Mrs. Deland’s first productions were in verse, and an idea as to their spontaneity may be gathered from the fact that several of the poems which appeared under the title of “In An Old Garden” were originally jotted down upon the leaves of a market-book, to be left in the hands of a friend whose sympathy and belief awakened the first sense of power, and to whom the volume was dedicated. One of these prosaic bits of ruled paper is still in existence. It bears the penciled words of “The Clover,” and, by way of illustration, a graceful spray of the flower, suggestively traced over all, as if thrown upon the page.
When the Delands first went to Kennebunkport, it was a little fishing village of the most primitive kind, and life there, in the summer time, was refreshingly simple and unconstrained. A cottage was selected within a stone’s throw of the river, and Mr. Deland’s yacht, with its picturesque Venetian-red sails, became a feature of the scene. A disused barn, in a nook among the hills, was found to possess a charming outlook, and was immediately turned into a study. In this retreat “Sidney” was written. The glory of the garden proved a thing to be remembered, and its mistress was never happier than when delving among her treasures. Kennebunkport has grown into a popular summer resort, with its hordes of transient visitors, its countless hotels and boarding-houses; but the Delands pass their days in much the same fashion as when the pleasures of the river and the charm of the surrounding country seemed to belong to them alone.
That our authoress still counts her garden the most fascinating spot on earth, may be gathered from her own words:—“I am rather fond of rising at five o’clock in the morning, and of going out to weed when every blade of grass and every leaf is beaded with dew; and if the tide is high, and the sun comes shining over the hills on the wide blue river—weeding is an enchanting occupation.”
Lucia Purdy.
F. MARION CRAWFORD
F. MARION CRAWFORD
AT SORRENTO
To most people who have travelled in the south of Italy the name of Sorrento recalls one of the loveliest places in the world, which has been so often and so well described that it forms part of the mental picture-gallery even of those who have never been there. We all seem to know the cheerful little town, perched high above the glorious bay, and crowded with tourists during more than half the year. On any bright morning, especially in early spring, the tiny shops in the principal street fairly swarm with strangers, to whom polite and polyglot dealers sell ornaments of tortoise-shell and lava, silk sashes which will look like impressionist rainbows under sober English skies, and endless boxes and book-shelves of inlaid woods, destined to fall to pieces under the fiery breath of the American furnace. In contrast to these frivolous travellers one may also see the conscientious Germans, whose long-saved pence are thriftily expended, seeking out every possible and impossible haunt of Tasso’s ghost, with the aid of Baedeker, the apostle of modern travel.
Comparatively few of this constantly changing company ever think of taking the side street which runs between the high-road to Castellamare and the sea, and it is possible to spend some time at Sorrento without having seen the home of Marion Crawford at all. Follow this side street, called the “rota,” because it curves like the rim of a wheel, and you will find yourself presently going back toward Naples, shut in on either hand by the high walls of villas and gardens, over which the orange and lemon and olive trees look down into the dusty lane. Just across the boundary line between Sorrento and the village of Sant’ Agnello, named after a martial abbot who is said to have fought the Turks, as many a churchman did in his time, there stands a sedate old inn, the Cocumella, or Little Gourd, which is a complete contrast to the two great hotels in the larger town. It was once the property of the Jesuits, and the King Ferdinand of Naples who was Nelson’s friend, nobly generous with the belongings of others, after the manner of kings, gave it, with the adjoining church, to the forefather of its present owner. The house has been an inn ever since, but the title to the church has never been settled, and the building is kept in repair by the landlord as a sort of courtesy to Heaven. To this old-fashioned inn many Italians and quiet English families come for the season, and it was in a cave or grotto at the foot of its garden, which slopes toward the cliff, whence there is a steep descent through the rocks to the sea, that Mr. Crawford wrote “To Leeward” and “Saracinesca,” before he married and bought his present house.