his mascula_ grew in the brook corner, and in early spring sent
up a tall spike of purple flowers. This plant stood alone in an angle of
the brook and a hedge, within sound of water ceaselessly falling over a
dam. In those days it had an aspect of enchantment to me; not only on
account of its singular appearance, so different from other flowers, but
because in old folios I had read that it could call up the passion of
love. There was something in the root beneath the sward which could make
a heart beat faster. The common modern books--I call them common of
_malice prepense_--were silent on these things. Their dry and formal
knowledge was without interest, mere lists of petals and pistils, a
dried herbarium of plants that fell to pieces at the touch of the
fingers. Only by chipping away at hard old Latin, contracted and dogged
in more senses than one, and by gathering together scattered passages in
classic authors, could anything be learned. Then there arose another
difficulty, how to identify the magic plants? The same description will
very nearly fit several flowers, especially when not actually in flower;
how determine which really was the true root? The uncertainty and
speculation kept up the pleasure, till at last I should not have cared
to have had the original question answered. With my gun under my arm I
used to look at the orchis from time to time, so long as the spotted
leaves were visible, till the grass grew too long.

_THE LIONS IN TRAFALGAR SQUARE._

The lions in Trafalgar Square are to me the centre of London. By those
lions began my London work; from them, as spokes from the middle of a
wheel, radiate my London thoughts. Standing by them and looking south
you have in front the Houses of Parliament, where resides the mastership
of England; at your back is the National Gallery--that is art; and
farther back the British Museum--books. To the right lies the wealth and
luxury of the West End; to the left the roar and labour, the craft and
gold, of the City. For themselves, they are the only monument in this
vast capital worthy of a second visit as a monument. Over the entire
area covered by the metropolis there does not exist another work of art
in the open air. There are many structures and things, no other art. The
outlines of the great animals, the bold curves and firm touches of the
master hand, the deep indents, as it were, of his thumb on the plastic
metal, all the _technique_ and grasp written t