108 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
Germain that will only reach perfection in the cold 
early months of next year, promise a most admirable 
abundance. In this, the sundown of the year, there is 
much, very much, for enjoyment, and for me the 
sovereign delight of all, for sense and sensibility alike, 
resides in that long, shadowy chamber, low-eaved and 
dimly lit, perfumed like the garden of the Hesperides 
and the pleasaunce of Armida joined in one. 
The key of it, as it hangs upon the bunch among the 
other garden keys, looks in no wise different from its 
neighbours, the same modest regard distinguishes them 
all; you would hardly imagine that this prosaic little 
object was the Open Sesame of a veritable treasure 
house. But climb with me up the steep flight of 
wooden stairs, pass through the white-walled ante¬ 
room, and turn the key in its proper padlock, and 
I will honestly engage to forfeit the fine flower of my 
choicest shelves if you pronounce me to have been 
extravagant of praise. 
You would think, as the heavy door turns on its 
hinges, that the fragrance of many and many a long fine 
summer must inhabit here, embalmed in this brown 
gloaming, and not fragrance alone, but the infinite 
charm of rich and varied colour. Side by side, upon the 
long and narrow shelves that rise, tier above ghostly tier, 
through the scented twilight of the fruit gallery, repose 
the garnered treasures of the orchard—“ all March 
begun with, April’s endeavour,” and still for all these 
many years that I have watched the same miracle 
unfold afresh, it remains for me as full as ever of 
wonder and rejoicing. From blunt bronze or silvery 
