Her
fences remain, her democracy is different from the Northern variety. The
difference may consist only in faults both there and here which we all
hope to see democracy itself one day eliminate; but the difference is
palpable. The fences mean that the dwellers behind them have never
accorded to each other, as neighbors, that liberty-to-take-liberties of
which Northern householders and garden-holders, after a
quarter-century's disappointing experiment, are a bit weary.
In New Orleans virtually every home, be it ever so proud or poor, has a
fence on each of its four sides. As a result the home is bounded by its
fences, not by its doors. Unpleasant necessities these barriers are
admitted to be, and those who have them are quite right in not liking
them in their bare anatomy. So they clothe them with shrubberies and
vines and thus on the home's true corporate bound the garden's profile,
countenance and character are established in the best way possible;
without, that is, any impulse toward embellishment _insulated_ from
utility. Compelled by the common frailties of all human nature (even in
a democracy) to maintain fortifications, the householder has veiled the
militant aspect of his defences in the flowered robes and garlandries of
nature's diplomacy and hospitality. Thus reassured, his own inner
hospitality can freely overflow into the fragrant open air and out upon
the lawn--a lawn whose dimensions are enlarged to both eye and mind,
inasmuch as every step around its edges--around its meandering shrubbery
borders--is made affable and entertaining by Flora's versatilities.
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