My critical
estimate of the Waverley Novels has scarce changed at all since I
was ten.
Rob Roy, Guy Mannering, and Redgauntlet first; then, a
little lower; The Fortunes of Nigel; then, after a huge gulf,
Ivanhoe and Anne of Geierstein: the rest nowhere; such was the
verdict of the boy. Since then The Antiquary, St. Ronan's Well,
Kenilworth, and The Heart of Midlothian have gone up in the scale;
perhaps Ivanhoe and Anne of Geierstein have gone a trifle down;
Diana Vernon has been added to my admirations in that enchanted
world of Rob Roy; I think more of the letters in Redgauntlet, and
Peter Peebles, that dreadful piece of realism, I can now read about
with equanimity, interest, and I had almost said pleasure, while to
the childish critic he often caused unmixed distress. But the rest
is the same; I could not finish The Pirate when I was a child, I
have never finished it yet; Peveril of the Peak dropped half way
through from my schoolboy hands, and though I have since waded to
an end in a kind of wager with myself, the exercise was quite
without enjoyment. There is something disquieting in these
considerations. I still think the visit to Ponto's the best part
of the Book of Snobs: does that mean that I was right when I was a
child, or does it mean that I have never grown since then, that the
child is not the man's father, but the man? and that I came into
the world with all my faculties complete, and have only learned
sinsyne to be more tolerant of boredom? . . .
CHAPTER VIII - THE IDEAL HOUSE
Two things are necessary in any neighbourhood where we propose to
spend a life: a desert and some living water.
There are many parts of the earth's face which offer the necessary
combination of a certain wildness with a kindly variety. A great
prospect is desirable, but the want may be otherwise supplied; even
greatness can be found on the small scale; for the mind and the eye
measure differently. Bold rocks near hand are more inspiriting
than distant Alps, and the thick fern upon a Surrey heath makes a
fine forest for the imagination, and the dotted yew trees noble
mountains. A Scottish moor with birches and firs grouped here and
there upon a knoll, or one of those rocky seaside deserts of
Provence overgrown with rosemary and thyme and smoking with aroma,
are places where the mind is never weary. Forests, being more
enclosed, are not at first sight so attractive, but they exercise a
spell; they must, however, be diversified with either heath or
rock, and are hardly to be considered perfect without conifers.
Even sand-hills, with their intricate plan, and their gulls and
rabbits, will stand well for the necessary desert.
The house must be within hail of either a little river or the sea.
A great river is more fit for poetry than to adorn a neighbourhood;
its sweep of waters increases the scale of the scenery and the
distance of one notable object from another; and a lively burn
gives us, in the space of a few yards, a greater variety of
promontory and islet, of cascade, shallow goil, and boiling pool,
with answerable changes both of song and colour, than a navigable
stream in many hundred miles. The fish, too, make a more
considerable feature of the brookside, and the trout plumping in
the shadow takes the ear. A stream should, besides, be narrow
enough to cross, or the burn hard by a bridge, or we are at once
shut out of Eden. The quantity of water need be of no concern, for
the mind sets the scale, and can enjoy a Niagara Fall of thirty
inches. Let us approve the singer of
'Shallow rivers, by whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.'
If the sea is to be our ornamental water, choose an open seaboard
with a heavy beat of surf; one much broken in outline, with small
havens and dwarf headlands; if possible a few islets; and as a
first necessity, rocks reaching out into deep water. Such a rock
on a calm day is a better station than the top of Teneriffe or
Chimborazo. In short, both for the desert and the water, the
conjunction of many near and bold details is bold scenery for the
imagination and keeps the mind alive.
Given these two prime luxuries, the nature of the country where we
are to live is, I had almost said, indifferent; after that inside
the garden, we can construct a country of our own. Several old
trees, a considerable variety of level, several well-grown hedges
to divide our garden into provinces, a good extent of old well-set
turf, and thickets of shrubs and ever-greens to be cut into and
cleared at the new owner's pleasure, are the qualities to be sought
for in your chosen land. Nothing is more delightful than a
succession of small lawns, opening one out of the other through
tall hedges; these have all the charm of the old bowling-green
repeated, do not require the labour of many trimmers, and afford a
series of changes. You must have much lawn against the early
summer, so as to have a great field of daisies, the year's morning
frost; as you must have a wood of lilacs, to enjoy to the full the
period of their blossoming. Hawthorn is another of the Spring's
ingredients; but it is even best to have a rough public lane at one
side of your enclosure which, at the right season, shall become an
avenue of bloom and odour. The old flowers are the best and should
grow carelessly in corners. Indeed, the ideal fortune is to find
an old garden, once very richly cared for, since sunk into neglect,
and to tend, not repair, that neglect; it will thus have a smack of
nature and wildness which skilful dispositions cannot overtake.
The gardener should be an idler, and have a gross partiality to the
kitchen plots:
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