i was a harbury boy as my father and grandfather were before me and as you are presently to be. i went to harbury at the age of fourteen. until then i was educated at home, first by a governess and then by my father's curate, mr. siddons, who went from us to st. philip's in hampstead, and, succeeding marvellously there, is now bishop of exminster. my father became rector of burnmore when i was nine; my mother had been dead four years, and my second cousin, jane stratton, was already his housekeeper. my father held the living until his resignation when i was nearly thirty. so that all the most impressionable years of my life centre upon the burnmore rectory and the easy spaciousness of burnmore park. my boyhood and adolescence alternated between the ivied red-brick and ancient traditions of harbury (and afterwards christ-church) and that still untroubled countryside.

i was never a town dweller until i married and we took our present house in holland park. i went into london at last as one goes into an arena. it cramps me and wearies me and at times nearly overwhelms me,but there it is that the life of men centres and my work lies. but every summer we do as we have done this year and go to some house in the country, near to forests or moorland or suchlike open and uncultivated country, where one may have the refreshment of freedom among natural and unhurried things. this year we are in a walled garden upon the seine, about four miles above château galliard, and with the forest reaching up to the paddock beyond the orchard close....

you will understand better when i have told you my story why i saw burnmore for the last time when i was one-and-twenty and why my memories of it shine so crystalline clear. i have a thousand vivid miniatures of it in my mind and all of them are beautiful to me, so that i could quite easily write a whole book of landscapes from the park alone. i can still recall quite vividly the warm beauty-soaked sensation of going out into the morning sunshine of the park, with my lunch in a little green swiss tin under my arm and the vast interminable day all before me, the gigantic, divinely unconditional day that only boyhood knows, and the park so great and various that it was more than two hours' going for me to reach its eastern fences. i was only a little older then than you are now. sometimes i went right up through the woods to the house to companion with philip and guy christian and their sister—i loved her then, and one day i was to love her with all my heart—but in those boyish times i liked most to go alone.

my memories of the park are all under blue sky and sunshine, with just a thunderstorm or so; on wet days and cold days i was kept to closer limits; and it seems to me now rather an intellectual conviction than a positive memory that save for a few pine-clad patches in the extreme south-east, its soil was all thick clay. that meant for me only beautiful green marshes, a number of vividly interesting meres upon the course of its stream, and a wealth of gigantic oaks. the meres lay at various levels, and the hand of lady ladislaw had assisted nature in their enrichment with lilies and water plants. there were places of sedge and scented rush, amidst which were sapphire mists of forget-me-not for long stretches, skirmishing commandoes of yellow iris and wide wastes of floating water-lilies. the gardens passed insensibly into the park, and beyond the house were broad stretches of grass, sun-lit, barred with the deep-green shadows of great trees, and animated with groups and lines of fallow deer. near the house was an italianate garden, with balustradings and statuary, and a great wealth of roses and flowering shrubs.

then there were bracken wildernesses in which the does lurked with the young fawns, and a hollow, shallow and wide, with the turf greatly attacked by rabbits, and exceptionally threadbare, where a stricken oak, lightning-stripped, spread out its ghastly arms above contorted rotting branches and the mysterious skeletons of i should think five several deer. in the evening-time the woods behind this place of bones—they were woods of straight-growing, rather crowded trees and standing as it were a little aloof—became even under the warmest sunset grey and cold—and as if they waited....

and in the distant corner where the sand was, rose suddenly a steep little hill, surmounted by a wild and splendid group of pines, through which one looked across a vale of cornfields at an ancient town that became strange and magical as the sun went down, so that i was held gazing at it, and afterwards had to flee the twilight across the windy spaces and under the dim and darkling trees. it is only now in the distant retrospect that i identify that far-off city of wonder, and luminous mist with the commonplace little town, through whose narrow streets we drove to the railway station. but, of course, that is what it must have been.

there are persons to be found mixed up in those childish memories,—lady ladislaw, tall and gracious, in dresses of floating blue or grey, or thin, subtly folding, flowering stuffs, philip and his sister, guy, the old butler, a multitude of fainter figures long become nameless and featureless; they are far less vivid in my memory than the fine solitudes of the park itself—and the dreams i had there.

i wonder if you dream as i dreamt. i wonder whether indeed i dreamt as now i think i did. have i, in these latter years, given form and substance and a name to things as vague in themselves as the urgencies of instinct? did i really go into those woods and waving green places as one keeps a tryst, expectant of a fellowship more free and delicate and delightful than any i knew. did i know in those days of nymphs and dryads and fauns and all those happy soulless beings with which the desire of man's heart has animated the wilderness. once certainly i crawled slowly through the tall bracken and at last lay still for an interminable while, convinced that so i should see those shadows populous with fairies, with green little people. how patiently i lay! but the stems creaked and stirred, and my heart would keep on beating like a drum in my throat.

it is incredible that once a furry whispering half-human creature with bright brown eyes came and for a time played with me near where the tall ferns foam in a broad torrent from between the big chestnuts down to the upper mere. that must have been real dreaming, and yet now, with all my sanities and scepticisms, i could half believe it real.