I've recently been reading through Gladys Taber's Stillmeadow
series, which I've really enjoyed. I like stories about people who live a-way
out in the country, living quietly interesting lives, tending a garden and
keeping animals. I was looking for another Stillmeadow book in the library when
I came across A Small House and Large Garden, by Richardson
Wright.
The title captured my
attention, and the first page stole my heart.
Mr.
Abraham Cowley is responsible for the title of this journal, Mr. Abraham Cowley
and a gentleman in a certain bookstore. Finding from his list (the bookstore
man's) that, for a consideration, he would part with a venerable edition of
John Evelyn's "Sylvia"--a kingly quarto bound in full and ancient
leather and with a red-and-black title-page--I was seized with an
uncontrollable craving. I coveted that book as I had rarely coveted anything;
with one fell wish the Tenth Commandment was shattered. And yet I knew that,
despite my concupiscence, I would go on coveting it until the end of time
because the "consideration" which stood between my desire and its
fulfillment was an appalling number of silver dollars.
As a book lover, I could
relate. I was fired with a great curiosity to discover whether or not he ever
got his hands on that venerable edition, and added the book to the pile already
filling my arms. (I cannot leave the library without getting at least seventeen
books. I know. I've counted.)
Taking this newfound book
home, I read the first chapter and then, alas! put it aside to make supper. One
thing led to another, and before I knew it, I had to go to bed (for I worked
early in the morning) and could not read on.
However, on my day off,
the instant I awoke, I rolled over and grabbed A Small House and Large Garden
off my bookshelf and read until it was nearly eleven! Shameful, I know, but it
was such an entertaining book that I simply couldn’t put it down.
I’ve looked this book up, determined to get a copy for my own…only
to discover that A Small House and Large
Garden is my Sylva. It is out of
print, and the consideration which stands between my desire and its fulfillment
is an appalling number of silver dollars. Woe is me.
Anyway, since you are probably not as fortunate as I am, and your
library probably does not have a copy, let me share with you some of my
favorite excerpts from this delightful little book.
There was a time, in mid-Victorian days, when householders suffered a veritable motto complex. In the parlor God was asked politely and in cross-stitch to bless that home; the dining-room of a house I knew used to display the suggestion—fitting and seemly—“Wait on the Lord and He will serve you.” One could have a lot of fun selecting the motto for the bathroom (I would suggest the seventh verse of the 51st Psalm), but in those days bathrooms weren’t so common as they are now.
And
This age also
saw the rise of the fireplace motto, those cozy little sentiments about a
friend and a nook and a handy book, about none coming too early and none
staying too late. I’ve always suspected the hospitality in houses with those
greetings; I’ve feared to come early lest the hostess wouldn’t be finished
dressing and haven’t dared stay late lest she yawn. And, as for the houses that
have the mottoes about books—did you ever look at the books those people read?
And
Taking these up in due order, we have discovered that certain people apparently think that there is something unrefined about eating one's fill. There are especially insistent and reassuring about breakfast. "We only have toast and coffee," or, "We just have black coffee." Never take such people at their word.And
In a footnote
to an ancient edition of the “Spectator” I came across this delectable
reference: “A Mr. Montgomery, a gentleman in the mercantile line, of an amiable
character , an enterprising spirit, and great abilities. He traded to Sweden
and his business carrying him there, it is said, that, in consequence of
something between him and Queen Christina, he was obliged to leave that kingdom
abruptly.
Not all
nephews can be so fortunate as to have an uncle who was obliged to leave a
kingdom abruptly in consequence of something between him and the queen. They
can at least aspire to an uncle who was obliged to leave the family abruptly in
consequence of other things.
And
There is one
final mark of the ideal uncle—he remembers his nephew handsomely in his will.
Nay, there is a further mark—he dies within a reasonable time, or , as Mr.
Montgomery would put it, abruptly.
And
Although he
had the memory of a garden to console him, Adam, it seems, was the only one who
couldn’t say it was his grandmother’s.
And
It’s a pretty
poor grandchild who can’t boast an expert gardener for grandmother. But if some
of these florally inclined old ladies could come back to see the flowers their
grandchildren are raising, they would doubtless return to the shades silent and
ashamed.
And
This,
however, is not a disquisition on furniture styles. It is intended to be (as the title suggests) a few hints on how to
know the authors from the furniture. Such knowledge is not superfluous. For it
would be an egregious blunder, a fatal faux
pas, if, at some select gathering such as the annual banquet of the Authors’
League or a soiree of the poetry Society, you should Mistake Irvin Cobb for a
bombé-front secrétaire, or turn on a switch in Bliss Carman’s back and expect
him to light up like a floor lamp, or take Miss Amy Lowell for a settee, or
accidentally stuff Charles Hanson Town behind your neck for a pillow. They
might resent it. Such errors can never be made, if one has a working knowledge
of furniture. The following simple suggestions may be of assistance when
determining the different between furniture and authors:
Most
furniture is made to sit on. It is quite difficult to sit on an author. A few
brave souls have invariably tried it, and invariably they came off worsted,. No
one ever successfully sat on Mr. Louis Untermeyer, for example. Therefore, when
you enter a room, look around for what appears to be a chair. If you can sit on
it, then it is a chair. If not, it is likely to be an author.
Are you not excessively diverted? I think everyone should call up
any and every publisher they know and demand
that they put out a new edition of this gem of a book posthaste. It would be a
great service to the public. Obviously.
By the way, for those of you who are curious, Psalm 51:7 is "Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow."
