VIII 



THE ways of our musings are as devious, as unexpected, 

 as those of a general conversation : there is no presiding 

 spirit to keep us to a standing topic ! This 

 topic, with us, should be " Our Sentimental 

 Garden/' And our tattle should, really, 

 be connected, even if but distantly; with 

 plants or scenery/ with country life and 

 friends <or foes)/ with emotions or remi- 

 niscences plausibly evoked by the flowed 

 side of life. Happily it is pleasant enough 

 to be brought back to the right 

 theme; as I am just now by a 

 thought of the head-line. 

 To one who has taken somewhat 

 late in the day to a life in the country, 

 most of its interests seem to be a re- 

 discovery of early, simple, and inti- ^ 

 mate delights / to be connected with '&* 

 impressions long forgotten. 

 There is an episode in the biography 

 of Jean-Jacques Rousseau which, 

 if I remember aright, bears upon this 

 point. I have not got the Confessions 

 by me it is, no doubt, in that cyni- 

 cal autobiography that the anecdote 

 is recorded nor, indeed, any other . 

 work of that exceedingly anti- 

 pathetic writer. <This is the usual course: the books 

 I require for reference when in the country happen oftener 



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