THE RECTORY GARDEN 255 



with rosy fruit, are gnarled, distorted, and 

 smothered in moss and lichen. Against the 

 wall, if the fruit trees are not dead, they 

 have grown wild for want of pruning, or 

 have broken away from the nails that upheld 

 them. Nettles a yard high, flourish and 

 spread where once grew a bountiful supply 

 of choice vegetables. The paths between 

 what used to be borders bright with crimson 

 Pceonies, Damask Roses, or the white spires 

 of Our Lady's Lilies, have disappeared under 

 a carpet of evil weeds. The shrubberies are 

 groves of half-dead Laurel and gloomy Yew. 

 And the well-kept lawns, where philosophers, 

 divines, poets, and men of action gathered 

 under the giant Fir trees to discuss the 

 burning questions of the 'fifties and 'sixties, 

 are given over to mole-hills and ants'-nests, 

 while rat-holes and rabbit-runs testify yet 

 further to the general ruin. This is no fancy 

 picture. For such was the garden of the 

 Rectory, the beloved home of our child- 

 hood, when I first entered it six years ago, 

 and found it a wilderness. 



