68 SWEET GALE 



above other women and endowed her with a beauty 

 above all beauty. 



Trees differ from trees in glory in this respect. I 

 think less of orange and lime than of the Pride of 

 China or Tree of Paradise, as it is variously called; 

 I often stand, in memory, in the shade of its 

 light loose feathery foliage, drinking in the divine 

 fragrance of its dim purple flowers, until I grow 

 sick with longing, and being so far removed from 

 it feel that I am indeed an exile and stranger in 

 a strange land. 



It has always been a subject of wonder to me that 

 so many persons find the loveliest perfumes excessive 

 or oppressive, as when they stand by a flowering 

 syringa bush, or are in a room with fragrant flowers 

 — lilies, stock, mignonette, and various others. I 

 can never get too much of it nor quite enough to 

 satisfy my smelling hunger. Thus I love to spend 

 entire days roaming about on boggy or marshy heaths, 

 perhaps less for what I see and hear of wild life than 

 for the sake of the odour of golden withy or sweet 

 gale, where there are acres of it, and I can stand 

 knee-deep among its thick-growing shrubs and 

 rub my hands and face with the crushed leaves 

 and fill my pockets with them so as to wrap myself 

 up in the delicious aroma. 



Almost all aromatic plants are agreeable to me — 

 fennel, horehound, tansy, pennyroyal, and all mints, 

 even the water-mint, which most persons find too 

 powerful. Also bracken when it first unrolls its broad 

 fronds, and I crush it to get the unique smell, which 



