OCTOBER 71 



house at an even temperature. I cannot imagine why any 

 English house not warmed with hot pipes is ever without 

 one of these stoves. They burn only coke, they require 

 very little stoking, they keep in a very long time, and 

 they never unpleasantly dry the air or cause the least 

 smell. I afterwards found that the shops in Frankfort 

 were full of English goods. This is some consolation for 

 us when things we buy are so constantly marked ' made in 

 Germany.' 



My bedroom at Cronberg looked north and faced a 

 long line of sunlit Taunus Mountains, clothed with oak 

 woods in all their autumn glory. They were intersected 

 with pine woods, which in previous months must have 

 looked dull and dark against the summer green, but in 

 late October they were shining bright against the red 

 gold of the dying woods. They reminded me of one of 

 ' Bethia Hardacre's ' truest touches of colour : 



Silver, and pearl-white sky, 



Hills of dim amethyst, 

 Bracken to gold changed by 



Autumn, the Alchemist. 



Spikes of bright yellow poplars here and there marked 

 the road as it wound up the hill to lose itself in the silent 

 forest. The walls of my bedroom were hung round 

 with photographs and prints, remembrances brought 

 back by my cosmopolitan hostess from various countries. 

 They were most of them known to me, but one print was 

 quite a stranger and very striking. It was of a picture, I 

 was told, by a Swiss artist called Arnold Boecklin, a 

 celebrated man, though unknown to me. On the white 

 margin of the print were written the simple words : 

 Todten-Insel. The print represents an imaginary burial- 

 place : A high rocky island with a suggestion of big 

 caves in the rock and windows made by man. In the 

 middle a little open space with tall upright groups of 



