48 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
bear aloft the long, full, yet slender cups, chaste of form 
as Greek vases of the finest period—some coloured like 
chalcedony, some as ashes of roses, white jade, pale 
amber, alabaster, silver and gold, besides a score of 
different lovely dyes; those others again, freaked and 
marbled with rich harmonies of contrasted colour, that 
I call my Indian princes; as I look upon all these, I am 
well pleased that my lease of life was not dated in those 
days, some three centuries since, when every bulb of the 
Turban-Flower would cost its weight in gold. 
It is, indeed, a happy transformation that has changed 
the skies and the mood with them, insomuch as, although 
not so very long since it was our fondest wish to wander 
over-sea in search of sunshine, we are now vastly con¬ 
tented to remain at home and enjoy our English summer 
at our ease. It was, if I remember rightly, Napoleon’s 
favourite general who symbolised the English army as 
a short blade exquisitely tempered; and whether M. le 
Marechal Soult was right or wrong I cannot tell. But 
had he made that famous pronouncement as regards our 
summer, I should have found myself in the most cordial 
agreement with him. The blade, to be sure, is very 
short, but of how exquisite a temper ! 
Brevity is its sole defect, and even that makes, may¬ 
be, for an acuter sense of pleasure. Are we not upon 
the up-grade still, with winter’s injuries just far enough 
behind to be forgotten, though not forgiven, and the 
Gate called Beautiful opened wide before us? The 
daffodils have waved us their lingering farewells, and 
the gleaming cohorts of the earlier tulips have cast down 
their bright crowns one by one. Would they could 
