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In A London Garden
by
If a general principle of omission and selection for a London garden could be formulated, it would probably run as follows–choose cottage-garden things and avoid villa-garden things. In this way you will get all that is simple and sweet-scented and easy of cultivation, and nothing which is formal and perky. There are men who at present do earn large salaries by making gardens perky. The pity of it!
I have myself seen a long bed covered with things of different coloured foliage in geometrical patterns. “You may see as good Sights, many times, in Tarts.” Thank you, my Lord Verulam, for those words. Looking at such a bed one did not see the flowers only. The eye of imagination lingered on all that must have conduced to its preparation–all the pegs, and string, and perspiration, and misplaced cleverness. A garden may easily be over-educated, and that which is good in itself may suffer from improvement.
And that reminds me. You do not, perhaps, know the story of
THE GIRL WHO WENT BACK
There was once a girl whose name was Rose, and she was rather pretty and rather clever. She was not very pretty or very clever, but everybody said she was very sweet. She had great advantages. Her papa was a wise man. Her mamma–well, her mamma had the best intentions and was troubled with ambition. But they both loved Rose.
The ambitious mamma said to the wise papa: “Rose is now seventeen years old. She has faults which must be eradicated. She has good qualities which must be enhanced. The last year of her education must be peculiarly strenuous.”
“As how?” said the wise papa.
“Well, I do not quite like the way she speaks. Her voice is pleasant in quality, and you can generally understand her; but she slurs her words and she is just a little weak on the letter ‘r’. She must be made to pay far more attention to her personal appearance. Her waist is not as small as it might be; and her complexion–but these are not things which you will require to understand. She must learn German thoroughly. A smattering is no use. She must not be allowed to have her own way about the violin. Arithmetic is a very weak point with her. Are you attending?”
The wise papa opened his eyes, and said that he had heard every word, and that she was quite certain to be right, and that he would leave it to her.
Rose had no ambition and no wisdom. She liked play. She liked real music. She liked dancing. But as she was quite good, she did what she was told. Many tutors came about her, and she worked early and late. Her mother confided to her those secrets which should add to her beauty.
The elocution master was quite pleased with her. She learned to ar-tic-u-late her words and to speak dis-tinct-ly. She pronounced every “r” as if it had been a coffee-mill. It was a treat to listen to her.
Her proficiency in foreign languages was really remarkable.
Her music teacher said that she had improved enormously in technique and in taste. Her playing on the violin was a mixture of gymnastics and conjuring tricks. She learned to speak slightingly of melody. She understood advanced orchestration, and pronounced Tschaikowsky correctly. She occasionally annoyed people by giving Chopin the Russian pronunciation.
Her waist became smaller. You might have thought that her long hours of study would have made her pale, but there was always a delicate blush on either cheek-bone, except when she had just washed her face. Her hair became a work of art. It was marvellously arranged.
The college of domestic-training found Rose its most apt pupil. She could cook. She could housekeep. Her arithmetic was unfailing. She could detect at once the mistake in the tradesman’s account, and she could get the right note of asperity into her voice in speaking to him about it. “Is it not rather an extraordinary coincidence that these frequent errors are always in your own favour?” This was obviously the kind of woman that a sensible man would be glad to marry. She was a highly developed helpmeet.