88 MAY 



closely into the situation, for sometimes when she is 

 telling me about one of her Mr. Mumbys I am 

 thinking of polyanthuses, or of rose grubs, or of 

 some other more interesting subject, and it does not 

 do to hark back, for this infuriates Petunia. Not to 

 listen attentively to her tales of woe is a thing 

 almost unpardonable, but to forget the smallest 

 detail of them is an insult. So I listen and 

 sympathise and refrain from coming to close 

 quarters in the matter, and I hear a pathetic tale 

 of love and anguish. It is exactly the same narra- 

 tive that she told me some few months ago with 

 the immaterial difference of a substitution of one 

 principal character in the drama for another. But 

 Petunia does not detect the resemblance. She 

 goes home at last with a huge bunch of china 

 roses, and with a face as long as her arm, which 



o 



is saying much, and I am able to turn again with 

 a sigh of relief to my garden and my books. 



I have just been enjoying that poem of perennial 

 interest and delightful humour, "Caliban upon 

 Setebos," which, every time I read it, gives me 

 fresh pleasure and new suggestions for its complete 

 appreciation. Setebos is the evil genius of gardens. 

 He has all the attributes for the part, and it is 

 surprising that Caliban did not discover this ; but 

 probably he did not only because he could not be 

 trusted to work in Miranda's garden. If he had 

 been permitted to do so he would have discovered 

 another side to the malignity of Setebos to confide 

 to us. Poor Caliban ! He takes half a winter to 

 weave a wattle fence which will stop the she-tor- 

 toises as they crawl up the sand, and let him secure 



