July  24,  1902. 
JOURNAL  OF  HORTICULTURE  AND  COTTAGE  GARDENER. 
75 
to  say,  to  the  desert  air, 
but  I  fear  our  friends  now 
under  discussion  would 
not  feel  flattered),  we 
coine  across  a  young  girl 
with  a  visage  labelled 
“  fast.”  Her  eyes  show 
it  unmistakeably.  Aha ! 
just  as  I  expected.  Hats 
off,  gentlemen,  for  the 
King!  No  failing  to  recog¬ 
nise  that  blue,  even  if  one 
did  not  distinguish  the 
ermine  for  a  moment. 
Her  Majesty,  too,  in  a 
vesture  of  gold!  Who’s 
this  in  their  train?  The 
First  Lord,  judging  by  his 
pincenez,  and — ah,  ‘yes, 
that-  tall,  rather  stern 
gentleman  with  a  mili¬ 
tary  bearing  is  sans  doute 
the  late  Sirdar,  back  from 
his  recent  scenes  *  of 
action,  apparently.  Hillo ! 
Gracious  me,  I  mistook 
you  for  a  cat,  madam. 
’Pon  honour,  I  crave  par¬ 
don,  but  you  resemble 
my  tabby  to  a  T  ;  you  do, 
indeed!  Well,  sir,  what 
are  you  laughing  at? 
Faith,  your  mouth  looks 
like  splitting.  Oh,  I 
understand.  Yes,  that’s 
funny,  certainly  —  “  dig¬ 
nity  ”  and  “  impudence  ” 
over  again,  evidently — 
yon  very  tall  lady  with 
the  white  frilling  of  point 
lace,  and  the  puce- 
poloured  bodice,  rather 
superciliously  looking 
down  upon  that  roguish 
little  urchin  scarce  reach¬ 
ing  to  her  waist,  with 
large  gipsy  eyes  and  fresh 
coloured  cheeks.  And  there’s  “  Granny  ”  at  last,  hard  by  that 
flowering  Berberis;  dear  old  lady,  just  ready  for  the  opera,  in  a 
damask  heliotrope  with  shades*  of  grey  to  match.  Deary  me! 
What  a  shame,  actually  a  baby!  Whose  olive  branch  are  you, 
little  one?  There,  don’t  cry  so,  your  eyes  look  quite  red  and 
sore.  Your  neighbour  doesn’t  look  much  better,  either.  How 
splashed  you  are,  sir!  Been  out  in  the  rain,  perhaps,  or  made  a 
night  of  it  and  not  come  home  till  morning  ?  No  wonder  you  look 
a  bit  pale,  too.  One  couldn’t  teach  you  much,  I  reckon;  what 
you  don’t  know  isn’t  worth  mentioning,  judging  by  your  face! 
Now,  really,  my  good  sir,  you’re  not  in  black,  though  you’re 
trying  to  pretend  you  are.  Apeing  the  parson  perchance,  and, 
“  birds  of  a  feather,  &c.,”  quite  in  keeping,  certainly.  So  your 
friend’s  masquerading,  too  ;  but  this  seems  a  more  serious  matter 
— a  young  man  in  the  garb  of  a  woman.  You’re  detected,  how¬ 
ever.  Why,  I  can  see  your  dark  trousers  beneath  that  spangled 
skirt.  Now,  how  very  odd!  Just  round  this  corner,  and  nodding 
to  each  other  across  the  pathway,  are  “Peace”  and  “War.” 
How  furious  the  latter  looks,  full  of  passion  ;  envy,  jealousy,  and 
hatred  are  clearly  depicted  ;  but  the  former’s  visage  is  one  of 
calm  serenity,  not  a  cloud  or  speck  to  mar  its  look  of  absolute 
repose.  “  Sunshine  ”  and  “  Rain  ”  at  rather  opposite  points  of 
vantage  are  interesting  in  their  way,  though  I  like  the  former 
best,  the  wealth  of  gold  of  the  first-named  seeming  to  light  up 
some  kinsmen  immediately  surrounding.  It  was  just  at  this  junc¬ 
ture  that,  I  regret  to  say,  we  came  across  an  old  offender — no  less 
a  personage,  in  fact,  than  the  redoubtable  Mephistopheles.  He 
was  looking  about  as  luridly  red  and  diabolical  as  he  is  generally 
represented,  parts  of  him  appearing  to  merge  into  the  blackness 
of  Tophet.  Positively  we  were  not  sorry  to  turn  away  our  gaze. 
And  now  we  must  hurry  on,  for  we  are  about  to  pass  one  of 
those  dangerous  syrens,  a  daughter  of  Eve,  certainly,  but  lil$e 
Cleopatra,  one  whose  life  work  is  clearly  to  fascinate  and  ensnare. 
Just  a  glimpse'  and  no  more.  Mark  her  eyelashes.  Ah!  cruel 
btauty,  I  am  no  Mark  Anthony,  I  assure  you.  Prithee,  let  me 
pass.  What  a  relief !  And  now  we  are  safe  again ;  but  glance 
over  your  shoulder,  we  had  almost  overlooked  in  our  haste  quite 
an  object  of  compassion.  “  Pity  me,  kind  sirs,”  I  feel  sure  I 
heard  her  say.  Poor  wee  pale  morsel  of  humanity — I  mean,  of 
course,  “  florality.”  But  how  did  you  come  to  look  like  that  ? 
Ah!  the  usual  sad  tale,  is  it?  Jilted?  ^  But  perhaps  it  was  your 
fault.  No?  Ah,  well,  cheer  up.  Don’t  droop  so  in  this  beauti¬ 
ful  sunshine.  Life  may  yet  have  much  happiness  in  store  for  you. 
A  sharp  turn  to  the  ieft  brought  us  to  quite  a  different  state 
of  things,  and  justified 
our  exclamation  :  “  Why, 
what’s  the  matter  now? 
You  are  angry,  and  no 
mistake!  You  quite 
frightened  us.  Insulted, 
were  you — what,  by  that 
wretched-looking  old  har¬ 
ridan  over  there  in  those 
painfully  crude  colours? 
There,  calm  yourself. 
Your  brilliant  purple  is 
not  much  better,  and 
seems  a  bit  out  of  place  in 
your  immediate  surround¬ 
ings,  for  that  modest 
coterie  hard  by,  with 
white  frocks  and  blue 
scarves  plainly  betokens  a 
wedding.  And  in  effect, 
so  it  is.  An  almost  perfect 
bride !  What  a  sheen  of 
white,  how  lovely  a  self! 
Well-a-day,  here’s  a  con¬ 
trast.  Good  gracious !  how 
absurd !  My  good  woman, 
have  you  any  idea  what 
colours  you  are  combining 
on  your  person  ?  No  ? 
Why,  then,  let  me  tell 
you  you’ve  all  the  colours 
of  the  rainbow  at  least, 
and  I  think  more  too, 
only  I  can’t  stop  to  count 
them.  Ah !  that’s  better. 
How  coy!  We  hardly 
saw  you,  screening  your¬ 
self  beneath  that  Fox¬ 
glove.  Oh,  yes,  of  course, 
we  know  the  proverb, 
“  Coy  as  a  woman,  and 
fickle  as  she  ;  ”  neverthe¬ 
less,  my  dear,  you  are 
pretty,  and  no  mistake 
about  it.  Just  let  me 
chuck  you  under  the  chin. 
And  I  suppose  that  poor 
fellow  over  there,  pulling  that  fearfully  long  face  and  exclaiming 
“  I  am  slain  by  a  fair,  cruel  maid,”  is  one  of  your  victims.  But 
time  presses,  and - 
Dear,  how  exquisite!  So  you  are  engaged,  are  you?  Well,  I 
don’t  wonder.  You’ve  the  complexion  of  a  Peach,  but  who  to  ? 
That  man.  H’m,  I  don’t  admire  your  taste,  I’m  afraid.  Groat 
bloated  creature  with  staring  eyes  and  vicious-looking  nose.  One 
more  turn  round  that  clump  of  Rhododendrons,  and  I  see  our 
tour  is  over.  . 
Why,  you’re  looking  bilious,  sir.  What’s  up?  Seasick,  is  it? 
That  all.  I  should  think  a  look  at  that  face  yonder  the  best  anti¬ 
dote  for  you,  if  there’s  anything  in  the  saying,  “  like  cures  like 
(though  the  young  lady  must  understand  I  only  allude  to  the 
colour).  Anyhow,  there’s  no  fault  in  her  looks.  “  A  sweet  girl 
graduate  with  her  golden  hair,”  methinks.  All !  we  can  t  all  be 
young,  can  we,  though  you,  madam,  seem  to  think  we  may.  If  it 
didn’t  seem  rude,  now,  I  should  call  you  an  elderly  young  lady. 
But  I  won’t  disturb  you,  anyway,  or  that  flashy-kmkmg  youth 
with  beaming  countenance  and  white  Gladstone  stick-ups.  I 
rather  prefer,  I  think,  that  matronly-looking  dame  in  the  hand¬ 
some  but  quiet  brocade  of  figured  blue,  who  seems  to  be 
chaperoning  the  demure  little  pink  and  white  demoiselle.  There 
is  peace  in  the  look,  too,  of  a  very  ladylike  woman  vis-a-vis,  talking 
4o  the  stout  dowager,  whom  (the  former,  I  mean)  I  pronounce  to 
be  an  old  maid.  Rather  pale,  dignified,  and  with  a  benign  coun¬ 
tenance,  very  kindly,  moreover,  surely  distinctly  good-looking  in 
her  youth.  , 
All,  me  !  How  time  has  flown  !  Here  we  are  at  the  end  ot  the 
broad  walk  and  our  round.  Addio,  friends  all,  old  and  young,  or 
let  us  say,  rather,  a  riverderci. — J.  A.  Carnegie-Cheales. 
Plumbago  coccinea. 
It  has  often  surprised  me  that  this  useful  and  showy  plant 
should  be  so  seldom  met  with  where  winter  flowers  are  in 
demand.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  native  of  East  India,  consequently 
requires  warm  treatment,  and  when  well  done  is  a  magnificent 
object  of  floral  beauty,  producing  panicles  of  large  red  blooms 
upwards  of  2ft  long.  It  is  very  light  and  graceful  when  cut 
and  arranged  with  suitable  foliage,  and  lasts  fairly  well  for  room 
decoration.  I  find  this  plant  is  not  so  easily  injured  by  fog  and 
smoke  as  many  other  things  are.  It  grows  admirably  in  a 
compost  of  neat,  loam,  and  leaf  soil,  with  a  sprinkling  of  sand. 
— J.  Easter,  Nostell  Priory  Gardens. 
Corydalis  thalictrifolia. 
