CONTENTS

I. [DEDICATION]
II. [THE GARDEN OF LIFE—INTRODUCTORY]
III. [IN PRAISE OF GOVERNESSES]
IV. [ON GOING TO THE PLAY.]
V. [READING BOOKS.]
VI. [HEARING MUSIC]
VII. [RECEIVING LETTERS]
VIII. [NEW FRIENDS AND OLD.]
IX. [OTHER FRIENDSHIPS.]
X. [A HOTEL SITTING-ROOM]
XI. [IN PRAISE OF COURTSHIP]
XII. [KNOWING ONE'S MIND]
XIII. [AGAINST TALKING]
XIV. [IN PRAISE OF SILENCE]
XV. [THE BLAME OF PORTRAITS]
XVI. [SERE AND YELLOW—INTERLUDE]
XVII. [A STAGE JEWEL]
XVIII. [MY BICYCLE AND I]
XIX. [PUZZLES OF THE PAST]
XX. [MAKING PRESENTS]
XXI. [GOING AWAY]
XXII. [COMING BACK]
XXIII. [LOSING ONE'S TRAIN]
XXIV. [THE HANGING GARDENS—VALEDICTORY]

HORTUS VITAE.

THE GARDEN OF LIFE

(INTRODUCTORY)

"Cela est bien dit," répondit Candide;
"mais il faut cultiver notre jardin."
—Romans de Voltaire.

This by no means implies that the whole of life is a garden or could be made one. I am not sure even that we ought to try. Indeed, on second thoughts, I feel pretty certain that we ought not. Only such portion of life is our garden as lies, so to speak, close to our innermost individual dwelling, looked into by our soul's own windows, and surrounded by its walls. A portion of life which is ours exclusively, although we do occasionally lend its key to a few intimates; ours to cultivate just as we please, growing therein either pistachios and dwarf lemons for preserving, like Voltaire's immortal hero, or more spiritual flowers, "sweet basil and mignonette," such as the Lady of Epipsychidion sent to Shelley; kindly rosemary and balm; or, as may happen, a fine assortment of witch's herbs, infallible for turning us into cats and toads and poisoning our neighbours.

But with whatever we may choose to plant the portion of our life and our thought which is our own, and whatsoever its natural fertility and aspect, this much is certain, that it needs digging, watering, planting, and perhaps most of all, weeding. "Cela est bien dit," répondit Candide, "mais il faut cultiver notre jardin." He was, as you will recollect, answering Dr. Pangloss. One evening, while they were resting from their many tribulations, and eating various kinds of fruit and sweetmeats in their arbour on the Bosphorus, the eminent optimistic philosopher had pointed out at considerable length that the delectable moment they were enjoying was connected by a Leibnitzian chain of cause and effect with sundry other moments of a less obviously desirable character in the earlier part of their several lives.