"And—and was he an ancestor of Dr. Samuel's?" asked Rose, humbly.
"Why, darling, you are really quite ignorant!" cried Hildegarde, laughing. "How delightful to find things that you don't know! No, he had no h in his name,—at least, it had been left out; but he came originally from the Johnstones of Annandale. Think of it! he may have been a cousin of Jock Johnstone the Tinkler, without knowing it. Well, his father died when he was little, and his mother married a brick-layer; and Ben used to carry hods of mortar up ladders,—oh me! what a strange world it is! By-and-by he was made Laureate,—the first Laureate,—and he was very great and glorious, and wrote masques and plays and poems, and quarrelled with Inigo Jones—no! I can't stop to tell you who he was," seeing the question in Rose's eyes,—"and grew very fat. But when he was old they neglected him, poor dear! and when he died he was buried standing up straight, in Westminster Abbey; and his friend Jack Young paid a workman eighteenpence to carve on a stone 'O Rare Ben Jonson!' and there it is to this day."
She paused for breath; but Rose said nothing, seeing that more was coming. "But the best of all," continued Hildegarde, "was his visit to Drummond of Hawthornden. Oh, Rose, that was so delightful!"
"Tell me about it!" said Rose, softly. "Not that I know who he was; but his name is a poem in itself."
"Isn't it?" cried Hildegarde. "He was a poet too, a Scottish poet, living in a wonderful old house—"
"Not 'caverned Hawthornden,' in 'Lovely Rosabelle'?" cried Rose, her eyes lighting up with new interest.
"Yes!" replied Hildegarde, "just that. Do you know why it is 'caverned'? That must be another story. Remind me to tell you when we are doing our hair to-night. But now you must hear about Ben. Well, he went on a walking tour to Scotland, and one of his first visits was to William Drummond, with whom he had corresponded a good deal. Drummond was sitting under his great sycamore-tree, waiting for him, and at last he saw a great ponderous figure coming down the avenue, flourishing a huge walking-stick. Of course he knew who it was; so he went forward to meet him, and called out, 'Welcome, welcome, royal Ben!' 'Thank ye, thank ye, Hawthornden!' answered Jonson; and then they both laughed and were friends at once."
"Hildegarde, where do you find all these wonderful things?" cried Rose, in amazement. "That is delightful, enchanting. And for you to call yourself ignorant! Oh!"
"There is a life of Drummond at home," said Hildegarde, simply. "Of course one reads lovely things,—there is no merit in that; and the teasel still flaunts. But I do feel better. That is just my baseness, to be glad when you don't know things, you dearest! But do just look at these sweet-peas! I have picked all these,—pecks! bushels!—and there are as many as ever. Don't you think we have enough flowers, Rosy?"
