KINGS IN GARDENS 



I see him now, the genius of this place ; he is 

 in a full-bottomed wig and a wide-skirted coat of 

 claret-coloured silk. By his side are two water 

 spaniels, behind him at his heels a pointer. He 

 has a pleasant, open face and a measured walk, 

 and as the lace falls back when he lifts a hand to 

 take a pinch of snuff I see it is a strong, capable 

 hand. It is a man of his date but not of his 

 kind who haunts French gardens, so it seems to 

 me. Such a man would not do as did the French 

 when they painted perspectives on the walls to 

 appear to continue the walks, nor, I think, would 

 he have cages for wild beasts as they did in the 

 old Tuileries, or artificial echoes. Both would 

 have Temples of Flora and leaden statues of the 

 gods, for both are bitten with the classic idea. 

 The Englishman seated at his bottle of Madeira 

 that has been twice round the Cape in a sailing 

 ship, seated with long-stemmed glasses, with, I 

 think, a copy of the Gentleman s Magazine or a 

 volume of verses by Mr. Pope in his hand, is of 

 a different breed. " As for your French clarets 

 and the kickshaws they eat," I can hear him say, 

 " give me a good piece of beef, washed down with 

 good home-brewed ale, and I'll defy any man." 

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