146 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
honey-flavoured, nut-brown Beurre Busc, that anony¬ 
mous but none the less delightful foundling known as 
“Thompson’s”; the great green Beurre d’Anjou, my 
own especial favourite by reason of its subtly mingled 
delicacy and distinction of bouquet—but the tale is too 
long to be told here of all these kindly fruits of the earth 
that have come and gone. 
This only let me say: that two of the most highly 
esteemed pears of the earlier season are to my mind not 
altogether deserving of the tribute they receive in the 
form of praise from the connoisseur and price from the 
fruiterer. After grave and mature deliberation I am 
determined forthwith to expose both the celebrated 
Marie Louise and the little less famous Pitmaston Duchess 
as being upon occasion merely handsome high-bred 
shrews, fair to the eye but rough and acid to the palate. 
They are as notable arch-humbugs, the pair of them, 
after their fashion, as is the Gloire de Dijon among roses. 
They excel in size, it is true ; but so does the fat lady of 
the country fair. I have known the Duchess, indeed, 
to turn the scale at two and a half pounds; while, again, 
the delicate primrose and ambers of their complexions 
conspire with a fine regularity of contour to impress the 
world at large with a sense of their imposing beauty. 
But all that glitters is not gold, and for all their fine 
looks these noble dames of peardom can be sometimes 
sour at heart— Strass-Engel , Haus-Teufel is their motto, 
and the best of their mission is fulfilled when they recline 
between pointed green leaves and purple clusters of the 
grape within the ancient silver and crystal temple of the 
Sheffield epergne . You must take them at the very 
