TO DR. MARCHESSAUX. TO DOCTOR MARCHESSAUX. [JEAN BAPTISTE ALPHONSE KARR, born at Paris in 1808. In 1839 he became editor of Le Figaro, and the same year founded Les Guêpes a monthly journal which met with great success. He is the author of many popular novels, including An Hour Too Late, and Friday Evening. One of his best works is A Voyage Around my Garden. He died in 1890.] I know a little old man who is always neatly dressed in a black coat, with very white ruffles, and a shirt frill plaited in the most perfect way. Never have I heard him complain; never have I caught him desiring anything. 213 "I have known him for a long time," he said; "I had often noticed him at 'la Petite Provence,' in the Tuileries. From hav ing looked at each other, we proceeded to bow. One day, I had asked him what time it was, because my watch had stopped, the next day, in return for the courtesy with which he had answered me, I offered him a pinch of snuff. Some time after that we concluded by having a little chat, and finally we told each other everything. 66 Since then, we have talked together for ten years. Our mode of life was so similar, that we could vegetate admirably in the same soil and the same atmosphere. He was a widower, and I a bachelor. I have upwards of eleven hundred francs income: he had then twelve hundred; but as he lived near the Tuileries, where the apartac-ments are dear, this expense absorbed the surplus, and made our fortunes equal. There is only one thing in the world which seems to me to demand respect more than misfortune: it is happiness, on count of its rarity, and, above all, its perishableness. I do not think I have ever thoughtlessly meddled with the happiness of another, however small it may be, however strange it may appear to me. Sometimes it happens that I do not understand it, and even think that, if I should try it, it would not suit me; but that has never been a reason why I should treat it lightly or with disdain. It is so often a brilliant bubble, that in the presence of happiness of whatever description, I hold my breath respectfully. I liked very much to meet my little old man, because he seemed perfectly happy; but I never thought of asking him about it: when one day I found on his face the first cloud I had seen there since chance had brought us in contact. I was more curious this time, and I wanted to know what thorn he had found among the roses of his life. He seemed only waiting for an opportunity of speaking of what had so sadly engaged his thoughts, and said to me: "I have just been visiting an old friend, and I have seen some things which grieve me." “Is he ill?” I inquired. "Not at all," he replied. "You have never met with two men so rich and happy as we were. When it was fine, he received me at the Tuileries. The Tuileries was his garden Never was there a property more complete and more free from care. What is having a garden, if the Tuileries did not belong to my friend? "Every morning he found his paths well rolled, and even watered, if the heat occasioned too much dust. He walked up and down under the thick shade of chestnut trees, or rested on a white marble seat. Numerous gardeners kept in good order immense beds of flowers, and constantly replaced those which were faded and had cast their seed to the wind when their season of bloom and perfume was over, by others belonging to the following season. He breathed the spring perfume of the lilacs, and the airy and mysterious odor of the lime-trees. He had, at last, made acquaintance with the gardeners, and he was not without influence in the arrangement of the flower beds. For myself, I had the Luxembourg; our position was the same in the two gardens. I often gave him the seeds of the flower which he liked in my garden, in exchange for those which I admired in his. The gar dener who gave me them for him always "Has he then lost a lawsuit, or a large willingly accepted those which I received sum of money?" "Still less he has come in for a fortune, and this fortune has thrown him into the deepest misery. It is the sight of this misery which has gnawed into my heart." Having once entered on the subject, he told me the whole story. Here it is : from my friend. "At the Luxembourg, the swans in the water knew me. I thought less of the familiarity which existed between my friend and the swans of the Tuileries, because their affection is commoner, and one can, without injustice, accuse them of treating everybody with equal distinction. I repeat of which we were liable to no such differ it, our gardens were altogether ours. The ences of opinion; our menagerie, our mu only difference that can be discovered be-seum, and our greenhouses in the Jardin tween us and the people who pretend to des Plantes, for example. have gardens, and to be more truly proprie tors of them, is, that we had each one of the richest and most beautiful gardens of Europe, and we had nothing to pay for gardeners, improvements, or repairs. "My friend!' said he, on leaving me in the evening, after a walk in my garden, 'your crocuses are beautiful and varied; but I invite you to come and see my double peach blossoms, and in a fortnight my li lacs. You will find me at the foot of my statue of the "Carrying away of Orithyia.' Another time it was I who invited him to come and walk on my terrace at the Luxembourg, where there are such fine service trees, and such old hawthorns with pink blossoms. "I will not talk to you about our friendships with some of the animals in our menagerie, of the interest we felt in the preca rious health of the giraffe and of the black bear. We were highly delighted when they made us our famous monkey palace, and this was not without some influence in adding to our good opinion of the minister who then presided in the council. "We had lived in this way for ten years; when one day my friend did not come to the "rendezvous that I had appointed in my path to the observatory. It was the first time that one of us had missed a meeting, except once, five years before, when I let him wait at his Petite Provence, because I had nearly given myself a sprain on my staircase. I could only attribute his absence to an accident of this kind, or, perhaps, worse, and I went to his house. I found him quite well, but strangely affected. He had that morning received a letter which informed him that his cousin had just died, two leagues from Paris, and had left him an "Sometimes, however, we had disputes. He was, I must say, rather proud of the beautiful ladies who came to drive in his garden; he even took it into his head one day to be proud, because, from time to time, he saw the king on the balcony of the castle. I proved to him, as clear as day, that my plants were the most carefully cultiva-income of rather more than 3000 livres. ted, that his flower-beds were full of the most vulgar flowers. I mentioned, to prove the superiority of my garden, the collection of roses, which is unquestionably the finest in Europe. It is true that he had at the Tuileries more statues and more precious bronzes; but in a garden, I think much more of the trees and the flowers than of bronze and marble. When it rained, we went to see his museum of antiquities on the Place du Louvre; or, in the time of the Exhibition, to the galleries, where the modern painters submitted the products of their labor to his inspection. "Sometimes it was I who invited him to come and visit my galleries at the Luxembourg, and this, again, occasioned some lit tle disputes on the respective value of our museums, or only because he regulated his watch by his dial at his palace of the Tuileries, which he pretended was infallible; while I often wished to set it right by my sun-dial at my Palace of the Luxembourg. 66 But it was seldom that these discussions became bitter. Besides, if our little manias of proprietorship sometimes exasperated us against each other, we had also many undivided possessions in common, on account "He wept as he embraced me, and assured me that his fortune could never make him indifferent to his friends; that I should always find him the same, etc. Nevertheless, it was necessary that he should set out immediately to take possession. It is four months ago, and I had no news of him. I began already to think of him with a bitterness, and the newspaper-seller at the Tuil eries having asked news of him, 1 replied sharply, 'I do not know-he has made his fortune-I see nothing of him now;' when the day before yesterday I received a letter from him. Here it is: "MY DEAR OLD FRIEND: I flatter myself that you have not attributed my silence to indifference or forgetfulnessstill less to the increase of my fortune. Many different cares have occupied all my leisure since our last interview. First, I have decided to stay here in my house. I must have some repairs and alterations made. "As I do not think you have conceived a bad opinion of me, so I like to think of you as I knew you. If it would be foolish on my part to be unmindful of you because I have become rich, it would be but little better if you neglected me in future for AN EXOTIC. the same reason; it would spoil my happiness, and you would not wish it. "I expect you then to-morrow to break fast with me. YOUR FRIEND.' "Man is a miserable creature. I felt a little envious, and tried to find some disagreeable phrase in my old friend's letter, some sign of vanity at which I might be angry-I found nothing, and set out this morning. "My friend lives in a dirty, little, ill-built country town. His house, which they readily pointed out to me, is small, white, with green blinds. You go in by a narrow gate, which was far from making such an impression upon me as the iron bars of his garden at the Tuileries. I had from the first a presentiment that my friend was ruined, while he fancied he was making his fortune. "No one could have received me better; but everything I saw, added to his kind reception, was not long in changing the envy with which I had started, into a feeling of pity. I shall never forget the pride with which he took me round a garden which could easily have been contained in one of the flower-beds at the Tuileries. Some sticks here and there, some broomsticks which he called trees, and which stood in need of shade themselves, instead of giving any. In the middle of the garden a great cask buried in the ground, was called the fountain. It was half full of green and stagnant water, because they only bring it every other day, and the cask leaks a little. 215 him to inherit and become rich, that he might be condemned to see nothing but these frightful daubs. When he was poor, he looked at the most beautiful paintings of all countries and all masters, accunulated in our museums. "I came back sad, and I wished to see again his old garden, which he is so pleased to have left. A great terror has seized me in consequence; it is that I may, in my turn, by chance become rich,-that I may become proprietor,-may lose my beautiful garden of the Luxembourg, may be forced to live in a square surrounded by walls,— and, what is still worse, may be happy and proud of it. "I have thought over all my relations, and especially those who are rich, and, among the latter, those whose heir I am. There is only one who makes me anxious; he went to America twenty years ago, and since then nothing has been heard of him. If the bell rings at home, I shall tremble lest I should hear that he has died a millionnaire, and that I am his heir. I have seen a letter that we received two months after his departure, nearly twenty years ago. This letter tells us that several vessels had perished, crew and cargo, in a gale of wind. The vessel which bore my uncle was of the number, but as the long boat has not been seen since, they think that part of the crew at least tried to save themselves. "If only my uncle be not saved!" AN EXOTIC. "You can never imagine what joy he felt at having changed the great marble fountains at the Tuileries for this cask, without considering that the said cask gives him all manner of trouble, when the sun dries it and loosens the hoops, while formerly they cleaned and mended his marble fountains lina, and died in 1867, in his thirty-eighth year.] without his disturbing himself in the least about it. [HENRY TIMROD, a poet of rare delicacy of imagina tion and intensity of feeling, was born in South Care Not in a climate near the sun Did the cloud with its trailing fringes float, Fell the snows of her brow and throat. And the ground had been rich for a thousand years With the blood of heroes, and sages, and kings, "What secret joy is there then in the Whence, white as the down of an angel's plume, sense of possession! With my friend to have this garden with its broomsticks, was to have the great chestnuts of the Tuileries no longer. To possess the square surrounded with walls white enough to blind Where the rose, that blooms in her exquisite cheek, one, was to be exiled from all the rest of the earth, from all the beautiful country, from all the lovely landscapes. "In his house he showed me two or three bad pictures, with which he had ornamented his drawing-room. It was necessary for Unfolded the flush of its wings. On a land where the faces are fair though pale, As a moonlit mist, when the winds are still, She breaks, like a morning in paradise, Through the palms of an Orient hill. Her beauty, perhaps, were all too bright, But about her there broods some delicate spell, Whence the wondrous charm of the girl grows soft As the light in an English dell. There is not a story of faith and truth On the starry scroll of her country's fame, I sometimes forget, as she sweeps me a bow, Once, as we read in a curtained niche, A poet who sang of her sea-throned isle, There was something of Albion's mighty Bess In the flash of her haughty smile. She seemed to gather from every age All the greatness of England about her there, But it was no queen to whom that day In the dim green shade of a trellised vine, The Tudor had vanished, and, as I spoke, What was it? Nothing the world need know- I walked from the porch with the tread of a king, And she was a queen again! hedge of the cottage, which is approached by a broad stepping-stone over the rill, and beyond it is a gate made of rough sticks, which leads to the cottage. At a short distance, an excavation has been cut out of the bank, and paved round with rough stones, into which the water finds and then again makes its way clear and sparkling. This is the cottager's well. His garden is with flowers. His bees are placed on gay each side of a window surrounded with honeysuckles, jessamine, or a flourishing vine, and the rustic porch is covered with these or other creepers. Here, also, the gorgeous hollyhock may be seen in perfection, for it delights in the rich red soil of Devonshire. Giant-stocks, carnations, and china-asters, flourish from the same cause, and make the garden appear as though it belonged to Flora herself. Nor must the little orchard be forgotten. The apple trees slope with the hill, and in the spring are covered with a profusion of the most beautiful blossoms, and in the autumn are generally weighed down with their load of red fruit. Under them may be seen a crop of potatoes, and in another part of the garden those fine Paington cabbages, one of the best vegetables of the county. In a sheltered nook is the thatched pig-sty, partly concealed by the round, yellow-faced sunflower, which serves both as a screen and as an ornament. The mud or cob walls of the cottage add to its picturesque appearance, when partly covered with creepers and surrounded with flowers. Such is an accurate description of one of the many cottages I have seen in the beau DEVONSHIRE COTTAGES AND GAR- tiful and hospitable county of Devon, so DENS. [EDWARD JESSE, born Jan. 14, 1780; died March 28, 1868. He was surveyor of the royal parks and palaces, and the author of several popular works, including Gleanings in Natural History; An Angler's Rambles; and Scenes and Tales of Country Life. From the latter we extract as follows:] Nothing can be prettier than the gardens attached to the thatched cottages in Devonshire. They are frequently to be seen on the side and oftener at the bottom of a hill, down which a narrow road leads to a rude single-arched stone bridge. Here a shallow stream may be seen flowing rapidly, and which now and then stickles, to use a Devonshire phrase, over a pavement of either pebbles or rag-stone. A little rill descends by the side of the lane, and close to the celebrated for its illustrious men and the myself, have wandered amongst its delight beauty of its women. Those who, like ful lanes, will not think my picture overcharged. But I must introduce my reader to the inside of a Devonshire cottage. On enter ing it, he will see the polished dresser glit tering with bright pewter plates; the flitch of bacon on the rack, with paper bags stored with dried pot-herbs, for winter use, deposited near it; the bright dog-bars, instead of a grate, with the cottrell over them, to hang the pot on, and everything bespeaking comfort and cleanliness. The cotta ger's wife will ask him to sit down, in that hearty Devonshire phrase, which has often been addressed to me, and which I always delighted in "Do y', Sir, pitch yourself." bringing forward a chair at the same time, | her down. A gentle breath streaked across and wiping it down with her apron. A cup the waves, which flowed on as calm and as of cider will be offered, or bread and cheese, shining as before. The terrific agony deor whatever the cottage affords. prived him of consciousness. His heart I have known one of the children stealth-beat no more. He did not come to himself ily sent to a neighboring farmer's for a until he found himself on dry ground. He little clotted cream, which has been sot might have swam far, it was a strange coun before me with a loaf of brown bread, and try. He knew not what had befallen him; with the most hearty good will. They are his mind was gone;-thoughtless he wanso delicious a banquet, that Pope might dered farther into the land. He felt himhave thought of it when he saidself dreadfully exhausted. A little fountain trickled from a hill, it sounded like clear bells. With his hand he scooped a few drops, and wetted his parched lips. Like an anxious dream the terrible event lay behind him. He walked on and on; flowers and trees spoke to him. He felt himself so well, so at home. Then he heard again that simple song. He pursued the sound. Suddenly some one held him back by his garment. Dear Heinrich! "Beneath the humble cottage let us haste, And there, unenvied, rural daiuties taste." I have dwelt longer than I intended on the cottage scenery of Devonshire, because I think it stands preeminent in this country for beauty, and because I regard its peasantry as affording the best examples I have met with of unaffected kindness, civility, industry, and good conduct. THE DREAM. ["NOVALIS " (FRIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG), one of the leaders of the romantic school of German writers, was born May 2, 1772, and died March 25, 1801. Besides numerous poems, hymns, and fragments on philosophy and religion, he composed a romance entitled Heinrich von Ofterdingen, which was left incomplete. From this work we quote.] Heinrich was heated, and it was late, toward morning, when he fell asleep. The thoughts of his soul ran together into won drous dreams. A deep blue river shimmered from the green plain. On the smooth surface swam a boat. Mathilde sat and rowed. She was decked with garlands, sang a simple song, and looked toward him with a sweet sorrow. His bosom was oppressed, he knew not why. The sky was bright, and peaceful the flood. Her heavenly countenance mirrored itself in the waves. Suddenly the boat began to spin round. He called to her, alarmed. She smiled, and laid the oar in the boat, which continued incessantly to whirl. An overwhelming anxiety seized him. He plunged into the stream, but could make no progress; the water bore him. She beckoned, she appeared desirous to say something. Already the boat shipped water, but she smiled with an ineffable inwardness, and looked cheerfully into the whirlpool. All at once it drew 66 called a well-known voice. He looked AN ECHO. "Come back," I sigh'd- I dropped upon the tide Was vanished many an hour. "Come back," the Echo sigh'd. "Come back," I cried- An angel bears above, JOHN JAMES PIATT. |