Pot-pourri from a Surrey garden

general well-being of the establishment, then the oneness of married life cannot possibly be carried on without a certain sacrifice of what is best for the growing-up children. But, again, in the evening of life, when friends gradually fall away, and we become rather a duty and perhaps even a slight burden to our children and relations, who have their own lives to attend to, I consider that residing in the suburbs solves, once more, a great many of the difficulties of our complicated family existence. Our children can easily visit us, and, if we are not too old, we can so well go to London for duty or pleasure, and in this way see, and hear, and learn all that is going on. If all this is true, as I think it is, we are saved, without actually living in London, from the reproach that, being buried in the country, we let our- selves go, and grow old prematurely. To be an easy distance from town, though saying this may seem rather a drop from the sublime to the ridiculous, certainly helps us to cultivate the enjoyment of Nature, and, at the same time, gives us the opportunity, if we have the power in however slight a degree, of acquiring knowledge for its own sake without regard to its practical applica- tion. Surely these are the only two perfect sources of human happiness? I do not say this thoughtlessly. Love, in all its forms, gives a far intenser happiness, but even in its purest form — parental love — it is accompanied by anxiety and doubt. It begins with a kind of animal enjoyment, and ends in the practising of continual self- denial. Much as I dislike leaving my garden, yesterday I obeyed the summons of my oldest friend to spend the day in London with her ; and certainly it turned out an example of what I have been saying — so much so, that I yield to the temptation of giving a slight account of it. We spent our time in visiting Burlington House, and I A DAY IN LONDON 291 will tell you what struck us most as we wandered through the rooms there, in the way we used to do at the old Academy in Trafalgar Square, when we were young and enthusiastic. First, I took my friend to the work that I admired most, which, I believe, will no more die in the gene- rations to come than that of either Eaphael or Benvenuto Cellini has died, though it will be more or less admired ac- cording to the fashion of the day. Mr. Gilbert, the sculp- tor, is in my opinion one of the greatest geniuses we have amongst us just now, and his exhibited work in 1896 shows with peculiar force the comprehensiveness of his talent. Is not the stretch between the massive, splendid portrait- bust of Professor Owen, and the exquisitely finished, subtle, little full-length figure of St. George, all that the Colossus of Ehodes could boast — a foot on either shore ? With the assertiveness of the true artist he must have insisted on the hiding of the hideous colour on the walls, and hung a piece of yellow-brown drapery, which harmonises splendidly with his plaster cast. We crossed the room to look at the least remarkable work of the three, perhaps, artistically speaking ; and yet how the bust of Sir George Grove stands out and lives, and almost breathes, compared with the cold dead heads that surround it ! It has not the colour of life nor the vulgar realism of waxwork, but the plain chalk cast is a man of flesh and blood, rugged and strong.