials in choosing their inscriptions. 
 It is rather a case of festina lente than hora 
 fugit. Some are as terse as an epigram 
 of Martial or a proverb from Job; others 
 sweet as a hymn of Watts or a stanza from 
 The Temple. Thus, light and shadow are 
 felicitously blended in the tale a dial tells 
 on a house at Wadsley, near Sheffield, the 
 moralist preaching from a niche in the wall : 
 
 Of Shade And Sunshine For Each Hour 
 
 See Here A Measure Made: 
 Then Wonder Not If Life Consist 
 
 Of Sunshine And Of Shade. 
 
 I Mark The Moments Trod For 
 Good Or 111 
 
 has been the burden of the vertical dial at 
 the priory, Warwick, since 1556. 
 
 Lifes But A Shadow 
 
 Mans But Dust 
 This Dyall Sayes 
 
 Dy All We Must 
 
 says the dial on the Church of All Saints, 
 Winkleigh, Devon. 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 245 
 
 I Am A Shadow, So Art Thou 
 I Mark Time, Dost Thou ? 
 
 is inscribed on an old horologium in the Grey 
 Friars' churchyard, Sterling. 
 
 Sweetly fragrant are the lines incised on 
 the four sides of a stone dial in a flower 
 garden at South Windleham : 
 
 I Stand Amid Ye Summere Flowers 
 To Tell Ye Passage Of Ye Houres. 
 When Winter Steals Ye Flowers Awaye 
 I Tell Ye Passinge Of Their Daye. 
 O Man Whose Flesh Is But As Grasse 
 Like Summere Floweres Thy Life Shall Passe. 
 Whiles Tyme Is Thine Laye Up In Store 
 And Thou Shalt Live For Ever More. 
 
 Pretty, also, are the lines by James Mont- 
 gomery beneath a vertical dial in Burnes- 
 ton, Yorkshire: 
 
 Time From The Church Tower Cries To You And Me, 
 
 Upon This Moment Hangs Eternity: 
 
 The Dial's Index And The Belfry's Chime 
 
 To Eye And Ear Confirm This Truth Of Time. 
 
 Prepare To Meet It; Death Will Not Delay; 
 
 Take Then Thy Saviour's Warning Watch And Pray ! 
 
 One of the mottoes has an echo of Sidney: 
 
 Time As He Passes Us Has A Dove's Wing 
 Unsoiled And Swift, And Of A Silken Sound. 
 
 "The Night Cometh" is neatly amplified 
 upon a plate that supports a cross sun-dial 
 on a stone pedestal upon the terrace of the 
 hospital of St. Cross, Rugby : 
 
246 The Story of my House. 
 
 The Passing Shadows Which The Sunbeams Throw 
 Athwart This Cross, Time's Hastening Foot -Steps 
 
 Show; 
 
 Warned By Their Teaching Work Ere Day Be O'er, 
 Soon Comes The Night When Man Can Work No 
 
 More. 
 
 One motto reads Unam Time (Fear one 
 hour) ; another, Unam Timeo (One hour I 
 fear). Two others read, Heu Quserimus 
 Umbram, Heu Patimus Umbram (Alas ! we 
 pursue a shadow), (Alas ! we endure the 
 shadow). Eheu Fugaces is marked upon a 
 Yorkshire plate, and Labuntur Anni on 
 Burnham Church, Somerset. The shortest 
 mottoes are Redeme, J'avance, Remember, 
 Irrevocable. A beautiful stone sun-dial still 
 casts its shadow in the old garden of Gilbert 
 White, and is figured in Macmillan's edition 
 of the Natural History of Selborne. This is 
 not mentioned ki Mrs. Gatty's comprehen- 
 sive work, and I can not determine from 
 the illustration whether it bears a motto. 
 Each To His Task, taken from White's Invi- 
 tation would be an appropriate inscrip- 
 tion. 
 
 One of the quaintest inscriptions men- 
 tioned in the Book of Sun-Dials is that which 
 looks from the wall of a church at Argenti- 
 ere/near Vallouse. It was scarcely com- 
 posed in an hour, and loses much in the 
 translation : 
 
 Cette Montre Par Son Ombre Montre 
 Que Comme L'Ombre Passent Nos Jours. 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 247 
 
 (This marker marks by its shadow that 
 our days pass away like a shadow). 
 
 There is much of moral coloring in these 
 two lines : 
 
 Haste Traveller, The Sun Is Sinking Low 
 He Shall Return Again, But Never Thou. 
 
 And is this not altogether lovely ? 
 
 Give God Thy Heart, Thy Hopes, Thy Gifts, Thy Gold, 
 The Day Wears On, The Times Are Waxing Old. 
 
 And so one might go on quoting the 
 old moral, shadowed by different texts. 
 Perhaps Sterne expresses it as pithily as 
 any epigrammatist, "life" being but an- 
 other term for time: "What is the life of 
 man ! Is it not to shift from side to side ? 
 from sorrow to sorrow ? to button up one 
 cause of vexation, and unbutton another?" 
 But Sterne deals with the shadow only, 
 while the gnomon of the dial presents its 
 side of sunshine equally with its side of 
 shade, however somber the tone of the in- 
 scription. Doubtless Nature preaches more 
 truly than man. Life is not all composed 
 of shadow, nor all of sunshine ; and if we 
 but cultivate the spirit of contentment, pos- 
 sibly we have solved its sternest problem. 
 
 But may contentment, after all, be had 
 for the striving? "Whatever it be that 
 falleth into our knowledge and jouissance," 
 reasons Montaigne in the fifty-third chapter 
 of the First Book, "we fmde it doth not 
 
248 The Story of my House. 
 
 satisfie us, and we still follow and gape after 
 future, uncertaine, and unknowne things, 
 because the present and knowne please us 
 not, and doe not satisfie us. Not (as I 
 thinke) because they have not sufficiently 
 wherewith to satiate and please us, but the 
 reason is, that we apprehend and seize on 
 them with an unruly, disordered, and a 
 diseased taste and hold-fast." And, again, 
 in the twelfth chapter of the Second Book : 
 "All of the Philosophers of all the sects that 
 ever were doe generally agree on this point, 
 that the chiefest felicitie, or summum bonum, 
 consisteth in the peace and tranquillitie of 
 the soul and bodie : but where shall we 
 find it?" 
 
 Somewhere, slumbering upon the 
 shelves, there exists a golden book of a for- 
 mer century, written by a learned French 
 philosopher-pantologist, entitled L'Art de se 
 rendre heureux paf les Songes (The Art of 
 rendering one's self happy by Dreams). A 
 unique volume and the labor of a lifetime, 
 its present owner and the fortunate pos- 
 sessor of the secret has never been discov- 
 ered; and, alas! a reprint does not exist. 
 Contentment is this but another name for 
 Illusion ? is a bird of passage who, soaring 
 high in the empyrean, must be secured on 
 the wing. Numberless those who would 
 ensnare him, and innumerable the lures set 
 to turn his evasive pinion. But he flies not 
 
Magicians of the Shelves. 249 
 
 in flocks; and, dimly outlined against the 
 distant sky, he is ever flitting onward, far 
 out of range. Some one, farther on, who 
 seeks him not, perchance looks serenely 
 upward, and unconsciously charms him 
 
 down 
 
 My fair and gracious reader, is it you ? 
 
XIII. 
 
 AUTHORS AND READERS. 
 
 There must be both a judgment and a fervor; a dis- 
 crimination and a boyish eagerness; and (with all due 
 humility) something of a point of contact between au- 
 thors worth reading and the reader. LEIGH HUNT, 
 MY BOOKS. 
 
 A truly good book is something as natural and as 
 unexpectedly and unaccountably fair and perfect as a 
 wild flower discovered on the prairies of the West or in 
 the jungles of the East. THOREAU. 
 
 CERTAIN selfish satisfaction I en- 
 joy in reading a fine limited edi- 
 tion of a classic, or a choice 
 work that is difficult to procure. 
 It is like possessing a gem of an 
 uncommon color, a piece of old Chinese 
 glaze, or any rare art object. If the work 
 itself possess intrinsic value I am sure of my 
 investment, while I rejoice in its attractive 
 guise. Reading thus becomes more than 
 a pleasure ; it is an exquisite luxury. I 
 marvel who secures all the " number I's" 
 of the large-paper editions. Some biblio- 
 taphe must have a monumental collection, 
 for nobody ever sees one. 
 
Authors and Readers. 251 
 
 "The passion for first editions, the pur- 
 est of all passions," some one remarks. 1 
 confess I do not share this passion in its in- 
 tensity, in all cases, unless the first edition 
 be superior in letterpress or form, or a later 
 edition has been altered, condensed, or en- 
 larged to its disadvantage. The classics in 
 first editions, and the "old melodious lays" 
 in first folios by all means, if you can afford 
 and procure them ; Gibbon, Macaulay, Scott, 
 Dickens, and the rest of the historians and 
 novelists in the easiest, most attractive page 
 to read and hold in the hand, whatever the 
 edition. This with reference to literature 
 proper, and not to scientific works, of which 
 latter the latest edition is naturally to be 
 preferred. 
 
 I sometimes find myself picturing the 
 author behind the page. Lang and Dob- 
 son, are they as merry as the songs they 
 sing ? Phil Robinson, is he half so pleas- 
 ant a companion in the flesh as on the 
 printed page ? Bullen, who edits the old 
 poets with such consummate taste, is he as 
 jolly as the Elizabethan lyrics ever swarm- 
 ing on the tip of his tongue ? Higginson, 
 so tender and musical in his polished prose. 
 I wonder does he lose his temper when the 
 sauce piquante proves a failure ? The brill- 
 iant, entertaining philosopher of A Club of 
 One, is he philosophical enough to eschew 
 colchicum for his gout ; and, 1 marvel, is 
 
252 The Story of my House. 
 
 he enrolled among the Brotherhood of the 
 Merry Eye ? 
 
 Perhaps the author is most charming, 
 for the most part, between the covers. On 
 paper he is always on his good behavior, 
 his personal facets shaped so as to catch the 
 most favorable light. Knowing him and 
 meeting him in every-day life you might 
 find him cold, arrogant, opinionated an 
 altogether disagreeable companion. For- 
 getful of the flight of time, he might be 
 prone to argument or backbiting. He 
 might be deaf or color-blind, and always 
 late at his engagements. He might be 
 constantly straddling a hobby-horse. He 
 might be an incorrigible whistler, or possess 
 an ungovernable temper. All his petty 
 weaknesses and foibles he conceals, or tries 
 to conceal, on the printed page. 
 
 Thus, Joseph Boulmier: 
 
 Oui, les hommes sont laids. mais leurs ceuvres sont 
 
 belles; 
 Les hommes sont mechants, mais leurs livres sont bons. 
 
 Men are unlovely, but their works are fair 
 Ay, men are evil, but their books are good. 
 
 If, as has been asserted, he is the best au- 
 thor who gives the reader the most knowl- 
 edge and takes from him the least time, 
 surely the olive crown should be awarded 
 the composers of the compilations, the 
 digests, and the anthologies, often the fruit 
 of decades spent in poring over manu- 
 
Authors and Readers. 253 
 
 scripts and print Little do we consider 
 the pains they have cost. What an amount 
 of rummaging through faded manuscripts, 
 what ransacking of musty folios and plod- 
 ding through by-ways of the past has it 
 not required to produce Bullen's smiling 
 volumes from the song-books, masques, 
 and pageants of the Elizabethan Age, and 
 his other rarer anthologies, Speculum Aman- 
 tis and Musa Proterva. The works them- 
 selves of very many of the authors quoted 
 would be a veritable labor to wade through, 
 with few fragrant flowers of poesy to per- 
 fume the way. All this the compiler spares 
 us, and with catholic taste gathers a blos- 
 som here and a blossom there from the vast 
 fields of little-known song. Equally does 
 Mr. Bullen deserve the thanks of every 
 lover of lyric poetry for his collection of 
 Campion's works, and the Chiswick press 
 the tribute of all admirers of beautiful print- 
 ing for the frame in which Campion's 
 "golden cadence " has been set. 
 
 By reading Hazlitt's Gleanings in Old 
 Garden Literature 1 am saved the fatigue of 
 perusing countless uninteresting tomes on 
 the subject. He has extracted the honey 
 for me from innumerable flowers. Yet my 
 Parkinson, my Gerarde, my Evelyn, my 
 Bacon I must read between the lines my- 
 self; it is to the dull books he has been the 
 bee for me. To gather the sweets is often 
 
254 The Story of my House. 
 
 a difficult and always a laborious task. Not 
 these plodding compilers, the class who are 
 referred to in the wise old precept, the 
 source of which I have never been able to 
 trace: " Those who do not practice what 
 they preach resemble those sign-posts in 
 the country which point out the weary way 
 to the traveler without taking the trouble 
 of traversing it themselves." 
 
 Without doubt, among the most beloved 
 of books are those written for pure love of 
 the beautiful, distinct from literary ambition 
 or posthumous fame, especially when to 
 this is added a sympathetic, lucid, and un- 
 conscious style, such as we love to linger 
 over in The Complete Angler or White's 
 Selborne. Walton himself has epitomized 
 this charm in a line introductory to his an- 
 gling idyl: "I wish the reader also to take 
 notice that in the writing of it I have made 
 myself a recreation of a recreation." 
 
 Johnson has said books that you may car- 
 ry to the fire and hold readily in your hand 
 are the most useful, after all. Before John- 
 son, and long before printing was dreamed 
 of, an old Greek proverb held that a great 
 book was a great evil, and Martial wrote : 
 
 Buy books that but one hand engage, 
 In parchment bound, with tiny page. 
 
 Assuredly, the little book is a delight. It is 
 a joy in the hand when well bound, and 
 
Authors arid Readers. 255 
 
 may serve to take the place of fire-arms in 
 a public conveyance where one otherwise 
 might find himself at the mercy of an un- 
 congenial or top loquacious passenger. But 
 the life of the library were dull were it con- 
 fined to the 1 8 and 24 mos. Let each 
 book and each subject have its appropriate 
 setting, and let there be variety of sizes. 
 The majesty of the shelves were fled with- 
 out the thick quarto and tall old folio. 
 
 Apart from De Bury, Dibdin, Disraeli, 
 Burton, Didot, Janin, the bibliophile Jacob, 
 and other universally known bibliographi- 
 cal writers, there are innumerable pleasant* 
 books on books. Of such, in addition to 
 those previously alluded to, may be speci- 
 fied Lang's Books and Bookmen and The 
 Library ; The Pleasures of a Bookworm and 
 The Diversions of a Bookworm, by J. Rog- 
 ers Rees, delightfully written volumes at- 
 tractively printed by Elliott Stock; Alexan- 
 der Ireland's BOOK -Lover's Enchiridion; 
 Saunder's The Story of Some Famous 
 Books ; Wheatley's The Dedication of 
 Books, and How to form a Library, the 
 latter three volumes likewise daintily print- 
 ed by Elliott Stock in the series of The 
 Book-Lovers' Library. 
 
 In A Club Corner, by A. P. Russell, a vol- 
 ume previously mentioned, is largely de- 
 voted to books and authors. A store-house 
 of literary and bibliographical information 
 
256 The Story of my House. 
 
 exists between the covers of Library Notes, 
 and Characteristics, by the same author. 
 Books and how to use Them is the title of 
 an instructive and entertaining small duo- 
 decimo by J. C. Van Dyke, librarian of the 
 Sage Library, New Brunswick, N. J., a 
 writer deep versed in books, but not shal- 
 low in himself. Brander Mathews's Ballads 
 of Books, or Lang's recast of this volume, 
 is a most excellently chosen collection of 
 poems relating to books. Every one will 
 read with pleasure Percy Fitzgerald's The 
 Book Fancier, or the Romance of Book- 
 Collecting, a work replete with curious in- 
 formation. The French scholar has a host 
 of kindred works to choose from, all written 
 de c&ur ; for in France the passion for 
 books, book-collecting, fine letterpress, and 
 fine bindings exists to a greater degree 
 than anywhere else. It was a Frenchman, 
 the famed bouquineur Nodier, who worried 
 through life without a copy of Virgil " be- 
 cause he could not succeed in finding the 
 ideal Virgil of his dreams." 
 
 What instructive, sparkling volumes are 
 these: L'Enfer du Bibliophile, Mes Livres, 
 Connaissances Necessaires a un Bibliophile, 
 Derome's Le Luxe des Livres and the two 
 beautifully printed and entertaining vol- 
 umes, Causeries d'un Ami des Livres, Le 
 Petit's L'Art d' Aimer les Livres, Peignot's 
 Manuel du Bibliophile, Octave Uzanne's 
 
Authors and Readers. 257 
 
 Caprices d'un Bibliophile, Mouravit's Petite 
 Bibliotheque d'Amateur, Jacob's Les Ama- 
 teurs de Vieux Livres, and how many 
 more! 
 
 I know of no more fascinating volume 
 of its class, however, than De Resbecq's 
 Voyages Litteraires sur les Quais de Paris, 
 Paris, A. Durand, 1857. The contents are 
 in the form of letters from an indefatigable 
 hunter of the book-stalls along the Seine to 
 a fellow-bibliophile in the provinces. Daily, 
 through summer's sun and winter's cold, 
 he continues the chase, scenting the spoils 
 of the stalls like a harrier beating the ground 
 for game, chatting with the book dealers, 
 and philosophizing as he scans the volumes. 
 Among the many prizes which persistent 
 foragings secured was a copy of that rarest 
 of the Elzevirs, the Pastissier Franois. 
 The volume had been denuded of its cov- 
 ers, but had the engraved title-page, the 
 celebrated scene de cuisine with the range, 
 the tables, the cooks, and the fowls entirely 
 intact. "The box in which this jewel re- 
 posed, its interior in perfect preservation, 
 contained no price-mark. 
 
 " ' How much ? ' said I to the merchant. 
 
 "'Well, for you, six sous; is it too 
 dear?" 
 
 I recall few more delightful books for 
 the bibliophile than Jules Richard's beauti- 
 fully printed small volume L'Art de Former 
 
258 The Story of my House. 
 
 une Bibliotheque, published by Edouard 
 Rouveyre, Pans, 1883. His advice to the 
 collector, which terminates the preface, is 
 well worth transcribing : 
 
 "Always distrust your enthusiasm. 
 
 "Distrust the enormous prices at which 
 certain original editions of secondary authors 
 are quoted. For acknowledged genius one 
 can afford to pay generously, but for the 
 others, how many disappointments the fut- 
 ure has in store ! 
 
 "Never pay a high price for a book you 
 do not know. 
 
 "Verify the titles, the pagination, the 
 tables, and count the plates, if it is an illus- 
 trated book. 
 
 " The same observation holds good for 
 editions on extraordinary paper of books 
 absolutely ordinary. Whatman and vellum 
 require to be well placed in order to sustain 
 their value. 
 
 "One knows when he begins to col- 
 lect, one never knows when he will cease; 
 therein consists the pleasure." 
 
 A work of much interest is that of Phi- 
 lomeste Junior (Gustave Brunet), published 
 in four small brochure volumes severally 
 entitled La Bibliomanie en 1878, 1880, 1881, 
 1883, ou Bibliographic Retrospective des 
 Adjudications les Plus Remarquables faites 
 cette Annee, et de la Valeur primitive de ces 
 Ouvrages. It is in France that bibliomania 
 
Authors and Readers. 259 
 
 seems to have reached its apotheosis. La 
 Bibliomanie furnishes some interesting facts 
 with regard to the steady advance in the 
 prices of certain classes of French books. 
 "Fashion dictates her laws for the choice 
 of books as for the toilet of fashionable 
 ladies; they are without appeal. " To be 
 the happy possessor of a cabinet in which 
 are enshrined a dozen tomes of unexcep- 
 tional condition, illustrated by celebrated 
 eighteenth-century artists like Eisen, Grave- 
 lot, Moreau, Marillier, and bound by Du 
 Seuil, Padeloup, Derome, or Trautz, calls 
 for an elastic portemonnaie. 
 
 To cite a few examples of the advance 
 in French books, paralleled also in English 
 books, a copy of Manon Lescaut (1753) 
 sold in 1839 for 109 frs., in 1870 for 355 
 frs., in 1875 for 1,335 frs. The edition 
 of Montaigne's Essays: Bourdens, S. Mil- 
 langes, 1580, two parts in one octavo vol., 
 sold for 24 frs., in 1784. The same copy 
 recently sold for 2,060 frs. Another edi- 
 tion of the Essays, 1725, 3 vols. 4to, with 
 the arms of the Marechal de Luxembourg, 
 brought 2,900 frs. for the "arms." Still 
 another edition, Paris, 1669, 3 vols., I2mo, 
 a poor edition, brought 1,960 frs. at the 
 Cormon sale, Paris, 1883. It had the 
 stamp of the golden fleece, the insignia of 
 Longpierre, a mediocre poet, and the pur- 
 chaser paid for the fleece. The edition of 
 17 
 
26o The Story of my House. 
 
 1595, Paris, chez A. 1'Angelier, i vol., in- 
 fol. veau, brought 1,100 frs., in 1881. A 
 " clean and sound copy " of this edition in 
 the original calf was quoted in a recent 
 London catalogue at 12 125., another Lon- 
 don dealer pricing a copy of the same edi- 
 tion soon afterward at 60. 
 
 The edition of 1 588, Paris, Abel 1'Ange- 
 lier, in 4, mar., Du Seuil, was recently 
 quoted by Morgand who is termed la 
 bourse des limes, at 4,000 frs. This was 
 the last edition published during the author's 
 lifetime, and the first to contain th<? third 
 book. It was marked on the frontispiece 
 ' ' fifth edition," though only three are 
 known to have preceded it. The library 
 of Bordeaux possesses an example of this 
 edition filled with annotations and correc- 
 tions by the hand of Montaigne. Up to the 
 present time, no editor of the Essais has 
 availed himself of these resources, of ines- 
 timable value from the point of view of the 
 study of the text of Montaigne. It would 
 be of more than passing interest to know 
 whether in these corrections the author 
 mitigated his observation with regard to 
 authors correcting their work. 
 
 A copy of the Pastissier Francois, 
 
 bound by Trautz, was purchased not long 
 
 since by a French amateur for 4, 100 frs. 
 
 Mn 1883 a copy sold for 3,100 frs., at the 
 
 sale of M. Delestre-Cormon, Paris. "This 
 
Authors and Readers. 261 
 
 brochg copy, uncut (extremely rare in this 
 condition), cost its owner 10,000 frs. ; it 
 has suffered a justifiable reduction. De- 
 spite the entire absence of interest it pre- 
 sents, this volume being the least known of 
 the Elzevir collection, it has often obtained 
 enormous prices, but they are not sustained ; 
 it has been recognized that its rarity has 
 been exaggerated." 
 
 Among the numerous causes, especially 
 in France, which operate in the value of a 
 volume are previous distinguished owner- 
 ship, and the garb of an illustrious binder. 
 In books the habit frequently makes the 
 "monk." It is sufficient for a mediocre 
 work to be emblazoned with the crest of 
 Pompadour or to have been fingered by Du 
 Barry to make it worth its weight in gold. 
 All their legeretes are freely forgiven by the 
 bibliophile in view of the lovely bindings 
 with which they clothed their books. Of 
 recent years, as is well known, the Greek 
 and Latin classics have found far less favor 
 than they did a few years since. In France, 
 and equally in England, the craze is for first 
 editions of standard works, for rare works, 
 for works formerly belonging to some dis- 
 tinguished personage, for rare or beautiful 
 bindings, and for special beauty of letter- 
 press or illustration. 
 
 A late illustrated catalogue, issued by 
 Bouton, the New York bookseller, fur- 
 
262 The Story of my House. 
 
 nishes some interesting facts with regard to 
 the increase in the price of books in this 
 country. If we consider the rapidly ad- 
 vancing taste for literature in America, it is 
 safe to predict that it will not be long be- 
 fore rare and valuable books will be as gen- 
 erally sought for here as they are in France 
 and England, and become as well distrib- 
 uted as are the choice treasures of the world 
 of art which find the highest competition in 
 the metropolis of the New World. 
 
 Reviewing the book trade of the past 
 thirty years, a retrospect shows that year by 
 year the competition for rare and standard 
 books has become more keen and the older 
 ones necessarily more and more difficult to 
 procure. "In the English book-centers," 
 says the reviewer, "besides a large home 
 demand, the purchases for the United States 
 and the English colonies keep up a steady 
 stream outward, and first editions must 
 sooner or later become unattainable, as they 
 will ultimately find a place in public institu- 
 tions." Comparing the prices quoted in 
 early catalogues with those of to-day, for 
 instance, a copy of the Abbotsford edition 
 of Scott's works, 17 vols., handsomely 
 whole-bound, priced twenty - five years 
 since at $125, is now priced at $22^. The 
 Pickering Chaucer, then priced at $10, is 
 now held at $30. Major Walpole's Anec- 
 dotes, priced $22. 50, is in the present cata- 
 
Authors and Readers. 263 
 
 logue at $75. Rowlandson's Dance of 
 Death at $0.50 and the Dance of Life at 
 $1.75 have advanced to $75, for the three 
 volumes. In catalogue No. 2 a fine copy 
 of Purchas's Pilgrims is quoted at $175. A 
 similar copy would now command $500. 
 In Catalogue No. 3 a fine copy of the Nu- 
 remberg Chronicle is priced at $35 ; in the 
 present catalogue a copy is priced $150. 
 Based upon an experience of over thirty 
 years, the reviewer asserts that, however 
 fashion may change and this or that class 
 of books come into or pass out of vogue, 
 good sterling books of real merit will 
 always be in demand, while the first edi- 
 tions of the works of great writers will 
 continue to rise steadily in value, and will 
 be prized as long as the English language is 
 spoken. 
 
 La chasse aux bouquins is not without 
 its disappointments and surprises. Time 
 and again one misses the mark, finally to 
 secure a rare prize. A captivating title is 
 not always a safe target. Appearances are 
 deceitful in book-titles, and the old book 
 catalogues have very winning ways. The 
 two bound volumes of Les Trois Mousque- 
 taires, which I picked up in a book-stall 
 along the quay at Paris years ago, con- 
 tained a pencil drawing of Porthos inserted 
 between the fly-leaf and title-page of Vol- 
 ume I, worth a hundred times their cost. 
 
264 The Story of my House. 
 
 Fortunately, they had escaped De Resbecq. 
 Whether Edouard Olin, the artist whose 
 name figures below, ever exhibited a pict- 
 ure in the Salon subsequently, I do not 
 know. But his Porthos is a marvel of con- 
 ception and execution that would have de- 
 lighted Dumas and that would honor De- 
 taille. 
 
 A German catalogue was the means of 
 procuring me, at half the original cost of the 
 volume, a clean and perfect copy of Joseph 
 Boulmier's Rimes Loyales. Paris: Poulet- 
 Malassis et De Brosse, 1857. The copy con- 
 tains on the false title the authors ex dono 
 to Mademoiselle Andrea Bourgeois, and on 
 the reverse of the title-page, in the same 
 singularly neat handwriting, signed "]. B.," 
 is a poem of six stanzas, scarcely exceeded 
 in beauty and finish by any from the pen 
 of the author of Rimes Loyales or Les Villa- 
 nelles. The lines are entitled Du Haut de 
 Montmartre, the first and sixth stanzas be- 
 ing identical, and reading as follows : 
 
 L'aigle n'habite pas au fond de la vallee 
 
 11 choisit pour son aire une cime isolee ; 
 
 Et c'est de la qu'il part, libre et capricieux. 
 
 Le poete est semblable a 1'aigle magnanime: 
 
 11 aime les hauteurs ou 1'air vif le ranime, 
 
 Ou, plus loin de la terre, il est plus pres des cieux. 
 
 A friend and Tom Folio, who devours 
 the old book catalogues, saw this advertise- 
 ment a short time since in an English pam- 
 
Authors and Readers. 265 
 
 phlet : " Machiavelli (Nicolo). Opere, n 
 vols., 4to, whole bound russia extra, gilt 
 edges, with portrait, printed throughout on 
 blue paper (only eight copies so made), a 
 most superb set. Milan, 1810. . . . 4." 
 He cabled for it and secured it. It proved 
 a blue diamond. Within a week after re- 
 ceiving it he was offered two hundred dol- 
 lars for the work. Within a fortnight he 
 disposed of it for three hundred dollars, a 
 sufficient advance to make a large addition 
 to his library. 
 
 Many tempting and deceptive titles oc- 
 cur under the heading of " Curious" and 
 " Facetiae," but experience will cause one 
 to fight shy of catching titles and annota- 
 tions unless one knows the work to be 
 meritorious. Frequently the gold is in the 
 tooling, and the pure ore concealed beneath 
 an unattractive cover. Perhaps the wind- 
 falls are more than offset by the disappoint- 
 ments. Inviting volume after inviting vol- 
 ume will present itself when one is not in 
 the humor, thrusting itself before you in the 
 book-stalls and auction sales, mutely ap- 
 pealing to you to become its possessor, only 
 to elude you when you earnestly desire it. 
 
 But auction sales are dangerous, and are 
 apt to lead to lapses and excesses that one 
 would not commit in calmer moments* 
 There it is difficult to decide dispassionately, 
 while the lots invariably bring far higher 
 
266 The Story of my House. 
 
 prices than if obtained in the ordinary way. 
 Even those of stern judgment are led into 
 purchases they afterward regret, carried 
 away by the excitement of the moment. 
 The seductive voice of the auctioneer, the 
 passion for possession, the rivalry of the 
 bidders, and the excitement of the hour, all 
 exert their influence and combine to weaken 
 even the most stoical and wary. The fly 
 is placed temptingly upon the current, and 
 instantly it is seized. 
 
 Again, you dive into the foreign book 
 pamphlets, where a coveted treasure is 
 catalogued, almost inevitably upon appli- 
 cation to find it "sold," the prize is so far 
 out of reach. But how elated you are 
 when you do secure a long-sought prize, 
 and after repeated attempts a tall old copy 
 in perfect condition and in lovely first letter- 
 press rewards your endeavors ! 
 
 Sainte-Beuve speaks of "the smiling and 
 sensible grace of Charles Lamb." I am 
 inclined to think the latter's characteristic 
 good humor was in part due to the facility 
 with which he procured the rare old edi- 
 tions he loved. They were easier to lift 
 from the shelves in Lamb's days than now, 
 and the old book-dealer possessed far less 
 "Imperfect Sympathies " than the hardened 
 modern Autolycus. 
 
 My interpretation of Montaigne by Flo- 
 rio, "thick folio, large copy, old calf, neat, 
 
Authors and Readers. 267 
 
 scarce, 1632," and its predecessor of 1613 
 that lend such dignity to their companions 
 in old calf, were not obtained without per- 
 sistent efforts. Sometimes I think many 
 of my old books are not unlike Sir Roger 
 de Coverley's fox, whose brush cost him 
 fifteen hours' riding, carried him through 
 half a dozen counties, killed him a brace of 
 geldings, and lost above half his dogs. But 
 one's rare editions need no brass nails to 
 record their bewitching title-pages or mark 
 their place amid the vistas of the shelves. 
 
 Preferable to the editions of 1613 and 
 1603 is the later edition, the former lacking 
 the index, though containing the fine por- 
 trait of the translator by Hole. Florio's 
 strong and masterly English has well re- 
 flected the original. I regard his translation 
 as far superior to the more generally accept- 
 ed version by Cotton. Cotton is frequently 
 more literal ; but Florio, despite not unfre- 
 quent interpolations and slight departures, 
 comes nearer to the coloring and pictur- 
 esqueness of the text. Take the spirited 
 passage of the hare and the harrier, for in- 
 stance : 
 
 Ce lieure qu' vn leurier imagine en songe : apres 
 lequel nous le voyons haleter en dormant, allonger la 
 queue, secoiier les jarrets, & representer parfaitement les 
 mouuemens de sa course: c'est vn lieure sans poil & 
 sans os. Book II, chap. xii. 
 
 The Hare that a Grey-Hound imagines in his sleep, 
 after which we see him pant so whilst he sleeps, stretch 
 
268 The Story of my House. 
 
 out his Tail, shake his Legs, and perfectly represent all 
 the motions of a Course, is a Hare without Furr and 
 without Bones. Cotton's translation. 
 
 That Hare, which a grey-hound imagineth in his 
 dreame, after whom as he sleepeth we see him bay, 
 quest, yelp, and snort, stretch out his taile, shake hij 
 legs, and perfectly represent the motions of his course; 
 the same is a Hare without bones, without haire. Flo- 
 rio's translation. 
 
 Equally well rendered, and an excellent 
 specimen of the translator's style, is the 
 passage of Volumnius referring to the elec- 
 tion of certain Roman citizens as consuls : 
 4 'They are men borne unto warre, of high 
 spirits, of great performance, and able to 
 effect anything; but rude, simple, and un- 
 arted in the combat of talking; minds truly 
 consulare. They only are good Pretors, to 
 do justice in the Citie that are subtile, cau- 
 telous, well-spoken, wily, and lip-wise." 
 Florid and redundant, Florio nevertheless 
 employed his words as Walton did his frog; 
 and in numerous passages he out-Mon- 
 taignes Montaigne, his vocabulary, as Mon- 
 taigne says of the Italian cook's, being 
 "stuffed with rich, magnificent words and 
 well-couched phrases; yea, such as learned 
 men use and employ in speaking of the 
 Government of an Empire." 
 
 Speaking of Florio's rendition, the son- 
 net Concerning the Honour of Bookes 
 
 Since honour from the honorer proceeds, 
 
Authors and Readers. 269 
 
 etc. is well known. Not so familiar, 
 however, the preceding lines, likewise pre- 
 fixed to the editions of 1613 and 1632, and 
 relating equally to books. The sonnet, 
 which has no name attached and which 
 was naturally attributed to the translator, 
 is now generally thought by critics to be 
 by his friend Daniel, " of whom it is abun- 
 dantly worthy, and, indeed, most character- 
 istic in sentiment and diction," observes 
 David Main. The somewhat extended 
 eulogium of author and translator is worth 
 transcribing for those who may not be 
 familiar with it. It corroborates, withal, a 
 view regarding the increasing multitude of 
 books, a multitude increased a thousand- 
 fold since Daniel's time, that I have previous- 
 ly touched upon. Relating as it does to the 
 French philosopher, it may well be diffusive. 
 But no extended transcription of an old 
 author can stand out upon a modern page 
 with the vividness it does in a well-pre- 
 served old edition. Apart from the charm 
 of antiquity, the old edition has an added 
 virtue which the new edition lacks the 
 odor that clings to a venerable tome, a 
 fragrance as of the everlasting or immor- 
 telle of the autumn fields, lingering amid its 
 ancient leaves. Nor is this altogether fancy ; 
 the faded pages recall the ashen hue of the 
 flower, and like it they survive to preach 
 the sermon of immortality. 
 
270 The Story of my House. 
 
 Daniel's lines are thus inscribed: "To 
 my deare brother and friend M. John Florio, 
 one of the Gentlemen of her Majesties most 
 Royall Privie Chamber": 
 
 Books, like superfluous humors bred with ease, 
 So stufTe the world, as it becomes opprest 
 With taking more than it can well digest; 
 And now are turnd to be a great disease. 
 For by this overcharging we confound 
 The appetite of skill they had before : 
 There be'ng no end of words, nor any bound 
 Set to conceit the Ocean without shore. 
 As if man laboured with himselfe to be 
 As infinite in writing, as intents; 
 And draw his manifold uncertaintie 
 In any shape that passion represents: 
 That these innumerable images 
 And figures of opinion and discourse 
 Draw'n out in leaves, may be the witnesses 
 Of our defects much rather than our force. 
 
 But yet although wee labour with this store 
 And with the presse of writings seeme opprest, 
 And ha/e too many bookes, yet want wee more, 
 Feeling great dearth and scarcenesse of the best; 
 Which cast in choicer shapes have been produc'd, 
 To give the best proportions to the minde 
 Of our confusion, and have introduc'd 
 The likeliest images frailtie can finde, 
 And wherein most the skill-desiring soule 
 Takes her delight, the best of all delight, 
 And where her motions evenest come to rowle 
 About this doubtful center of the right. 
 
 Wrap Excellencie up never so much 
 In Hierogliphicques, Ciphers, Caracters, 
 And let her speake never so strange a speech, 
 Her Genius yet findes apt discipherers: 
 
Authors and Readers. 271 
 
 And never was she borne to dye obscure, 
 But guided by the Starres of her owne grace, 
 Makes her owne fortune, and is ever sure 
 In mans best hold to hold the strongest place. 
 And let the Critick say the worst he can, 
 He cannot say but that Montaigne yet 
 Yeelds most rich peeces and extracts of man; 
 Though in a troubled frame confus'dly set, 
 Which yet h'is blest that he hath ever scene, 
 And therefore as a guest in grateful nesse, 
 For the great good the house yeelds him within 
 Might spare to tax th' unapt conveyances. 
 But this breath hurts not, for both work and frame, 
 Whilst England English speakes ? is of that store 
 And that choice stuffe as that without the same 
 The richest librarie can be but poore 
 And they unblest who letters doe professe 
 And have him not : whose owne fate beats their want 
 With more sound blowes than Alcibiades 
 Did his Pedante that did Homer want. 
 
 My 1603 folio Florio bound by Roger 
 Payne, my Foppens's Elzevir with autograph 
 and annotations of Moliere, my 1 580 Bour- 
 dens edition placed in its robe of honor by 
 Derome all these my ship contained among 
 her precious stores. 
 
XIV. 
 THE PAGEANT OF THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 Hi sunt Magistri qui nos instruunt, sine virgis et 
 ferulis, sine cholpra, sine pecunia. Si accedis, non dor- 
 miunt; si inquiris, non se abscondunt; non obmurmu- 
 rant, si oberres; cachinos nesciunt, si ignores. RICHARD 
 DE BURY. 
 
 Pour peu qu'il soit tenu loin du chaud et du frais, 
 Qu'on y porte une main blanche et respectueuse, 
 Que le lecteur soit calme et la lectrice heureuse . . . 
 Un livre est un ami qui ne change jamais. 
 
 JULES JANIN. 
 
 HAVE two chairs for my reading 
 a stiff one for books I have to 
 read ; a luxurious one for books 
 I like to read. My luxurious 
 chair is of dark-green leather, a 
 seat to sink into, modeled after the easy 
 arm-chair of the Eversley Rectory, known 
 from its seductive properties as "Sleepy 
 Hollow." When I find a volume more 
 than usually delightsome, I call in an extra 
 chair for a foot-rest, so the body may pos- 
 sess the same ease as the mind. And yet 
 the delight a volume affords depends large- 
 ly upon the mood in which the leaves are 
 
The Pageant of the Immortals. 273 
 
 turned, and the printer who has turned the 
 leaves. 
 
 A fondness for reading the old book 
 catalogues is apt to prove not only an ex- 
 pensive luxury, but consumes a great deal 
 of time. For no catalogue may be hastily 
 skimmed through. The least attractive list, 
 composed largely, it may be, of works on 
 theology, mineralogy, theosophy, or juris- 
 prudence, may contain the precise book you 
 are searching for. The most attractive lists 
 must naturally be perused carefully. In 
 fact, reading catalogues is like reading 
 books even with attentive reading one 
 is liable to skip a title, or, at least, overlook 
 its real significance, just as one may not al- 
 ways grasp the true meanings of an author 
 upon first perusal. Then, one subject or 
 one title leads to another, and the catalogue 
 must be reread. Even when you have made 
 out your list, it occurs to you that half or 
 three quarters of the lot you have selected 
 will undoubtedly be "sold" ; and having 
 left out a number you really desire, you go 
 over the catalogue still more carefully a 
 third time for "substitutes." Not only 
 this, but the catalogue differs from a book 
 in that it can not wait or be put off. It 
 must be studied immediately it is received; 
 or some one else gets the advantage, as 
 some one else living nearer by generally does. 
 
 If the business you have on hand pre- 
 
274 '/** Story of my House. 
 
 vents your devoting the necessary time to 
 the catalogue or catalogues, you are haunted 
 with the feeling that it contains a prize, and 
 that you may not catch the first mail. In- 
 deed, should any of the lists contain, at 
 anything like a reasonable figure, that scarce 
 old Herbal, an ancient angling tome, or a 
 certain edition of Les Caracteres, which you 
 have long been searching for, you ought to 
 telegraph for it without a moment's delay. 
 You know Smith will read his list the min- 
 ute he receives it. He is already far richer 
 in La Bruyeres than you are, and never 
 ceases collecting them. And although he 
 already has the edition you desire, it is ten 
 to one if he sees it offered at a bargain in fine 
 antique binding he will duplicate it. There 
 is no such contingency as his skipping it. 
 He never skips he secures and exults. 
 His library shelves groan with La Bruyeres. 
 Were he rich he might be forgiven ; but all 
 his prizes have been hooked by careful 
 angling, and are a triumph to his skill and 
 monumental industry. 
 
 Charles Asselineau, in the unique little 
 volume L'Enfer du Bibliophile, draws a 
 sharp line between the true book-hunter, 
 who makes use of his own knowledge, 
 patience, and industry, and the hunter by 
 proxy, who bags his spoils through cun- 
 ning other than his own "the rich and 
 lazy amateur who only hunts by procura- 
 
The Pageant of the Immortals. 275 
 
 tion and trusts to the care of an accom- 
 plished professional to whom he gives carte 
 blanche, and who despises him ay, who 
 despises him, as the game-keeper and 
 poacher always despise the indolent and 
 unskillful master who triumphs through 
 their skill." The opening sentence of the 
 volume is worthy of Sterne : "Old . . . 
 I'enfer! is it not there that one must arrive 
 sooner or later, in this life or in the other ; 
 oh all of you who have placed your joys in 
 voluptuousness unknown to the vulgar?" 
 
 On the other hand, you have the alterna- 
 tive of neglecting your business and attend- 
 ing to the catalogues. In any case, the 
 book catalogue is an attraction and a bane. 
 If you are niggardly and only order a vol- 
 ume or two, you are generally disappointed ; 
 if you are in a liberal mood, and order a 
 number, thinking you will only obtain a few, 
 you are likely to get a lot of books that will 
 deprive you of getting others you really 
 require. Then the works one continually 
 sees that one can not afford, the columns 
 of temptations all crying, "Farewell ! thou 
 art too dear for my possessing " the Paris 
 catalogues in particular, so rich in their 
 embarras de richesses. There is a stanza 
 of Clough's that may be cited as pertinent 
 to book-hunting: 
 
 They may talk as they please about what they call pelf, 
 And how one ought never to think of one's self, 
 
 18 
 
276 The Story of my House. 
 
 How pleasures of thought surpass eating and drinking, 
 My pleasure of thought is the pleasure of thinking 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money, heigh-ho ! 
 
 How pleasant it is to have money ! 
 
 Possibly the old book catalogues are sent 
 as a lesson in self-control, and to teach one 
 to endure disappointment as patiently as 
 human nature will allow. 
 
 Not the least interesting volume of my 
 library is my herbarium. Still every pressed 
 flower retains much of its original color, re- 
 viving the scene of many a pleasant ramble. 
 Commencing with the first cluster of spring 
 beauty and white shad-blow spray, and 
 ending with the last purple aster and blue 
 gentian of autumn, it is thus a sentient 
 floral calendar a fragrant anthology of the 
 seasons. It is one of my pleasantest vol- 
 umes for winter reading, every flower of 
 which is a chapter written by Nature her- 
 self. This involucre of white dogwood, 
 for instance, becomes a vernal landscape 
 riotous with bloom, while these feathery 
 mespilus blossoms bring up the April hill- 
 sides sprinkled with hepaticas and violets. 
 This bunch of trilliums recalls a distant 
 beechwood in early May carpeted with the 
 snowy triangular flowers and misty with 
 the beech's unfurling leaves. 
 
 And this pink lady's-slipper! 
 
 Once more I trace the sinuous curves of 
 the Wiscoy and am lulled by the drowsy 
 
The Pageant of the Immortals. 277 
 
 murmur of the stream. How cool the 
 water swirls beneath the overarching hem- 
 locks, and how it is churned into foam in 
 the deep, dark pool at the tail of the rapid, 
 where 1 know the big trout I hooked and 
 lost the previous year is waiting for another 
 taste of my " cochybondu " ! It is just at 
 the base of the steep shaded hillside where 
 the sun never penetrates. If my trout 
 chooses to display his rubies and chryso- 
 beryls he must thread his way up the cur- 
 rent or float down to the meadow far be- 
 low. When I have hooked and basketed 
 him, another big fellow will occupy his 
 place in the same deep, dark pool. 
 
 It is the choice spot of the stream within 
 a reach of half a mile, and invariably holds 
 the strongest fish and most accomplished 
 taker of ephemerce. His pannier must needs 
 be large, so many flies and midges and 
 worms and bugs and beetles drift past his 
 lair, and are sucked in by the eddy into his 
 awaiting maw. The sudden dive of a wa- 
 ter-rat proclaims a rival angler, who may 
 also have his eye on my trout, and bring 
 him to bag, perchance, if I miss him to-day. 
 
 An aroma of mint, mingled with the 
 fragrance of wild flowers and ferns, follows 
 me along the banks ; and there, in the 
 swamp where the partridge drums, my 
 pink lady's-slipper gleams. The twisting 
 roots of the hemlock plunge deep into the 
 
278 The Story of my House. 
 
 pool; and with a slap of his red tail the big 
 trout rises just beyond them in the foam- 
 flecks of the eddy, precisely where he rose 
 the previous year. How the water growls 
 round the bank it has mined, and chafes 
 and scolds at the obtruding prongs! And 
 how picturesquely, too, the old hemlock 
 leans over the stream, shading the trout for 
 the last time! Another athlete and trained 
 fly-catcher must lead the somersault acts 
 hereafter; for a day at least the small fry 
 may rest secure. But, alas ! with a sudden 
 rush, my trout has wound the leader fast 
 around the hemlock's roots, as he has 
 wound so many leaders before; and, with 
 a farewell flash of his encarmined sides, I 
 seem to hear his parting message: "Multoe 
 lapsce inter truttam et bascaudem sunt! ' 
 The pressed flower remains to remind me 
 of the struggle and my June holiday. 
 
 Looking now at the pink lady's-slipper 
 from the Wiscoy woods, I am glad, after 
 all, 1 did not take my trout, however great 
 a triumph his capture might have afforded 
 me at the time. For, if the water-rat has 
 not caught him meanwhile and the maxim 
 the trout flung at me virtually precludes this 
 possibility he is undoubtedly still swim- 
 ming in his favorite pool. Granting I had 
 caught him and that a fish of equal size had 
 taken his place, it would yet be another 
 trout, not my trout which I hooked and lost. 
 
The Pageant of the Immortals. 279 
 
 The stream flows more musically and more 
 limpid to me knowing he is still stemming 
 the current, and that he regained his free- 
 dom. 
 
 This spike of cardinal flowers carries me 
 a hundred miles away; and once more am I 
 drifting down the Oswego River on a hazy 
 autumnal afternoon, indifferent whether the 
 great green bass rise or not, so golden is 
 the September day. It is enough to be 
 idling beneath the roar of the rapid, to mark 
 the different hues of the water, the play of 
 the slanting sunbeams, the undulations of 
 the wooded shores. Surely the landscape 
 needs no more. Ah, yes! just that bit of 
 color skirting a still bayou, the flame of 
 cardinal flowers and their reflected images 
 below. What an illustrated volume! the 
 imperial folio of the seasons! And what a 
 succession of illuminated pages it discloses 
 from the rubric and the preface until the last 
 leaf is turned! every subject indexed and 
 paged by the grand author, Nature; its types 
 as fresh as if they had only run through one, 
 instead of thousands of editions. 
 
 In dreams do I behold in all the great 
 libraries the procession of the books that 
 nightly emerge from the seclusion of their 
 shelves countless flowers from the Muse's 
 hill and garlands from the meadows of the 
 classics. At a signal from the most anti- 
 quated tome, I see a sudden movement 
 
280 The Story of my House. 
 
 among their ranks, and hear a rustling of 
 innumerable leaves, as the souls of the im- 
 mortals are quickened into life, and the 
 spirits of old authors assemble for converse. 
 Platoons of majestic folios, some in calf, 
 some in sheep, and some in stamped pig- 
 skin appear, columns of venerable and vel- 
 lumed quartos, tiers of tall octavos, troops 
 of lovely Elzevirs, Aldines, and sedate black- 
 letter editions file by with measured tread. 
 Volumes black with age move with step as 
 elastic as those clothed in more modern 
 garb. Indeed, old and young seem to be 
 indiscriminately mingled, without regard 
 to costume or richness of attire. Only, I 
 observe that the procession is composed 
 solely of the dead. 
 
 I notice, moreover, that it is only the 
 books of real merit or great renown that 
 are called to take part in the pageant; and 
 that the participants vary with each suc- 
 ceeding night, appearing entirely without 
 regard to chronological order, though all 
 the beautiful world of belles-lettres, philoso- 
 phy, and science that has charmed and 
 instructed mankind throughout the ages, 
 forms the processional. Thus a copy of 
 Plato and a first folio of Shakespeare pass 
 by, side by side, followed by The Canter- 
 bury Tales and the Faerie Queen, hand in 
 hand. Or is it Goethe's Faust and Plu- 
 tarch's Lives ? It is sometimes difficult to 
 
The Pageant of the Immortals. 281 
 
 catch the titles, so numerous are the vol- 
 umes that take part. As the eye becomes 
 accustomed to the dimness, the titles are 
 more easily traced, and I distinctly recog- 
 nize Horace and Virgil, Milton and Keats, 
 Herrick and Hood, Montaigne and Pascal, 
 Lamb, Thackeray, Cervantes, Moliere, Theo- 
 critus, Dante, Schiller, Balzac, Dumas the 
 Elder, Pope, Burns, Goldsmith, Addison, 
 Hawthorne, Bulwer, Dickens, Irving until 
 the eye is dazed at the multitudinous names. 
 Night after night the procession forms and 
 the participants vary there are so many 
 volumes to take part, so many that may 
 not be overlooked. Richard Jefferies, his 
 beautiful thoughts scarcely dry on the page, 
 I note has just been called forth from the 
 shelves, and Thoreau has already marched 
 with Walton and Gilbert White. 
 
 Although not assisting in the pageant 
 itself, there are, I perceive, numerous vol- 
 umes that, nevertheless, appear to be in 
 communication with such of their compan- 
 ions as have responded to the signal. Beck- 
 oning glances from those below are an- 
 swered every now and then by faint 
 responses from the volumes 'above, their 
 leaves as yet unfoxed by Time. Of these 
 latter there are many, and I soon perceive 
 that they bear the names of living authors 
 of note who must wait until their earthly 
 life is spent ere they too may answer the 
 
282 The Story of my House. 
 
 roll-call and take rank with the immortals. 
 How, apparently without volition of their 
 own, as if touched by an unseen hand, the 
 leaves of In Memoriam rustle and the pages 
 of The Autocrat flutter ! 
 
 The only participants I see that seem to 
 be out of place assemble once a year in 
 solemn conclave, conversing, it is true, but 
 wearing a dejected look. Countless vol- 
 umes, these, principally first and rare edi- 
 tions, many bound in lovely leathers, ex- 
 quisitely gilded, lettered, and tooled, bear- 
 ing innumerable stamps and monograms, 
 coats-of-arms, and ancient book-plates. 
 Many of them I recognize as having seen 
 before in high spirits, discoursing with their 
 companions during the hour of the nightly 
 pageants. This yearly and unusually large 
 gathering, characterized by its extreme grav- 
 ity, puzzled me at first, until I discovered it 
 was composed of the ghosts of borrowed 
 books, unhappy in their covers, lamenting 
 the loss of their former possessors who had 
 once cherished them so fondly. I see, 
 too, Boccaccio's II Decamerone, Brantome's 
 Dames Galantes, Balzac's Physiologic du 
 Mariage, La Fontaine's Contes with the 
 Eisen, De Hopge, and Fragonard plates, and 
 in yonder soiled, foul-smelling tome 1 per- 
 ceive the smutty old satirist and Doctor- 
 Franciscan Rabelais. Why he should be 
 called out at all, seems a mystery, his pitch 
 
The Pageant of the Immortals. 283 
 
 is so defiling, and his boluses are so nause- 
 ating. 
 
 Some participants there are which at 
 first baffled my comprehension. These, 
 though perfectly composed themselves and 
 mingling freely with their fellows, never- 
 theless appear to excite an inordinate curi- 
 osity among their companions which is 
 never gratified. The titles they bear are 
 plainly discernible ; but only when the 
 march becomes sufficiently animated to 
 cause a violent fluttering of the leaves can I 
 catch a glimpse of the author's name on the 
 title-page. Then I discover these numer- 
 ous tomes invariably reveal the name of a 
 most voluminous and versatile author, whose 
 personality it is impossible to fathom, an 
 author writing with equal facility in all lan- 
 guages and on all topics, in poetry and in 
 prose, persistently preserving his incognito 
 under the name of "Anon." 
 
 I see, also, participating in the pageant 
 semi-annually, and on these occasions di- 
 recting, as it were, the imposing march of 
 the volumes, numerous men of middle and 
 advanced age that seem to exhale an odor 
 of musty tomes. Occasionally these pause 
 in their march before some one of the shelves 
 to take down a volume which I have not 
 before seen in the procession, handling it 
 with reverential care, as if conscious of the 
 gems it enshrined. Sometimes it is a vol- 
 
284 The Story of my House. 
 
 ume by a living author of note ; again it is 
 an encyclopaedia or concordance, or a special 
 number of some dusty periodical that has 
 long lain unopened. On inquiry of my in- 
 formant, I learned that this human element 
 consists of the painstaking custodians who 
 had the volumes in keeping, the scholarly 
 and unappreciated librarians who devoted 
 so much labor to the cataloguing and classi- 
 fication of their charges. 
 
 Abruptly close the clasps of the most 
 venerable tome. Again I hear the rustling 
 of pages and folding of covers, as each 
 volume returns to its accustomed place 
 and once more sinks into hallowed slumber. 
 The librarian of one of the great libraries 
 where the nightly pageant forms scouted 
 the idea of his charges leaving their retreats. 
 " Would I not hear them? besides the 
 dust remains undisturbed ! " he replied. 
 But a dead author makes no noise and 
 leaves no tell-tale traces when he quits his 
 tenement of print. Books, so eminently 
 human, in the natural course of things must 
 have their ghosts. Of course, the librari- 
 an's candle would dissipate them, as mists 
 are dispersed by the sun. 
 
EPILOGUE. 
 
 Was ich besitze, seh' ich wie im Weiten, 
 
 Und was verschwand, wird mir zu Wirklichkeiten. 
 
 What I possess, I see far distant lying, 
 And what I lost, grows real and undying. 
 
 GOETHE, FAUST. 
 
 In the hearts of most of us there is always a desire 
 for something beyond experience. Hardly any of us 
 but have thought, Some day I will go 0:1 a long voy- 
 age ; but the years go by and still we have not sailed. 
 RICHARD JEFFERIES, THE OPEN AIR. 
 
 more the spring, the sun- 
 shine, and the youth of the year. 
 As much of contentment, per- 
 haps, as the majority may find 
 within the confines of brick and 
 stone my house has yielded me throughout 
 the long months of winter. Grateful I am 
 for the comfort it has afforded its warmth, 
 its luxury, its cheer. Yet ever with the re- 
 turn of spring and the song of birds, the 
 house becomes merely secondary to the 
 grounds, the garden, and the charms of 
 external nature. 
 
286 The Story of my House. 
 
 Again I lounge on the grass-plot over- 
 looking the river. Once more 1 watch the 
 sparkle of the water and inhale the scent 
 of the wild honeysuckle, sentient with the 
 sweet breath of the summer. The bees 
 hum, the wood-dove calls, the soothing 
 roar of the rapids rises and falls. Again, 
 through the morning haze, I note the 
 pleasure craft idling on the breast of the 
 river; while yonder, her painted canvas 
 unfurled, a strange craft is slowly rounding 
 a curve of the shore. 
 
 Did I say my ship had come ? Alas ! 
 the wood-dove only murmured in his 
 dream, and my ship sailed past to deposit 
 her precious stores at the harbor of my 
 more fortunate neighbor. 
 
 My ship was, after all, only one of the 
 castles in Spain that we are always build- 
 ing and " these are but my fantasies." 
 
 

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