that fragrance before? This breath of the garden lures you on through 
the shrubberies and then you know where you have first smelt that 
spicy restful odor. You are a little girl once more, in your long-for- 
gotten pink sunbonnet and pinafore, picking flowers in your grand- 
mother's garden. Ah, the blessedness of it! All about you are the 
old favorites, the old Spice-bushes, the Syringas, the Rockets, the 
Honey-suckles. Nothing modern is allowed to break the spell, for 
just what was blooming here a hundred and fifty years ago is bloom- 
ing gently still, as it has always bloomed every June since then. 
What a sense of repose it gives you — relaxation, too, and relief! 
A turn in the walk and you are confronted with an ancient Garden 
House, tall and narrow, with delectable details worked in its panelling 
by one of the great woodcarvers of Salem and surmounted by a 
perfect little figure of Corydon. Let me describe it to you in the 
words of pretty Eliza Southgate who visited it about 1800. 
"The tall summer house in the center of the garden has an arch 
through it with three doors on each side which open into small apart- 
ments, and one of them opens to a staircase, by which you ascend 
into a square room the whole size of the building; it has a fine airy ap- 
pearance and commands a view of the whole garden. . . .the air from 
the windows is always pure and cool . . . the room is ornamented 
with Chinese figures and seems calculated for serenity and peace. " 
This little gem of Colonial architecture was removed from its 
original setting at Peabody, Mass., and placed in its present position 
with great care and taste, and the Chinese figures are still here speak- 
ing to us of the first East India trade which was started in Salem 
by Hasket Derby the owner of the Garden House. Quaint cabinets 
set in the panelling of this upper room hold old Chinese bowls and 
fans, older ivories and strange embroideries from heathen lands. 
I imagine the consternation of the respectable ladies of Salem when 
these fat-bellied images first dawned upon their restricted horizon! 
On a table in the center of the room lie a number of alluring books 
telling of the early life in Salem and Newburyport, mentioning this 
very building, and a photograph hangs on the wall showing it in its 
original position and telling of its many devoted generations of owners. 
Through the open window floats up the odor of old-fashioned 
roses — for the Garden House is placed at the entrance of the 
semi-circular rose-garden. If only you had time to finger here, to 
explore the garden walks where you imdoubtedly would come upon 
rows of lavender, rue, dill and coriander. You feel sure that the attic 
holds bunches of these preCious herbs hanging above the hair-trunks 
and perforated tin foot-stoves. But you must go on with the others, 
and as you turn reluctantly away you feel that you have journeyed 
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