Perhaps it is to give us an idea of the permanence of what “eye hath not seen” beyond, that its glories are described in terms of jewels; and yet so perversely is one made that it is the very fragility that endears here below—a sense of the fleeting moment that gives ecstasy its finest edge. No, this limited humanity of ours cannot conceive the infinitude. It is only with those perceptions which transcend the senses that one gets a gleam, a hint, a possibility of once understanding. The restless mind of man for ever demands and creates change, but the soul aspires to immutability.
SUMMER
XXI
END OF SPRING, SUMMER PLANS
The last day of May. After the usual “contrariness” of life we have spent the hot span in London, and returned here to find that ungenial nor’west wind blowing in upon us apparently over the same icebergs as a month ago. We think with wails of regret of the long, golden, balmy garden-days we missed; of the full glory of the Azaleas; of those splendours of Rose Tulips which we should have enjoyed, radiant in the sunshine, instead of seeing them yawn their lives away in a hot town drawing-room. And the Florentina Alba Irises, those delicate, fragrant, stately things that look as if they were compounded of cobweb and spun crystal and moonlit snow—it takes but a day to show them in their beauty and another to wilt them—we have missed their lovely hour too, of course. On long, long stems, the Iris Siberica are congregating a little grove of buds in the Blue Border; only two curving purple darlings having outrun the rest. We shall miss them, for the fates have decreed that we are to leave the Earthly Paradise in a day or two once more, and that for the flat horizons of Lancashire. Well, the best of the Spring, early and late, is over, and we do not grudge these intermediary days so much, though we wonder how the bedding out will get on without our stimulating presence. We shall not even have a finger in the “Cherry-Pie.” Lengthy plans will have to be made. The “Miss Wilmott” Verbena must replace, by their delicate rose, the blue of the Myosotis carpet as well as the wonders of the many-hued Darwins, in the two centre beds of the Dutch Garden. And in the border beds we project a fine gathering of Antirrhinums shading from crimson, through Firefly and Rose-Dorée, to palest pink.
The terrace immediately under the house runs, according to our invariable summer programme, to cool colours and sweet scents. Under the dining-room and drawing-room windows, besides the transient prospect of the White Lilies, there are to bloom ‹until the frost lays waste› Heliotrope and Nicotiana, with pale pink Ivy-leaf Geranium to contrast with the mauve and purple, and blue Lobelia to rim the outer border of White Pinks. Against the terrace wall, between the tall Madonna Lilies, which show good promise, and the Polyantha Roses, red and white, with the thick edging of “Mrs. Sinkins,” Lobelia and Petunia shall spread. The pots will bear their customary summer burthen of rose Ivy-leaf Geraniums, with Lobelia too, and the Zonals. We like them to flaunt against the moor.
Below, in the Blue Border, the Delphiniums and the Anchusas, the great old-established White Rose bushes, the steel blue Thistle, must make what show they can over the annuals—Nigella, Gypsophila and Nemophila—not forgetting the kind Campanulas, so dear, so faithful, so hardy! In fine contrast, on the other side of the grass walk, the Dorothy Perkins hedge will spread its vivid masses, and fling out its irrepressible garlands over the border of bright blue Nemophila we have had the audacity to sow.