A tour round my garden

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http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031230711

FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN.

TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

a gees FROM THE FRENCH
Oe ALPHONSE KARR.

Rebised and Gbdited
&
BY THE REV. Jef*¥OOD, M.A, PLS. &.

ry
AUTHOR OF THE ILLUSTRATED NATURAL HISTORY.

A NEW EDITION.

WITH ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS
BY WILLIAM HARVEY.

LONDON :
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
NEW YORK : SCRIBNER, WELFORD AND CO.
GUREELL
UNIVER ET

PREFACE.

WHILE so many foreign authors are enjoying an English
reputation scarcely inferior to that by which they are distin-
guished in their own land, it is rather remarkable that the
works of Alphonse Karr should be so little known in this
country. There are few writers who have shewn such keen
perception of character, such true delicacy of feeling, and such
real originality of thought, as are to be found in every page
of this charming author. Through all his works there runs
a vein of the gentlest feelings towards mankind, an apprecia-
tion of everything that is good and noble, and a sympathy
with every kindly affection of our nature, rendered more

piquant by a slight spice of genial misanthropy.

His lively wit is directed lightly against the ordinary
failings of mankind; and there is but one class of men for
whom he has no mercy. He treats a sham much as an
American Indian treats an enemy—he tomahawks him with
an argument, scalps him with an epigram, and triumphantly

despoils him of his borrowed plumes.

Vili PREFACE.

In the translation of the Work, it has been an object to
preserve, as far as possible, that originality which adds so
much to the power of a book; and for this reason the
allusions to French customs and manners have been left
untouched. Wherever practicable, the plants and other ob-
jects of natural history have been designated by their English
titles; but, as many of them are not British, their French

names have necessarily been retained.

In order to make the present volume more worthy of the
public notice, it has been copiously illustrated with Wood-

cuts by Witu1am Harvey, and the BrotHers DawziE..

Merton CoLLEGcE,
Dee. 1854,

CONTENTS.

——
PAGE
: LETTER I.
FORUUCRON 6 Se a a a eo a ee we gy ew ee we OF
LETTER II.
The Loves of the Spiders—The Tour—Comparisons. . . .... 6
LETTER III.

The Two Carpets—The Glories of Nature always within our Reach—In
the Journey of Life are many Promises of Happiness—Our Play-
things are but changed in Name . . 2. 2. 2 2 2 ee eee

LETTER IV.

The Start—Costume—The Wren—The Mason Bee—The Chrysis—

Marie Antoinette. 2. 2. 6 2 2 ee ww ee we we ews
: LETTER V.

Varied Colours of the Rose—Its Progress from a Wild Flower, or Eglan-
tine, to its present Perfection—The Cetonia, the Enemy of the
Rose—The Aphis Rose—Extraordinary Fecundity of an Aphis—
The Lady-bird—Nature’s Provision to preserve a Balance—The
generative Principle in Flowers—Grafted Rose . .....-.

LETTER VI.

Savants—The Reseda or Mignonette—The Marsh-mallow and the

ORDA ee Re a te el RR
LETTER VII.

Nut-tree—Nut-Weevil—What is Property? . 1. 2 2 2 se we
LETTER VIII.

The Lily—The Ichneumon-fily—The Poppy . 2. » «ee ee © «

LETTER IX.
Awakening of Creation—The Lupin—Night—~—The Sleep of Creation—
The Glowworm—The Death's-head Moth—Respiration of Plants .

10

7

23

36

41

48

59

x CONTENTS.

PAGE

LETTER X. '

What is Happiness? — Recollections and Regrets— Universality of

Death—Who are mad, and who sanef . . . «© «© ee ee
LETTER XI.

Upon my Back . . 2. 2. © 2 © we ee eee wo we ww we
LETTER XII.

Colours. 2. 2 2 ee te ee ew ee ee ee we
LETTER XIII.

On my Face . . . 2 ee © ee ew we we ee ay een
LETTER XIV.

The Violet-—Ants—The Power of Love—Miracles . . . 2. . 2 +
LETTER XV.

The Tulips, and their Story . . 2 2 6 © © © © ee se eee
LETTER XVI.

Quasi Maritime. 2. 2 6 2 6 0 © ee we wo we we ww
LETTER XVII.
The Metamorphosed Rivulet 5. . 2 2 2 2 2 ee ee eee

LE?TER XVIII.

The Anthropophagi . 1. 2 2 6 5 © © © we ww we we ww
LETTER XIX.

The Caddis—Aspects of Death—Flowing Water—Dress—The Leaf-

cutter Bee . 2 1 6 ew we tt ww we ee tht
. LETTER XX.

Flowers and their Memories . . . 2 2 se ew es we we ew ewe
LETTER XXI.

Music—Dragon-flies—The Water-lily and the Vallisneria . . . .
LETTER XXII.

Memories of the Dead. we ee we ew ee eh et we
LETTER XXIII.

The Golden-crested Wren—Amateurs of Flowers—The Peony .. .
LETTER XXIV.

The poor Travellers—The Castle of Chillon . . . . 2. ee» wee
LETTER XXV.

An Amateur finds fault with an Auricula, . . 2. 2 2 ee wwe
LETTER XXVI.

AnOld Wal... .. SG Sele pS el ES a OR
LETTER XXVII.

The childish Theft—Retribution « . ,» 2 2 ee ee ee wee

79

86

93

102

117

123

126

131

141

144

150

153

158

165

168

174

CONTENTS.

LETTER XXVIII.
The Pipe and the Snuffbox- ......... te Ser aah

LETTER XXIX.

Quasi Apiarian . 2. 2... 1. SO Qe S SS Be
LETTER XXX.
Bees Gal ine LES Sab tak Neil See seu Gat Gey Sierra UG Tg deh ey “Wh Of sha SP ek BS

LETTER XXXI.

Virgil again—The Hyacinth—The Larkspur . A ee ati SE at ae
LETTER XXXII.

False Gods) og wee ee a
LETTER XXXIII.

The Mantis—The Orchis—The Gall Insect—Cochineal—Value of
SCATICC. se. Sige Se Sa eS Re a ee ee

LETTER XXXIV.
The little Causes of great Events—The Fraxinella—The Nigella—

LETTER XXXV.

The enriched Woodman. . . 6 1 1 we te ee te
LETTER XXXVI.

Fennel--The encroaching Visitor. . ah abe tay ae ee Sn fae Se
LETTER XXXVII.

The encroaching Visitor. . ... Cee ie Re o
LETTER XXXVIIIL.

Wonders of Travel—Scientific N Natare: 6 sec eye es Si

LETTER XXXIX.
Wild Flowers in Gardens—The Shower . . . . . + 2 e+ we ee

LETTER XL.
After the Shower . . Se 8 a tae aes Aes eS ES Tae ae tee
LETTER XLL
The Clothes Moth—An incredulous Man does not believe in the Sausage-
€LEGr ei ae ar ee a A) Neto ok

LETTER XLII.
Flax—The discomfited Florists . . Bo Bee =) Ss a

LETTER XLIII.

A Modern Deity—A Philosophical and Theological History of Hemp
and Flax, with their various Fortunes from their Birth to their
Apotheosis . . . wo nee oa oe hae Beas cigs

190

199

203

207

216

218

225

228

232

235

239

246

258

xii CONTENTS.

PAGE

LETTER XLIV.

The Tendrils of Plants—The Purple of the Ancients—The March of

the Orchis . ...... Cae ats $ Bris

LETTER XLV.

Nature’s Sympathy less sublime than its Indifference iS es A ORS
LETTER XLVI.

The Connoisseur is deceived . . «2 2 + 6 we et te eh ee
LETTER XLVII.

ATaleof Youth . . 1. 1. 1 ee ee ee ee te
LETTER XLVIII.

De: VAG? b..ae SSe ce y pas vies es RR a cree ae ce GRR a ee a
LETTER XLIX.

L’Herbe au Chantre—Racine—Boileau—Sorcerera— Pliny— Homer—

and Yellow Garlick. . . . . St ay hed Sal, ay Tete U8:
LETTER L.

Virtuessof Plante: 5° as. gp le Ae et a a a Qe ee ae
LETTER LI.

The Tulip under incognito . 2. 1. we ee ee ee ee

LETTER LII.

Each Plant has its own Type, but Men try to form themselves on one

single Type. . . ... «ee 8 oe

LETTER LIIl.

Man the Monarch of Creation—The Violet and its Proprietors .
LETTER LIV.

Flowers and their Proprietors . . 2. 2... 2. eee ee ee
LETTER LV.

The Groundsel—Laurels—Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality . . . .
LETTER LVI.

Dreamland. 5 le. seve: vas es See ey se Ge tw ea tee ew
LETTER LVII.

Aromatic Plants—Scientific Nomenclature . .......
LETTER LVIII.

The Yellow Roses. . ..... ey ao Geel SE xen oe
LETTER LIX.

Origin and Properties of certain Plants—Their Colours only compara-
tive—End ofthe Tour . . . we ee Age car IS se we

257

260

264
271

281

286
290
294
299
305

308

314
317

322

330

LETTER IL

INTRODUCTION.

Do you remember, my friend, the day on which you set out
for that long and delightful tour, the preparations for which
had so long engrossed your time and attention ?

I called in the morning, to pass a few minutes with you,
as I had been accustomed to do, but not being aware that it
was the day fixed on for your departure, I was surprised at
the unusual, state of your house: everybody appeared un-
settled and busy, and the servants were running up and down
stairs unceasingly. An elegant travelling carriage, with the
horses harnessed, was standing in the court-yard. At the
moment I entered, the postilion had already placed one of
his huge boots in the stirrup, and one of your servants,

B

2 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

mounted as a courier to prepare relays, was teazing his horse,
which curvetted beneath him.

On my arrival, I found you absent and preoccupied ; it
was an effort for you to answer my questions, and address a
few words to me; you seemed as agitated as a bird about to
take wing.

You bade me adieu with a warm and friendly squeeze of
the hand, and sprang into the carriage; Arthur, your valet
de chambre, got up behind, you waved your hand, and the
courier set off at full gallop. In the meanwhile, the postilion
drove out of the court-yard, cracked his whip as a signal of
departure; this brought the neighbours to their windows,
the passers-by stopped, you waved me one more adieu, and
bid the postilion, “Go on!” The horses were off at a gallop,
and all soon disappeared at the turning of the street. :

As for me, I stood looking after you, bewildered, stupified,
sad, dissatisfied, humiliated, without knowing precisely why.

The neighbours reclosed their windows; the passers-by
continued their way; your porter closed the gate of the
court-yard, the hinges giving forth their inharmonious gra-
ting: and yet there I stood motionless in the street, not
knowing what to do, what was to become of me, or where I
should go; it appeared to me that the only road in the
world was that which you were pursuing, and that you had
taken it away with you. ;

Nevertheless, I began to perceive that people looked at me
with astonishment, and I took at random—for the sake of
moving rather than with a view of going anywhere—the oppo-
site direction to that by which you had departed.

It was not long before it occurred to me to ask myself
where [ was going; and this question, to a certain point,
embarrassed me; the public walks appeared dull—the people
out of spirits—I determined to return home.

As I walked along, I began to think of you in not the very
best of humours. I could not help fancying that your air
was almost disdainful; you seemed flattered by the attention
your departure and your equipage excited; you appeared to
leave your street, your house, and your old friend, as we leave
things that are worn out, and with which we have no longer
anything to do.

INTRODUCTION. 3

Gradually, I allowed feelings almost amounting to ill-will
towards you to creep into my heart; but, happily, I soon
stifled them, when I found, upon examination, that they owed
their birth to nothing but envy.

Every happiness excites jealousy. When we see others in
the enjoyment of it, we endeavour to persuade ourselves that
they have injured us in some serious manner; and then we
try to dignify that mean sentiment.of envy with a nobler
name, and call it just resentment, proper pride, or wounded
dignity.

When once I recognised my weakness, I quickly triumphed
over it, and justified you; but it was not so easy a matter te
justify myself to my own conscience. ;

Truly the evil one would have very little hold of us if
he presented the baits he lays for us under their proper
names.

When I returned to my home I could not refrain from
enyying your happiness, but you I no longer envied; you
again appeared the same excellent friend, as soon as I ceased
to seek in you those chimerical qualities that are imposed
upon a poor Pylades, although we never examine if we our-
selves are for another what we require another. should be for
us; in a word, every one is anxious to have a friend, without
taking any particular pains to be one himself.

But, as my ill-humour towards you faded away, it seized
upon myself, and I complained bitterly that my scanty
fortune would not permit me, like you, to see other countries,
other men, other climates; and I became painfully aware
of the poverty to which I had hitherto given but little
attention.

What! said I to myself, shall I be always, then, like that
poor goat which I see fastened to a post in a field yonder?
She has already cropped all the grass which grew within the
circle its cord allowed it to traverse, and she must recom-
mence by nibbling the herbage which she has already eaten
down as close as velvet.

Whilst thus soliloquizing, I stood upon the balcony of
a low window which opened on to my garden, looking out
mechanically upon the scene before me; the sun was setting;
at first my eyes, and afterwards my soul, were enthralled

4 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

and engrossed by the magnificent spectacle which presented
itself.

High up in the ieavens, towards the west, were three strips
of clouds: the highest was formed of a kind of foamy flakes,
grey and rose-coloured; the second was in long tints of a
darkish blue, slightly tinged with saffron yellow; the third
was composed of grey clouds, over which floated a clear
yellow vapour: beneath was a vast lake of bright, pure, and
limpid blue, while under this was stretched a long grey cloud,
with a fringe of pale fire, and lower down was another lake of
a rather paler blue; when again floated a narrow cloud, of a
grey colour, like that of the burned ashes of a volcano, and
under this was a fresh lake of a somewhat greenish blue, like
some turquoises, but deep and limpid as the others; and
then, beneath all, were masses of cloud, whose upper part
was white, glistening with pale fires, and the under part of
a sombre grey, with a fringe of the most brilliant flames.

There, in a thick orange-coloured vapour, sank the sun, of
which only a blood-red point was visible. Then, when the
sun had totally disappeared, all that had been yellow in the
picture assumed corresponding shades of red; the pale blue
or faint green became a more full and dark azure. And all
nature seemed, as I did, to admire these eternal beauties.

The breeze had ceased to agitate the leaves of the trees;
the birds no longer disputed for their roosts under the thick
foliage; not even an insect was heard to buzz in the air; the
very flowers had closed their rich blossoms, and there was
nothing to occupy or distract the senses.

Then I reflected that, at many miles: distance, you, in
your caléche, with your courier and your postilion before,
your valet behind, could not possibly behold a more splendid
spectacle than that which was spread before my eyes and
that, probably such a one would awaken in you less con-
templation, and consequently less delight.

And I thought of all the riches which God has given to the
poor; of the earth, with its mossy and verdant carpets, its
trees, its flowers, its perfumes; of the heavens, with aspects so
various and so magnificent; and of all those eternal splen-
dours which the rich man has no power to augment, and
which so far transcend all he is able to buy.

INTRODUCTION. 5

I thought of the exquisite delicacy of my senses, which en-
ables me to enjoy these noble and pure delights, in all their
plenitude. I also remembered how few and simple were my
wants and desires ;— the richest, most secure and most indepen-
dent of fortunes. And,with joined and clasped hands, with eyes
raised towards the gradually darkening heavens, with a heart
filled with joy, serenity, and thankfulness, I implored pardon
of God for my murmurings and my ingratitude, and offered
up my grateful thanks for all the enjoyments he had lavished
upon me.

And as I sunk to sleep that night, my spirit was filled with
pity for those poor rich.

: WN =
BS Se os
BAA SSA 8

LETTER Il.

THE LOVES OF THE SPIDERS—THE TOUR—COMPARISONS.

As I stood at my window the next morning, I perceived in
a corner a spider's web. The hunter, who had spread his nets,
was busy in repairing the rents caused, either the evening
before or that morning, by some prey of an unexpected size,
or a desperate resistance. When all was repaired, the spider,
which was twice as big and as heavy as the largest fly, ran
along the web without breaking a single mesh, and went
to conceal itself in an obscure corner, whence it might watch.
Tobserved it for a long time. Two or three flies floating
heedlessly about were taken in these perfidious toils, and
struggled in vain; the implacable Nimrod darted upon its
captives, and sucked them without mercy; after which it
repaired one or two damaged threads, and returned to its
hiding-place.

But behold! another spider of a smaller size. Why has
it left its nets and its ambush? Ha! ha! it isa male, and
a male in love; he thinks no longer of the chase, he is like
the son of Theseus—

“My bow, my darts, my car, invite in vain.”

He approaches, and he draws back—he loves, he fears. There

THE SPIDERS, 7

he is, upon the first thread of the web of her whom he loves;
terrified at his own audacity, he recoils and flies away, but
only quickly to return. He makes one step, then another,
then stops.

Gentle reader, you have seen timid lovers, you have been
one yourself if you have ever really loved. You have trembled
with terror beneath the pure and innccent glance of a young
girl; you have felt your voice fail when near her; and certain
words which you wished to utter, but durst not, have seemed
to fill your throat to strangulation. But never have you
seen a lover so timid as this—and not without good reasons.

The female spider is much larger than the male, and this is
almost generally the case with insects. If, at the moment at
which the lover presents himself, her heart speaks to her, she
yields, like all other beings, to the sweet influence of love; she
softens as the panther does, she gives herself up to the delight
of loving and being beloved, and ventures to evince it; she.
encourages her timid lover, and her web becomes for that
beloved lover the silken ladder of our romances.

But if she is insensible, if her hour has not yet come, she
nevertheless advances slowly to meet the trembling Hippo-
lytus, who seeks in vain to read in Ker features whether he is
to hope or to fear; then, when‘at a few paces from the
amorous youth, she darts upon him*-seizes him—and eats
him!

True it is then that the most ancient and most ridiculous
metaphors invented by lovers cease to be metaphors, and
assume a real and terrifying sense. Here is certainly a lover
who has reason to complain of the hard-heartedness of his
beloved. Here is a lover who will not be accused of exagge-
ration, if, into the avowal of his sentiments\he should allow
to glide the often-abused question, “Am I tq live or die?” or
even this sentence. “If you repulse my love, it will be my
death-warrant.”

My friend, however, was more fortunate, | for the belle
advanced towards him, whilst he waited for |her in visible
anxiety; but whether he perceived in her behaviour any
unsatisfactory sign, or whether the coquette had not sufficient
skill to compose her countenance, which I could not dis-
tinguish from the smallness of its proportions, or whether she

8 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

permitted to appear in her air more hunger than love, or
whether, in short, the lover was not struck with one of those
intense flames which brave all dangers, he took to flight with
such rapidity that I lost sight of him, as doubtless did his
inhuman mistress, for she returned tranquilly to her ambus-
cade, to wait for other victims.

I had before been present at similar scenes; for I have
passed a great part of my life in the country, and had much
studied the habits of insects; but this time, the little drama
of which I had been a spectator made a particular impression
upon me, and my thoughts reverted to you.

Truly, said I to myself, this must be a singular restlessness
of spirit, this love of travelling, and travellers are strange
beings to go to great distances, and at great expense, to see
new things, without having taken the trouble to look at their
feet or over their heads, where as many extraordinary and
unknown things are passing as they can possibly desire to
know. There he is, gone, continued I, still thinking of you;
and he may make the tour of the whole world without
meeting with so strange a love affair as I have just been a
witness of from my window.

Under whatever part of the heavens they may dwell, in
whatever fashion they may dress, or not dress at all, men live
upon four or five passions, which are always the same, which
do not vary in their depths, and very little in their forms.

Love nowhere presents so singular a drama as that which
has just passed before my eyes.

In yonder tuft of moss, green as an emerald, wavy as velvet,
and as large as the palm of my hand, there are loves, hatreds,
combats, transformations, and miracles, going on, which are
perfectly unknown to us, and which we have never looked
after. And further, in great things, particularly such as
concern man, nature appears to have restricted herself to
rules almost invariable, whilst among flowers and insects, she
seems to have abandoned herself to the most strange and
delightful fantasies.

A whimsical mania is that which makes men close their
eyes against all surrounding objects, and only deign to open
them at five hundred miles from home.

“Well!” cried I to myself, “T also will make a voyage; I

THE TOUR. 9

will see new and extraordinary things; I also will have
something to tell.”
Make you the tour of the world,

I WILL MAKE THE TOUR OF MY GARDEN.

I will wait for you here, my friend; you will find me
under my fig-tree, or under one of the honeysuckles, and I
will make you avow that there is a great and terrible punish-
ment for travellers as for inconstant lovers :—for travellers,
arrival; for inconstants, success; for they then find how
much all countries and all women are alike.

What are you going to see abroad? How proud you will
be in your first letter, if, by chance, you should’ ever think
of writing to me at all, to tell me you have seen women
tattooed and painted in divers colours, with rings in their
noses.

And I will answer you: Well, my good friend, what occa-
sion was there for going so far?) Why did you go further
than two streets from your own house? There was nothing
to prevent your looking at your sister-in-law, who, after the
example of a hundred other women you are acquainted with,
and each of whom is at once painter, original, and portrait,
puts pearl white and rouge upon her brow and cheeks, black
upon her eyelids, blue to increase the apparent fulness of her
veins, and passes rings through her ears in the same manner
that savage women pass them throngh their noses. Pray,
why is it more strange to pierce one cartilage than another!
Can the difference be worth going so far to see?

I know very well you will meet with sharpers and cheats ;
with the imbecile, the hypocritical, the proud, the egotistical,
the envious, the mendicant ; but have you not remarked that
there area few of these to be equally found here?

Is it so difficult, in this country, to experience hunger or
thirst—too much heat, or too much cold, that you think it
worth while to go so far for these unpleasant sensations?

Is there any plague, or any fever, or any leprosy unknown
in our country that you feel a wish to take?

Or, are you so weary of the common house-flies which
annoy you here in the summer, that you travel two thousand
miles for the pleasure of being stung by musquitoes?

LETTER III.

THE TWO CARPETS—THE GLORIES OF NATURE ALWAYS WITHIN OUR REACH—
IN THE JOURNEY OF LIFE ARE MANY PROMISES OF HAPPINESS—OUR PLAY-
THINGS ARE BUT CHANGED IN NAME.

TuRovenout the night, my thoughts have been upon you

my absent friend, of you and your travels——and I com-

prehend you less than ever. Are you, well acquainted with
these flies that shine and buzz around you; with those flowers
which bloom and perfume the air; with those birds that sing
so sweetly ; with these leaves that tremble—with that water
which murmurs? Have you contemplated them, each once
only, and the various parts that compose them? Have you
followed them from their birth to their death? Have you
seen their loves and their marriages, before going so far to
see things you have not seen? As for me, this morning I had

a great treat, of which I hasten to give you a share.

About three years ago I purchased an old carpet to place
in my studio, as I call an apartment tolerably well furnished,

THE TWO CARPETS. 11

in’ which I sometimes shut myself up, to prevent interruption
whilst I am doing nothing. This carpet represents foliage
of a sombre green, strewed over with large red flowers. Yes-
terday my eyes fell upon my carpet, and I perceived that
the colours were becoming very faint, that the green was
getting of a very dingy hue, that the red was faded in a
deplorable manner, and that the wool was worn off, and
showed the string over the whole space that led from the
door to the window, and from the window to my arm-chair
in the chimney corner. That is not all; whilst moving an
enormous and heavy table of carved wood, I made a rent iu
the carpet, All this disturbed me so much, that I imme-
diately had the rent repaired, but I could neither restore
freshness to the leaves nor brilliancy to the red flowers.
But this morning, whilst walking round my garden, I
stopped before the grass-plot which is nearly in the centre
of it.

Now here, said I, is just such a carpet as I like, always
fresh, always handsome, always rich. It cost me sixty pounds
of grass seeds, at twopence halfpenny the pound, that is to
say, twelve shillings, and it is about the same age as that in
my closet, which cost me twelve pounds ten shillings. That.
which cost twelve pounds ten shillings has undergone sad
changes; it is now poor, and becoming poorer every day, in
its tarnished splendour, threadbare, disgraceful and patched ;
whilst this before me becomes every year more beautiful, .
more green, more tufted. And with what profuseness of
beauty it changes and renews itself! In spring it is of
a pale green, strewed over with small white daisies and a few
violets. Shortly after, the green becomes deeper, and the
daisies are replaced by glossy buttercups. To the buttercups
succeed red and white trefoil. In the autumn, my carpet
assumes a yellower tint, and instead of the red and white
trefoil, it is sprinkled with colchicums, which spring from
the earth like little violet-coloured lilies. In winter its white
snow dazzles the eyes, as it has been danced and walked over.
Then although in the spring, as well as the autumn, it isa little
worn and ragged, it puts itself to rights in such a manner, that
we cannot perceive its wounds, or even its scars: whilst my
other carpet remains there with its eternal red flowers, which

12 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

become more ugly every day, and with its badly-mended
rents.—How rich then I am!

Will you write to me as you promised? On my part, I
will write you an account of my journey; I do not well know
whither to direct my letters, but yours will tell me when and
where. Rut what do you expect to see yonder which you
could not see here? I will endeavour to describe, as if it
were done by yourself, some distant country. Let us see:
“The sky is grey, like a heavy leaden cupola; the earth is
covered with a sheet of snow; the trees bend their black
skeleton forms to the sharp winds; at their feet venomous
toad-stools spring and flourish, the flowers are dead; the
frozen water is motionless between its herbless banks. Those
who persist in calling fountains mirrors, in which shepherd-
esses contemplate their simple, pretty features, and arrange
their modest dress; those who only see in nature what they
have first read in books, are obliged to admit that their
poetical mirrors are turned silver side uppermost. Some firs,
“in their melancholy, sombre foliage, afford asylum to only
a few mute birds, with their feathers standing on end with
cold, and which, pressed with hunger, fight for the scanty
fruit left upon the leafless trees; the purple berries of the
whitethorn, the scarlet berries of the service-tree; the orange
berries of the cranberry, the black berries of the privet, or
the blue ones of the,laurustinus. :

“There is in the air neither the song of birds nor the
buzzing of insects, nor the perfume of flowers. The sun only
remains every day for a few hours above the horizon; he
rises and sets in pale and dull splendour.”

What country is this? If it were you, my dear friend,
who were writing these lines, you would call this dismal
climate Norway, with its snows and ice. For myself, this
country is my winter garden; in six months it will be so. I
have only to wait. I need not go and seek, midst a thousand
dangers—and, what is still worse, midst a thousand cares—
the rich countries where the sun is the object of adoration.
I will wait a few days, and the sun will make me seek a
friendly shade of balmy coolness.

There are times when the flowers languish with heat: there
are times when one only hears among the parched herbs, the

THE GLORIES OF NATURE. 13

monotonous cry of the grasshopper, when one sees nothing.
stirring abioad but the lizards.) The nights are cool, sweet,

THE LIZARD.

and fragrant; the flowering trees are filled with nightingales,
exhaling perfumes and celestial melody; and the grass is
brilliant with the glow-worms gliding about with their violet
flames.

You will in this manner, describe to me some far-off
country ; J will thus delineate what my garden affords. The
seasons, as they pass away, are climates which travel round
the globe, and come to seek me. Your long voyages are
nothing but fatiguing visits, which you go to pay to the
seasons which would themselves have come to you.

But there is still another land, a delightful country, which
would in vain be sought for on the waves of the sea, or
across the lofty mountains. In that country, the flowers not
only exhale sweet perfumes, but intoxicating thoughts of
love. There every tree, every Plant breathes, in a language
more noble than poetry, and more sweet than music, things
of which no human tongue can give an idea. The sand of
the roads is gold and precious stones; the air is filled with
songs, compared to which those of the nightingales and
thrushes, which I now listen to, are no better than the
croaking of frogs in their reedy marshes. Man in that land
is good, great, noble, and generous,

14 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

There all things are the reverse of those which we see
every day; all the treasures of the earth, all dignities crowded
together, would be but objects of ridicule, if there offered in
exchange for a faded flower, or . old glove, left in a honey-
suckle arbour. But why do { talk about honeysuckles?
Why I am forced to give the names of flowers you know to
the flowers of these charming regions? In this country no
one believes in the existence of perfidy, inconstancy, old age,
death, or forgetfulness, which is the death of the heart. Man
there requires neither sleep nor food; an old wooden bench
is there a thousand times more soft than eider-down else-
where; slumbers are there more calm and delieious, constantly
attended by blissfulydreams. The sour sloe of the hedges,
the insipid fruit of the bramble, there acquire a flavour so
delicious that it would be absurd to compare them to the
pine-apple of other régions. Life is there more mildly happy
than dreams can aspire to be in other countries. Go, then,
and seek these poetic isles!

Alas! in reality, it was but a poor little garden, in a mean
suburb, when I was eighteen, in love, and when she would
steal thither for an instant, at sunset!

So loved I a little shut-up garden.

After all, is this life anything but a terrible journey,
without repose, and with but one common end in view? Is
it anything more than arriving successively at various ages,
and taking or leaving something at each? Does not all that
surrounds us change every year? Is not every age a different
country? You were a child; you are a young man; you
may become an old man. Do you believe you shall find as
much difference between two persons, however remote from
each other they may be, as between you a child and you an
old man?

You are in childhood ;—the man is there with his fair hair,
his bold, limpid glance, and his light and joyous heart; he
loves every one, and every one seems to love him; everything
gives him something, and everything promises him still much
more. There is nothing which does not pay him a tribute of
joy, nothing which, for him, is not a plaything. The butter-
flies in the air, the bluebottles in the corn-fields, the sand of
the sea-shore, the herbage of the meadows, the green alleys of

THE JOURNEY OF LIFE. 15
the forest—all give him pleasure, all whisper to him promises
of mystic happiness.

You arrive at youth; the body is active and strong, the
heart noble and disinterested.. There, you violently break
the playthings of your childhood, and smile at the importance
you once attached to them, because you have found some
fresh play-things, with which you are as much in earnest as
you were with your tops and balls; now is the turn of friend-
ship, love, heroism, and devotedness,—you have all these
within you, and you look for them in others. But these are
flowers that fade, and do not flourish at the same time
in every heart. With this one, they are only in bud; with
that, they have long since passed away. You ask aloud
the accomplishment of your desires, as you would ask holy
promises. There is not a flower or a tree that does not
appear to have betrayed you.

But here we now are, arrived at old age ; we then have grey or
white hairs—or a wig. The beautiful flowers of which we were
speaking yield fruit but little expected,— incredulity, egotism,
mistrust, avarice, irony, gluttony. You laugh at the play-
things of your youth, because you still meet with others to
which you attach yourself more seriously, places, medals,
ribbons of different orders, honours, and dignities.

“Tt nothing boots that man, by doom, grows old,
He gains each stage, still ignorant and new ;—
On our last winters, on our age extinct,
Wisdom bestows but pale and sickly light,
Like the fair moon’s, whose mild and opal rays
Fall on night’s hours, when nothing more is done.”

Days and years are darts which Death launches at us, it
reserves the most penetrating for old age; the early ones
have destroyed successively your faiths, your passions, your
virtues, your happiness. Now it pours in grape-shot!—it
has shot away your hair, and your teeth, it has wounded and
weakened your muscles, it has touched your memory, it aims
at the heart, it aims at life. Then everything becomes your
enemy: in youth, the beautiful nights of summer brought
you perfumes, remembrances, and delicious ‘reveries; they
yield you nothing now but coughs, rheumatism, and pleurisies.

You hate those who are younger than yourself, because
they will inherit your money; they are already the heirs of

16 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

your youth, your hopes, your visions, of all which is aireaay
dead in you—

«Few men the secret learn of growing old;
Like certain fruits, they rot, but ripen not.”

Tell me, are we to-day that which we were yesterday, or
shall be to-morrow? Have we not cause to make singular
observations upon ourselves daily? Do we not present a
curious spectacle to ourselves?

Well, I will decide to commence my journey to-morrow, or
perhaps I shall finish by finding that it is.too great an exer-
tion, even to make the tour of one’s garden.

THE WREN,.

LETTER IV.

THE START—COSTUME—THE WREN—THE MASON BEE—THE CHRYSIS—MARIE
ANTOINETTE.

T wave started, my dear friend, and two things already em-
barrass me. In the first place, I do not know at what
precise distance from the point of departure we must be, to
entitle us to employ in our recitals the emphatic pretext
which gives so much importance to travellers— We set out, we
sailed, we saw, we noticed, we drank, and so forth.

Have I any right to make use of this, the true travelling
language? And if I do not, will my journey be a reai
journey ?

My second difficulty is—in the accounts you no doubt pre-
pare for me, at the same time that I am inditing a description
of my journey, you have an inappreciable advantage over me.
If, upon reading some narration, @ little extraordinary, or a
description somewhat supernatural, I indulge in an “ Ah!
ah !” or a gesture of incredulity, or even of admiration min-
gled with doubt, you will answer me: “Go andsee it!” It is
only three thousand miles off. But if, on the contrary, I
astonish you by anything unusual or prodigious, I have not
the same resource ; I can only say'to you—* Look for your-

c

1
s

18 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

self ; it ig on your right hand or your left ; it is on the rose-
bush at the end of the walk, or upon the periwinkle at your
feet ;” or, “Step a little on one side; that which I am de-
scribing is in the moss you are treading upon: you may
destroy my proof.” I have nothing then to do but to tell you
the truth; whilst you, satisfied that it is a general belief that
travellers at least exaggerate, will not be restrained by a virtue
which will bring you no honour, but will simply cause you to
be accused of dryness and poverty of imagination.

I saw your travelling costume, my dear friend; I owe you
a description of mine: it is an old dressing gown of black
velvet, with which you are well acquainted ; a cap to match,
and a pair of yellow morocco slippers—I do, not carry fire-
arms.

I leave my study at a quarter before six: the sun is already
high above the horizon ; his rays sparkle like fire-dust through
the leaves of the great service trees, and shining on my house
impart to it a rose and saffron-tinted hue. I go down three
steps. Here we are in China! Youstop meat my first word
with a smile of disdain. My house is entirely covered by a
wistaria: the wistaria is a creeping, branching plant, with a
foliage somewhat resembling that of the acacia, and from
which hang numberless large bunches of flowers of a pale blue
colour, which exhale the sweetest odour. This magnificent
plant comes from China: perhaps you are admiring it there
whilst I contemplate it here.

I do not believe I exaggerate, even with you, when I
declare that I think this a thousand times more beautiful
than the richest palaces—this house of wood, all green, all
blossoming, all perfumed, which every year increases in ver-
dure, blossoms, and sweet odours.

Under the projecting roof is the nest of a wren, quite a
little bird, or rather a pinch of brown and grey feathers, like
those of a partridge ; it runs along old walls, and makes a nest
of moss and grass, in the shape of a bottle. I salute thee,
my little bird, thou wilt be my guest for this year! Thou art
welcome to my house and to my garden. Tend and bring up
thy numerous family. I promise thee peace and tranquillity ;
thy repose, but more particularly thy confidence, shall be
respected. There is moss yonder, near the fountain, and

THE WREN, 19

plenty of dried herbage in the walks, from the newly-mown
grass-plat. There she is on the edge of her nest; she looks
at me earnestly with her beautiful black eyes. She is rather
frightened, but does not fly away.

The little wren ig not the only guest at my old house.
You perceive between the joists, the intervals are filled up
with rough stones and plaster. On the front, which is ex-
posed to the south, there is a hole into which you could not
thrust a goose-quill; and yet it is a dwelling: there is a nest
within it, belonging to a sort of bee, who lives a solitary
life.* Look at her, returning home with her provisions; her
hind feet are loaded with a yellow dust, which she has taken
from the stamens of flowers: she goes into the hole; when
she comes out again there will be no pollen on her feet ; with
honey, which she has brought, she will make a savoury paste
of it at the bottom of her nest. This is, perhaps, her tenth
journey to-day, and she shows no inclination to rest.

All these cares are for one egg which she has laid; for a
single egg which she will never see hatched; besides, that
which will issue from that egg, will not be a fly like herself,
but a worm, which will not be metamorphosed into a fly for
some time afterwards.

She has, however, hidden it in that hole, and knows
precisely how much nourishment it will require before it
arrives at the state which ushers in its transformation into a
fly. This nourishment she goes to seek, and she seasons and
prepares it. There, she is gone again!

But what is this other brilliant little fly which is walking
upon the house wall? Her breast is green, and her abdomen
is of a purple red; but these two colours are so brilliant,
that I am really at a loss to find words splendid enough to
express them, but the names of an emerald and a ruby joined
together.

That pretty fly—that living jewel—is the “chrysis.” I
scarcely dare breathe, for fear of making it fly away. I should
like to take it in my hands, that I might have sufficient time
to examine it more closely.t This likewise is the mother of a
family; she also has an egg to lay, from which will issue a

* Anthophora retusa.—Epb. + Chrysis ignita.—Ep,

20 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

fly like herself, but which she will never see. She also knows
how much nourishment her offspring will require; but, more
richly clothed than the bee, she does not, like her, know how
to gather the pollen from flowers, or to make a paste of it
with honey.

She has but one resource, and that resource she is deter-
mined to employ—she will neither recoil from roguery nor
theft to secure the subsistence of her offspring; she has

THE CHRYSIS.

recognised the solitary bee, and she is going to lay her egg in
her nest: it will hatch sooner than that of the true pro-
prietor; then the intruder will eat the provisions so painfully
collected for the legitimate child, who, when it is hatched in
its turn, will have nothing to do but to die of hunger.

There she is at the edge of the hole—she hesitates—she
decides—she enters,

This insect interests me, she is so beautiful! The other
likewise interests me, she is so industrious! But, here she
comes back through the air: one would think her a warrior
covered with chased armour and a golden cuirass; she buzzes
as she comes along. The chrysis has heard the buzzing,
which is for her the terrible sound of a war trumpet. She

THE CHRYSIS. 21

wishes to fly; she comes out; but the other, justly irritated,
pounces upon the daring intruder, beating it with her head.
She bruises and tears the brilliant gauze of her wings, and
beats her down to the dust, where she falls stupified and
inanimate.

The bee then enters into her nest, and deposits and prepares
her provisions; but, still agitated with her combat and her
victory, she sets out again through the air. I follow her
with my eyes for a long time, and at last she disappears.

The poor chrysis is not, however, dead: she gets up again,
shakes herself, flutters, and attempts to fly; but her lacerated
wings will no longer support her. What can she do to escape
the fury of her enemy? It is not her business to fly away;
her business is to deposit her egg in the bee’s nest, and to
secure future provision for her offspring, but the bee came
back too soon. She ascends, climbing painfully: at times
her strength seems to fail her; she is forced to stop, but
at last she arrives—she enters—she is in! This time the
interest is for her. Just now she was only beautiful, now she
is very unfortunate. Iam aware that a long plea might be
made for the other. I should not like to be appointed judge
between them. Ah! she is out agam—she flies away! But
oh, how happy she is to have succeeded! Now I begin to
feel for the bee. The poor bee continues to bring provisions
for its young, which, nevertheless will die of hunger: she
makes fresh journeys to the flowers she loves; she places
herself on the catkins of the willow, upon the white flowers
of the arbutus, that beautiful evergreen tree, whose blossoms q f :
resemble those of the lily of the valley, and whose fruits are
like strawberries; she stops also on the berries of the yew, Unt
that poor tree, so tormented in our gardens, by being tor-
tured into globes, squares, vases, swans, peacocks—a good,
kind tree, which lends itself to everything, and is naturally
abused.

Were I to watch, one after the other, all the flies which
shine in the sun upon my house, the insects which conceal
themselves in the flowers of the wistaria, to suck honey from
them, and the insects which insinuate themselves to eat those
honey suckers; the caterpillars which crawl upon the leaves,
and the enemies of those caterpillars and those butterflies—

22 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

if I were to describe to you their birth, their loves, their
combats, their metamorphoses—perhaps you would have
returned from your tour before I had proceeded a single step ;
but I am determined, in this journey, to stop only at things
which strike my eyes, without research, without labour,
without study. Let us quit the old wooden house then, and
follow at random this tortuous path.

Here is the white julienne, with its long branches of
flowers; to enjoy its perfume, you must stoop down to it; it
is only in the evening that it exhales its sweets to a distance.
This was one of the favourite flowers of the unfortunate queen
Marie Antoinette, She was confined in the vilest chamber of
the prison of the Conciergerie. In the same apartment,
‘separated from her only by a screen, was a gendarme, who
quitted her neither night nor day. The queen’s whole
wardrobe consisted of an old black gown and stockings, which
she took off to mend herself, remaining with her feet bare.
Iam not sure that I should have loved Marie Antoinette,
but how is it possible to avoid admiring so much misery and
misfortune! A woman,—her name is not sufficiently known
—a good and an excellent woman, discovered a blessing and
a luxury to bestow upon her whom it was forbidden to name
otherwise than as the widow Capet. Madame Richard, a
keeper of the prison, brought her every day bouquets of the
flowers she loved; pinks, juliennes, and tuberoses. She thus
exchanged perfumes for the putrid miasmas of the prison.
The poor queen had something to look at besides the humid
walls of her dungeon. Madame Richard was denounced,
arrested, and put into prison, but they did not dare to perse-
cute her further, and shortly they released her. At a later
period, Danton exclaimed in his dungeon: “Oh, if I could
but see a tree!” The julienne remains the flower of Marie
Antoinette. The great Condé, when confined at Vincennes,
cultivated pinks. .

LETTER V.

VARIED COLOUKS OF THE ROSE—ITS PROGRESS FROM A WILD FLOWER, OR
EGLANTINE, TO ITS PRESENT PERFECTION—THE CETONIA, THE ENEMY OF THE
ROSE—THE APHIS ROSEH—EXTRAORDINARY FECUNDITY OF AN APHIS—THE
LADY-BIRD—NATURE’S PROVISION TO PRESERVE A BALANCE—THE GENERATIVE
‘PRINCIPLE IN FLOWERS—GRAFTED ROSE.

{ was very near passing by this rose-tree: I am passionately
fond of roses, but I don’t like to talk about them. The poor
roses have been so abused! The Greeks said five or six pretty
things about them; the Latins translated these, and added tc
them three or four of their own. From that time, the poets
of all countries and all ages have translated, copied, and
imitated that which the Greeks and Latins said, without at
all heightening our love of the flower by any fresh colouring.
They have even continued to call the month of May the
month of Roses, without reflecting that roses blossom earlier
in Greece and Italy than in our lands, where almost all roses
wait for the suns of June to expand their beauties.

Are you not wearied, as I am, with the eternal loves of the
butterfly and the rose; loves, by-the-bye, which have no
existence? Butterflies light upon roses as upon other flowers,

24 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

but the rose is far from being one of the flowers they prefer.
Are you not wearied, as I am, with the tints of the lily and
the rose, with which all women are bedaubed, and which, in
reality, would be as hideous as diamonds or coals for eyes,
genuine pearls for teeth, or eatable cherries for lips? Are you
not wearied, as I am, at having all our beauties roses; in a
word, with all the insipidities and sillinesses for which these
poor roses are the pretext? I think it disgraceful that our
poets are not better acquainted with nature and all the
eternal splendours with which God has endowed our abode.
I scarcely know one who has not proved by the manner in
which he speaks of flowers, trees, and herbage, that he has
never taken the pains to look at them. Only listen to them!
they confine themselves within three or four trivial gene-
ralities, which they have read, and which they repeat like
synonymes.

They are meadows enamelled with flowers. With what
flowers? of what colours are they? And in spring and
autumn it is just the same; violets and roses always bloom
together in verse, though never in nature. Some, more bold
than the rest, say that these flowers are of a thousand colours.
The flowery banks of rivulets! Are they the same flowers
that enamel the meadows? They know no more about them.
Zephyr who sports in the groves; which same zephyr is very
fond of kissing a half-blown rose.

They who write in verse are only acquainted with la rose, d
demi éclose (the half-blown rose), on account of the rhyme.
An innovator, about four hundred years ago, ventured upon
Sraiche éclose (newly blown), but they stopped there.

But, look yonder; see, springing from its beautiful foliage,
sharp pointed as swords, a stem bearing only on one side a
spike of lovely rose-coloured or white flowers; that is a
gladiolus. The poets speak of it sometimes, but they only
know one thing about it, and that is, that it rhymes with
tilleul (a linden-tree). They never fail to bring them together,
placing the glaieul under the ¢illeul—a thing I would not do
in my garden for the world; my poor gladiolus would fare but
badly in such a situation. It is very fortunate they don’t
sometimes put the tilleul under the glaiewl (the linden-tree
under the gladiolus): it would rhyme quite as well.

THE ROSE. 25

But let us return to our rose. We will not call it the Queen
of Flowers; we will avoid all the common-places of which it
has-been the subject, and over which it has triumphed. Let
us look at it only, and say what we see. There is no country
without roses; from Sweden to the Coasts of Africa, from
Kamtschatka to Bengal, or on the Mountains of Mexico, the
rose flourishes in all climates andin all soils; it is one of the
grand prodigalities of nature.

The rose-tree before which we now stop is covered with
white blossoms. Others bear flowers, varying from the palest
rose to the deepest crimson and purple, from the most
delicate straw colour, to the most brilliant yellow. Blue is
the only colour nature has refused it. There are very few
blue flowers. A

Pure blue is a privilege which, with some few exceptions,
nature only grants to the flowers of the fields and meadows.
She is parsimonious in blue: blue is the colour of the heavens,
and she only gives it to the poor, whom she loves above all
others.

Botanists, who take no account of either colours or per-
fumes, pretend that double roses are monsters. What shall
we call the botanists? We will exchange a few words with
the botanists before we come to the end of this journey.

This rose-tree was once a wild rose, or eglantine, which, ia
some obscure corner of a wood, decked itself with little
simple roses, each composed of five petals. One day, its head
and its arms were cut off; and then the skin of one of the
stumps which it was allowed to retain was opened, and between
the bark and the wood, a little morsel of the bark of another
rose-tree was insinuated, upon which was a scarcely perceptible
bud. From that day all its strength, all its sap, all its life,
have been consecrated to the nourishment of this bud. The
wound is closed, but the cicatrice may still be seen. This
eglantine bears no flowers of its own: it is a slave, who works
for a haughty master. That beautiful tuft of leaves and
flowers are not its flowers or its leaves.

But observe! there is, upon the green stem, just below the
graft, a rose-bud, which begins to peep out. That bud will
become a branch; that branch will belong to it. Oh, then
nature will resume her rights: the tyrant above, the beautiful

26 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

rose-tree, the cultivated rose-tree, will wait in vain for the
tribute hitherto paid to him; the sap will no longer ascend
to him—it will all be kept for this dear scion; there is. not
too much for it. But the gardener has perceived this attempt
at rebellion: he has cut off the pretender, and all is restored
toorder. A few days, however, after this, the rose-tree
again appeared to languish; the brilliancy of the monarch
was diminished; the foliage looked yellow and faded; and
yet the stem of the eglantine was shining andsmooth. Seek
for the cause. The poor slave is ingenious and obstinate: he
has caused a shoot to glide along under the earth, and only
allowed it to see the day at a distance from its parent. Go
back two or three steps, and behind that gilly-flower you will
see a little rose-bush, growing in shadeand silence. It is like
what its father was; like him it has flexible branches and
narrow leaves. Wait a year, and it will become an eglantine.
Rub its leaves, and you will find they exhale a pine-apple
odour, peculiar to one species of eglantine. Such was its
father when he had branches and leaves of his own. Here
it is in bud; here it is in blossom.

But the despot we left yonder is dead, and died of a
horrible death: he died of hunger. The revolted slave who
supported him, has, for a length of time, conducted under
ground, all his sap to his well-beloved offspring. That
beautiful crown of double flowers is withered: he himself,
the poor slave, is sick, and will soon die; for he has kept
nothing for himself. But he dies free: he dies avenged. He
leaves a strong, young, and vigorous offspring upon which the
little eglantine blossoms of the woods will burst forth next
year.

Our white rose-tree is not in this situation. The eglantine
which bears and nourishes it appears to be resigned to its
fate; indeed, we might even say it is proud of its slavery.
There are other slaves in the world who have no wish to break
their chains when they are well gilded. Our eglantine seems
to take pride in its beautiful crown.

But what emerald is that concealed in the heart of that
rose? The emerald is living: it is a cetonia;* it is a flat,
square insect, with hard wings, like those of a cockchaffer,

* Cetonia aurata.—Ep.

THE APHIS. 27

and brilliant as a precious stone. Turn it up: its under side
is of a still more beautiful colour; it is another precious
stone, more violet than the ruby, more red than the amethyst.
The cetonia, or rose-beetle, lives scarcely anywhere but in
roses. A rose is its house and its bed. It feeds on roses.
When it has eaten its house, it flies away in search of another,
but it prefers white roses to all the rest. If by chance you
find it upon another rose, which is rarely the case, neither its
abode nor its bed are to its mind. It would inspire you with
the same pity that you would feel for a ruined banker, obliged
to dwell in the fourth story, and to eat soup and bouilli, as
his only banquet. It feels sad and humiliated by it; but
still, breathing creatures must live. There are people who
resign themselves to a worse fate than this.

Twenty flies of different species and colours, are to be found
upon different parts of the rose-tree; but I pay no attention
to them—they are there by chance. They travel as you do;
they trifle as I do. I only take heed of the natives of the
country: I shall meet with the others elsewhere. We are
not yet ready to quit our rose-tree; for strange things are
going on in it at this moment.

Where are you, my dear friend? I have no idea where;
but I very much doubt if the country in which you are
sojourning be as smiling as my rose-tree; and, particularly,
whether the inhabitants be as handsome, brilliant, and happy
as the inhabitants of my rose-tree. And is it nothing to see
living beings happy? But, to a certainty, you are viewing
nothing so extraordinary as that which I see at this mo-
ment.

At the extremities of the young shoots of the rose-tree are
myriads of very small insects, of a reddish green, which en-
tirely cover the branch, and seem motionless: they are
aphides or vine-fretters, which are born within a line or two
of the place where they now are, and which never venture to
travel one inch in the course of their lives. They have a
little proboscis, which they plunge into the epidermis of the
branch, and by means of which they suck certain juices
which nourish them. They will not eat the rose-tree. There
are more than five hundred assembled upon one inch of the
branch, and neither foliage nor branch seems to suffer much.

28 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Almost every plant is inhabited by aphides differing from
those of others. Those of the elder are of a velvety black ;
those of the apricot are of a glossy black; those of the oak
are of a bronze colour; those of gooseberry-trees are like
mother-of-pearl; upon the absynthe they are spotted white
and brown: on the field-sorrel, black and green; upon the
birch, black, and another shade of green; upon the privet, of
a yellowish green; and upon the pear-tree, coffee-coloured.

All enjoy a life sufficiently calm. You scarcely ever see
an insect of this kind who is vagabond
enough to pass from one branch to
another. They sometimes go so far as
to make the tour of the branch they
dwell upon; but everything leaves us
to believe that this is only done in
the effervescence of ill-regulated youth,
or under the empire of some passion.
These outbreaks are extremely rare:
i Some of these aphides, however, have
| wings; but these wings only come at
a ripe age, and they do not abuse

THE AP UIS: them. The only serious care that seems
to occupy the life of the aphis, is the changing of its clothes,
It changes its skin, in fact, four times before it becomes a
perfect aphis; something like us men who try on two or three
characters before we fix upon one, although in general, we
preserve three during our whole lives :—one which we exhibit ;
one which we fancy we have; and another which we really
have.

When the aphides have finished changing their skins,
there only remains one duty to fulfil, which is to multiply
their species; but they take very little heed about that: they
have not, as quadrupeds have, to suckle their young—as
birds, to hatch their eggs—or, as other insects, to enclose them
in a cavern with necessary aliments. The aphis produces its
little ones whilst sucking its branch; and it never turns
round to look at the offspring it has given birth to. If the
mother shows but little anxiety for the little one, the little
one only returns the same amount of filial Jove that it has
received of maternal love. It sets out, descends below the

s THE APHIDES. . 29

rest, takes its rank, and plunges its little trunk into the
green skin of the rose-tree. There issue thus about a
hundred from a single mother, who all fallin regularly below
their predecessors, and begin to eat. In ten or eleven days
they change their skins four times; on the twelfth day, in
their turn, they begin to produce little ones who take their
rank, and themselves become prolific towards the twelfth day
from their birth. The aphides of the poppy are more pre-
cocious; in seven or eight days they have changed their
vestments four times, and enjoyed what I should call the
happiness-of being parents, if they were not quite indifferent
about the matter.

But, my good friend, you will say, upon reading this’
passage of my journey, there is an important deficiency here:
you profess to describe the lives of these aphides, and you
don’t say a word of their loves or their nuptials. I have
here, you will add, an immense advantage over you. I
relate to you, of every nation, a thousand whimsical or curious
ceremonies connected with marriage. Yes, my excellent
friend, I may answer, I could remind you of the loves of
those two spiders, which, when starting for my journey, I
fell in with in the corner of my window; but my present
business is only with aphides. Aphides are acquainted with
neither love nor hymeneals: aphides eat and make little ones,
exactly in the manner of Mother Gigogne, who so delighted
our childhood. Nature has taken the fancy to free herself,
with regard to aphides, from the general law of reproduction,
Don’t, however, imagine that she shrinks from the difficulty
on account of the smallness of these animals. There are
other animals which can only be distinguished with the assis-
tance of a microscope, which, in this respect, come within
the general rule. Notwithstanding the admiration which
the study of insects must create, you must not let this
admiration be exercised upon their greater or smaller size.
Great and small are only such with relation to ourselves;
and when we express astonishment at seeing a perfection in
the organs of the invisible cheese-mite, equal to those of the
ox or the elephant, it is a false feeling, arising from a false
idea.

One of these aphides will produce nearly twenty young ones

30 A TOUR. ROUND MY GARDEN.

in the course of a day; that is to say, a volume ten or twelve
times equal to its own body. A single aphis which, at the
beginning of the warm weather, would bring into the world
ninety aphides, which ninety, twelve days after, would each
produce ninety more, would be, in the fifth generation,
author of five billions, nine hundred and four millions, nine
thousand aphides—which is a tolerable amount. Now, one
aphis is, in a year, the source of twenty generations. I very
much doubt whether there would be room for them upon all
the-trees and all the plants in the world. The whole earth
would be given up to aphides; but this fecundity, of which
there are so many examples in nature, need not alarm us.
‘One poppy plant produces thirty-two thousand seeds, one
tobacco plant, three hundred and sixty thousand; each of
these seeds producing in its turn thirty-two thousand, or
three hundred thousand—would you not think that, at the
end of five years the earth would be entirely covered with
tobacco and poppies? A carp lays three hundred and fifty

THE CARP

thousand eggs at once. But life and death are nothing but
transformations. Death isthe aliment of life. These aphides
are the game that nourishes other insects, which in turn form
the food of the birds we eat. Then we are returned to the
elements, and serve as manure to the grass and the flowers,
which will produce and feed other aphides.

We need not go far to seek for the enemies of the aphides.

THE LADY-BIRD. 3l

Look! here, quite at his ease, on a rose-bud, is a little insect
well known to children: it is shaped like a tortoise, and is
about the size of a pea. Naturalists
call it a “coccinella,” and children
know it as the lady-bird. It is now
innocent enough ; but it has not always
been so. Before it became possessed
of its pretty form, and its polished
shell of orange, yellow, black, or red,
sprinkled with black or brown specks,
it was a large, flat worm, with six feet,
and of a dirty grey colour, marked
with a few yellow spots. These worms,
which issue from amber-coloured eggs,
deposited by the female upon leaves,
are no sooner born than they set out
in search of aphides. When they have
found a branch covered with game,
they establish themselves in the midst
of it, and are in want of no food till ‘
the moment they feel they are about SHEARS BLED:

to be transformed; then they attach themselves to some
solitary leaf, and wait, in abstinence, till they become veritable
lady-birds.

There would still be a superabundance of aphides if the
lady-birds were their only enemies. But do you not see,
hovering over one of the roses, a fly,* whose two wings move
so rapidly that it appears motionless? You would not care
to catch it, it so much resembles a bee, or rather a wasp.
Tts body is striped with yellow and black, but instead of being
round like the two insects you dread, it is remarkably flat ;
besides this, it has only two wings, and I do not believe
that any two-winged fly has a sting. It does not seem
to take any notice of the aphides which cover the branch
near to it. It is a parvenu. It has forgotten the humility
of its youth, when it had not its rich yellow and black vest-
ments, or, more particularly, its wings. It was formerly a
sort of shapeless worm, of a colour not at all striking, a dirty
green, with a yellow stripe the whole length of its body

* Scaeva pyrastri.—Ep.

32 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Placing itself upon a bed of game, this worm seizes the
aphides, one after another, with a sort of hollow trident,
through which it sucks them, taking particular care to reject
the empty dry skin every time. One of these worms eats
nearly an aphis a minute; asregards the aphides, the matter
appears to be perfectly indifferent to them, not one of them
is ever seen to make the least effort to avoid being eaten.

A Roman emperor, who found his end approaching, cried
out, in allusion to the custom of decreeing an apotheosis to
dead emperors: “I feel that I am becoming a god!” So
there isa moment at which this worm feels that it is becoming
a fly: and, like the lady-bird, it seeks a solitary place to pre-
pare for this metamorphosis.

Here is a branch on which the aphides are only on one
side; to-morrow there will be none at all; tbe reason of this
is, that they are attacked by their most redoubtable enemy,
an enemy which the learned and witty Reaumur called the
Lion of the Pucerons. This is, like the others, flat in form,
and is of a cinnamon colour with citron-yellow stripes; it is
much more voracious than the two other species of which we
have spoken. If one of these worms, by mistake, happens to
seize one of his brethren instead of an aphis so much the
worse for his brother—it will eat him. It would be losing
precious time to replace it upon a branch, and take an aphis
instead of it. One can afford very little leisure for so much
ceremony, when one has but a fortnight to eat all these
fat aphides in! In fact, at the end of a fortnight, it forgets
its appetite, and retires into a corner, shuts itself up in a shell
of white silk, as large as a pea, which it spins in a very short
time. Three weeks afterwards, the shell opens, and there
issues from it the most beautiful little creature you ever saw.
It is a sort of large fly* of a gay green colour, covered, when
it is settled, by long and large wings, of so fine a texture, that
its body can be plainly seen through them. These wings,
which are of a very pale green, present to the eye fibres, as it
were, of a deeper green, which form a network more charming
than that of the richest lace; on each side of the head is an
eye of a fiery red colour, the splendour of which far surpasses
that of precious stones.

* Chrysopa reticulata,—Ep.

NATURE’S PROVISION TO PRESERVE A BALANCE, 33

The learned formerly found little bunches upon leaves,
which excited their attention; these were stems as fine as
hairs, supporting a small bud, white like themselves; at
other times the buds were found open, like the chalice of a
flower; the thing was declared to be a plant by the learned.
The learned, however, were wrong; Reaumur made it clear.
that they were the eggs of that pretty fly of which we have
just spoken, before and after the birth of the worm which
was afterwards to be transformed into a fly.

T was afraid but now, of seeing the aphides invade the
whole earth ; I at present begin to fear that there will not be
aphides enough to feed all the insects to which they are
assigned as game. Nature appears to have partaken of this
second fear, and for this reason has suppressed the delays
and formalities, ordinarily reputed necessary ; aphides must
be born, eat, and be eaten in a very few days.

But what is that black animal which is ascending the
stem of the rose-tree? It is an ant; it climbs spirally, to
avoid the thorns; there it is upon the branch that is covered
by the aphides. Is this another enemy? Why, La Fontaine
told you it fed upon worms and insects; there, it is upon
them, but it does not devour them. As aphides eat, they
secrete a sweet liquor of which ants are very fond, and this
one is come to regale itself—it is a little black milkmaid, who
comes to milk some little green cows, which pasture in a
meadow of the size of a rose-leaf.

There is a bee which has glided into a rose; it is not long
before it comes out again, and flies away; its hind feet are
loaded with a yellow dust, which it has abstracted from the
heart of the flower. That yellow dust, mixed with the honey
which it disgorges, will be the paste destined for the worms
which are to become young bees. Do not fancy, however,
that this dust has no other destination. It is now time to
speak of the loves of the roses.

We will abstain from allusions to, as we said before, the
apocryphal loves of the Rose and the Butterfly. The but-
terfly who lights upon a rose, seldom comes there for any
other purpose than to deposit eggs, which will become cater-
pillars that will eat the rose. The loves, then, of which I
will speak are real loves, and are the most charming in the

D

ne
=—

384 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

world. Figure to yourself that all those roses which bloom
in the garden, pale purple or purple violet, yellow or nastur-
tium colour, white, or mixed with purple and white, conceal
from your eyes numbers of innocent loves.

The ancients placed dryads and hamadryads in trees; there
are nymphs quite as charming in roses. Let us go back to
the rose-tree of the woods. Its flower is composed of five
leaves or five petals: in the middle are some delicate threads,
supporting little yellow masses, these are the stamens; these
threads surround a sort of little green egg, which is called
an ovary, which contains the seed or grains; the grains
are eggs, which the plants leave for the earth and the sun to
hatch, as turtles do, when they deposit their eggs in the
sand. The mass which surmounts the stamens is covered
with that yellow dust with which the bee that has just
disappeared over the wall had loaded its feet. Every grain
of that dust is a skin which contains a much finer dust,
which fecundates the pistil, When once the pistil fecundates,
the nuptial bed is taken down—the leaves of the rose fade
and fall, one by one; the stamens become dry, and disappear.
The ovary enlarges, and becomes an oblong fruit of the shape
of an olive, green at first, then yellow, then orange, then
scarlet; then, some day, the fruit bursts, and grains of a gold
colour, containing eternal generations of rose-trees, fall upon
the earth,and there germinate. The little nymph who inhabits
the rose has from fifteen to twenty lovers; but all the inhabi-
tants of flowers have not a similar harem: that of the pink
has but ten husbands; the fair inhabitant of the tulip is
obliged to be content with six; the nymph of the Iris has
only three; that of the lilac two; of the red Valerian only
one; she who has chosen for a retreat the sumptuous poppy,
has around her no less than a hundred eager lovers. And
don’t believe, my good friend, that these are lovers invented
by versifiers, Cut off the stamens of a rose, and isolate it;
you will see the petals lose their splendid colour, become
rusty, and fall; but far from enlarging, and being brighter
in colour, the pistil also will sink barren. The hangings of
the nuptial bed will serve it for a winding-sheet; the rose
will die without leaving any posterity. The double rose is a
coquette ofan entirely unique species; you have read fairy tales,

LOVES OF THE ROSES. 35

in which a magician changes into trees or flowers her rejected
lovers; have we not, besides, in mythology, Daphne changed
into a laurel, Clytie into a sunflower? Did not Narcissus
and Adonis become flowers, to which they left their names?
Well, every one of the rose-leaves (beyond five) which sur-
round the nymph who dwells in the double rose, is one of
these lovers—each of the petals is made of one of the stamens
that she had. Certain roses are so double that they have
not one stamen left, and then they never have any seeds,
Our white rose, which has but five rows of petals, has pre-
served a few of its lovers.

Then we left the white rose-tree; and, taking three steps,
we found ourselves in a hostelry, which has the advantage of
being our own home. And you, my friend, where are you
going to dine? or, rather, where do you not dine? Where do
you sleep? or rather, where do you not sleep?

Ancient robbers upon the highways observed that they
were often imprisoned, that they were sometimes hung, and
they found it necessary to introduce some modification into
one of the most ancient professions; they discarded those
brown vests, those red pantaloons, those pistol bedecked
girdles, which are only met with in melodramas, and they
assumed a cotton cap and a white apron ; they took out the
licence of an aubergiste, and continue to plunder upon the
high roads, the theatre of their ancient exploits, but now
under the immediate protection of their ancient enemies, the
authorities and gendarmes.

In which of these caverns are you this evening—if even
you are happy enough to have reached: one? What suspicious
food is presented to your appetite? Do you think you are
certain the sheets of your bed have never been used by any
one else? And with what insects are you about to share
your couch?

ition
a,

LETTER VI.

SAVANTS—THE RESEDA OR MIGNONETTE—THE MARSH-MALLOW AND THE
BAOBAB.

Savants are men, who, in their greatest success, only contrive to get
deeper into the mud than other people.—Language of Science, and the
L of Old Associati

guag

A BRISK shower having driven me in from the garden, I sit
me down quietly then in my study, and amuse myself with a
species as curious as any of those we shall have opportunities
of observing in either your voyage or mine. I propose saying
a little about savants.

You cannot but remember that smiling portion of your
life, full of gaiety, sports, and affections—I mean childhood;
that childhood always too soon given up to pedants, who
aggravate children for ten years, in order to render them
aggravating for the rest of their lives.

SAVANTS, 37

Represent to yourself one of our school play-hours: all
those open, ingenuous, cheerful countenances; these engaged
in running and jumping, those with their kites, others in
throwing and catching balls, and others, again, skilfully
striking marbles with other marbles from a great distance.
Recreation is the true education that belongs to this age; by
it we become healthy, vigorous, active, and brave. But the
fatal hour has struck.

A man, with black clothes and a yellow visage, appears in
the court. Everything becomes silent, everything stops,
everything is sad. The sports of boyhood must all cease.
And why? No doubt, for the sake of learning a trade, an
occupation, to assure beforehand the independence of the
whole of their lives. Not at all.

There are amusements for a riper age as well as for
childhood. Youth has no amusements: it despises them, it
does not want them—it requires happiness.

Childhood in nowise desires other ages to partake of its
amusements. Youth would be furious if others wished to
take away a portion of its felicity. But mature age insists
upon having partakers of its amusements; which arises from
the circumstance of these amusements being very tiresome.
In fact, these said amusements consist in nothing but reading
and re-reading, for the hundredth time, the same Latin and
Greek books.

For my part, I cannot see why each age should not be
left in the free enjoyment of its own pleasures, or why children
should be tormented during the whole of their joyous age,
by being taught a game which may amuse them at an age
they are not certain of attaining. I cannot see why they
should be forced to admire what they don’t understand; why
an entirely literary education should be given to people who
are destined to be dispersed through all the conditions of
human life; or why literary studies should be confined,
during ten years, to the learning of the only two languages
that are never spoken.

Jean Jacques Rousseau knew but very little Latin. I
have no need to tell you why Homer did not understand
Latin at all.

That which savants do with regard to children, they do

38 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

with regard to everything they come near. They render
everything wearisome, dry, stiff, and pretentious.

They cannot leave flowers alone—they put them in starch.
See a savant enter a smiling meadow or a perfumed, blooming
garden; listen to him: you would take a disgust for both
meadow and garden.

They began by forming for those graceful things called
flowers, three barbarous languages, which they afterwards
mixed, in order to compound one still more barbarous; then
every savant brought his little contributions of new bar-
barisms, as was done among the ancients to those heaps of
stones placed by the road-sides, to which every traveller was
obliged to add a pebble at least.

I was about to write, at hazard, such of the words of this
language made by these gentlemen as occur,to me. But
you would not only say, is it not sad work to see flowers
thus treated, that festival of the sight, as the ancient Greeks
called them. But Iam sure you would not read two lines
of them; therefore, I will let you off with halfa-dozen—
Mesocarps, quinqueloculars, infundibuliform, squammiflora,
guttiferas, monocotyledons, &c. dsc. &c. *

Have you enough? You will never make a botanist;
you would have to store your memory with an endless no-
menclature like the above, with the satisfaction of knowing
that the learned are adding to it daily, and that when
acquired you had not gained the name of a single flower.

As to the names of flowers, look, at the foot of that wall,
at these bunches of mignonette, or reseda. Linnzeus, who
fully played his part in the barbarisms, but who considered
flowers in a friendly light, and who, of all savants, has least
ill-treated them—Linnzus said that the odour of the reseda
was ambrosia. Contemplate while you can its green and
fawn-coloured spikes, inhale its sweet odour; for here comes
a savant—there comes another—the reseda is about to be
transformed! In the first place, there is no such thing as
odour. Botanists do not admit of odour. For them, odour
signifies nothing, nothing more than colour does.

Colour and odour are two luxuries; two superfluities of
which the learned have deprived flowers.

* In the original, more than a page is filled with botanical terms. — Ep.

THE RESEDA. 39

Our savants are desirous that all flowers should resemble
those which they dry in their herbals—horrible cemeteries, in
which flowers are buried with ostentatious epitaphs. One of
these savants looks at the plant, and says, “ That is a capparis,
of the family of the capparides, without stipule. The petals
of the corolla alternate with the sepals of the chalice ; the
filaments are hypogenous ; the pistil is stipitated, and formed
of the union of three carpels, the ovules attached to the
three trophosperms; its seeds are often reniform, and have
an endospermis——"

“Gently! gently!” cries the other savant; “ the reseda is
not a capparis. The reseda is an euphorbia, according to
Mr. Lindley, and a cistus, in my opinion. The chalice is a
common involucrum; the ovary globular, seldom unilocu-
lar; the seeds are enveloped in a fleshy endospermis.”

“T admit the endospermis,” replies the other savant,
“and Tallow that it is fleshy; but I maintain that the reseda
belongs to the capparides. I will further say, that it shows
but little of a botanist to make an euphorbiaceous plant
of it.”

But let us stop! We should tear our sweet mignonette
to tatters. Listen to a savant upon another subject.

He is speaking of the guimauve, or marsh-mallow, a little
creeping plant, with round leaves and rose-coloured blossoms,
that you will have great trouble to find in the grass, Listen!

«The chalice is monocephalous; the anthers are reniform
and unilocular; the pistil is composed of several carpels,
often verticillated; the fruits form a plurilocular capsule,
which opens in as many valves as there are monosperm, or
polysperm cells; the seeds are generally without endospermis,
with foliaceous cotyledons.”

You understand nothing of this, though, perhaps, if you
have an extraordinary verbal memory, you may retain some
of the words. Then request the savant to tell you something
about the baobab.

The Baobab, or Adansonia, is the largest tree in the world ;
it may be taken at a distance for a forest; its trunk is often
a bundred feet in circumference; it is asserted that some exist
in Senegal that are five thousand years old.

Hear the savant give a description of a baobab :—

40 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

“The chalice monocephalous; the anthers are reniform and
unilocular; the pistil is composed of several carpels, often
verticillated; the fruits form a plurilocular capsule, which
opens in as many valves as there are monosperm and poly-
sperm cells id

You stop the savant. “TI beg your pardon, learned sir ; it
is of the marsh-mallow you are speaking, or, at least, you
said just the same of the marsh-mallow but an instant ago.”

“ Marsh-mallow or baobab,” replies the savant, “it is, for
us, absolutely the same thing; we do not observe those
differences which strike the vulgar, of which the dignity of
science will not allow us to take notice.”

Savants acknowledge neither size, odour, colour, nor
flavour: with them the plum-tree is a cherry-tree, the apricot
is a plum: these very men, who, in other cases, give ten
names to the same plant, call all these prunus; the almond-
tree and the peach-tree have but one name between them—
amygdalus.

And then you know what charming names the pretty
flowers of our fields have received, no one knows whence,
except from their own sweet nature: they know nothing of
paquerettes (Easter daisy); marguerites (the prettiest name
for daisies) ; vergiss-meinnicht (forget-me-not). Marguerites
and paquerettes are asters; and the pretty forget-me-not,
with all its delightful associations, is loaded with the name of
myosotis occipioides. Can you imagine what a rage you
would have been in, my dear friend, if some godfather had
insisted upon calling your pretty little Mathilde, Petronedia,
or Rosalba ?

The rain has ceased, the sun has dispersed the clouds, and
makes the drops on the leaves glitter like so many diamonds;
the drooping branches recover their natural position; a linnet
sings in a hawthorn. The savants may settle their disputes
by themselves,

LETTER VII.

NUT-TREE—NUT-WEEVIL—WHAT IS PROPERTY?

Tue ardour of the sun drives us to the friendly shade of the
trees; and here, on the verge of the thicket, is a nut-tree
which arrests our steps for a few minutes.

‘T have told you, my friend, of the little nymphs to whom
roses and other flowers are as a grotto or a nuptial bed,
wherein their loves are concealed by rich purple curtains.
All do not enjoy the same facilities; all do not find their
lover and their husband in the same chalice, under the same
leaves; it is evident that roses, and a vast number of other
flowers which thus unite the two sexes in the same corolla,
are like the Guébres, who contracted marriages among bro-
thers and sisters; if you were travelling that way, you would
be mighty proud to meet with some rude monument which
might recal the memory of this now forgotten usage.

The nut-tree is not thus constituted; the male and female
flowers are not united in one corolla, but they are both born

42 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

upon the same tree. The male flowers appear the first, gene-
rally about the beginning of February, a long time before
the females venture forth, They are long catkins of a pale
yellow, in the form of little close clusters, which hang from
the upper extremities of the branches; shivering through the
dreary season, they await the coming of the female flowers;
some wither, die with cold, and fall off, before these deign
to show themselves; but the male flowers are much the
more numerous. ‘The female flowers, placed beneath the
catkins, begin to appear; these are green, scaly buds, termi-
nated by a very small tip of beautiful crimson red; it is this
little bunch or tuft which receives and retains the yellow dust
that falls from the catkins; and that is the way nuts are made,

The hazel reminds us of four pretty verses of Virgil—

“ Populus Alcide gratissima, vitis Iaccho,
Formose myrtus Veneri, sua laurea Phoebo.
Phyllis amat corylos, illas dim Phyllis amabit,
Nec myrtus vincet corylos nec laurea Pheebi.”

“Hercules loves the poplar, and Bacchus the branches of
the vine; the myrtle is consecrated to Venus, and the laurel
is cherished by Apollo. But Phyllis loves nut-trees, and,
while she loves them, nut-trees shall triumph over both the
myrtle of Venus and the laurel of Apollo.”

Great virtues were for a long time attributed, nay, still are
attributed in the provinces, to a hazel-branch ; it is pretended
that a wand of a nut-tree, cut in a certain season, with
certain ceremonies, and in the hands of a man purified after
certain methods, points of itself to a part of the earth in
which is concealed either a mine or a spring. However far
off you may be, you will not easily find a more singular belief
than that.

Upon the nut-tree, as well as upon the trees which sur-
round it, I can see countless numbers of insects, without
reckoning those which, by their small size, escape my sight ;
there are some upon the leaves, some under the leaves, and
some in the leaves, that is to say, in the thickness of the
leaves.

Between the two membranes of the leaves of the nut-tree,
little caterpillars live, eat, attain their growth, and spin a
small web rather larger than a grain of millet seed. Almost

NUT-TREE. 43

all trees, almost all plants, have insects which thus live in the
interior of their leaves. A worm which insinuates itself into
the leaves of the white lungwort, comes out in his day, meta-
morphosed into a little beetle of a whitish colour, in the form
of a weevil; the one which escapes from the thickness of the
leaves of the mallow, after having lived and been meta-
morphosed there, is of a violet colour; another worm feeds
upon the parenchyma between the two membranes of the
leaves of the henbane, which is a violent poison, and comes
out transformed into a fly.

But let us return to the caterpillar which dwells in the
leaves of the nut-tree. A little moth has laid one egg on
each leaf of the nut-tree; from this egg a caterpillar issues,
which, urmed with good teeth, makes in the epidermis of the
leaf a wound by means of which it introduces itself into its
thickness; when once there, it advances, eating right and
left; until there remains so little of the leaf, that, by holding
it up to the sun, we can plainly perceive the miner. When
it has attained its full growth, it shuts itself up in a.web of
silk, from which it issues at a later period, a moth: this insect,
smaller than an ordinary gnat, when seen through a micro-
scope, appears to be the most richly clad, perhaps, of all the
moths known; its head is ornamented with two small white
tufts, its two upper wings are striped each with seven little
bands, alternately of gold and silver.

All their species do not travel in their leaf in the same
manner; the worm which lives only in the leaves of thistles,
eats straight before it ; therefore its road has the appearance
of a gallery, very narrow at the beginning, and widening in
proportion as it is itself developed. The worms of the leaves
of the lilac live in society in the same leaf.

Some of the fruits of the nut-tree, in spite of their cuirass
of wood, are inhabited as well as the leaves; the flower is not
yet faded when an insect* comes and deposits one of its eggs
in it; the worm which issues from this egg, easily introduces
itself into the fruit, which is scarcely formed and quite soft ;
there it feeds upon the kernel, which grows as fast as it
grows, and enlarges in proportion as it enlarges; but in the
meantime the shell is formed, and hardens so as sometimes

* Balaninus Nucum.—Ep.

44 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

to brave the teeth of man. This El Dorado, in which the
worm, sheltered from the inclemency of the seasons, had
enjoyed at discretion the food which best suited it, has
become a prison: it must get out, for it is in the earth that
its metamorphosis must take place; nature has given it, at
the age it has then attained, teeth which enable it to make a
perfectly round hole in the walls of its prison, by which it
effects its escape. When you see a nut with a hole thus
made, you may be sure that the worm which inhabited it has
either left it or is about to leave it; the hole by which it
entered is long since cicatrised.

When we examine thus the lives of these little creatures,
divided into two such distinct ages, we abandon ourselves to
singular reveries. At first, it is a worm of an ugly shape,
condemned to an humble, obscure, and laborious life, and sur-
rounded by enemies. It soon ceases to eat; it spins itself a
winding-sheet of silk, and encloses itself in it. There it is,
as far as our eyes can convince us, as dead as it can be; but
wait a few days, and it issues from the winding-sheet clothed
in the richest colours, with brilliant wings which enable it to
fly above that earth upon which it had seemed painfully to
crawl. It finds in the sweet air a female beautiful and happy
as ‘itself, and their loves terminate only with their existence.

This life which we lead upon earth, is it really our perfect
state? Is that which we call death really the end of life?
fave we not also to hope for celestial wings, with which to
hover about the sun and beautiful stars—above the miseries,
passions, and wants, of a first existence?

Bernardin de St. Pierre, who really loved flowers and
trees, and who often speaks of them very delightfully, adopted
a point of view which, necessarily, often led him to describe
things very differently from what they really are: he thought
that man was the centre and the object of the entire creation;
that everything had been made for him. Sometimes, things
presented themselves which he found it very difficult to recon-
cile with this system so generally adopted—and I don’t know
why. He somewhere says that nature has only placed odori-
ferous flowers in the grass upon low stems, or upon shrubs, but
that not one bloomed upon a lofty tree. Bernardin de St.
Pierre forgot the acacia, which often rises to a height of

WHAT IS PROPERTY ? 45

sixty or eighty feet. It was this same system that made him
say, “At the sight of men, animals are struck with love or
Jear.” He left out a third impression, which many animals
experience at the sight of man—hunger, and a great desire to
eat him.

Ask the first passer-by, provided he be of the country, to
whom that fine acacia belongs? He will answer you, without
hesitation, “That acacia belongs to M. Stephen.” In fact, I
have agreements, in due form, that this acacia is mine. Now,
is notthis a cruel sarcasm? This tree is more than a hun-
dred years old, and has preserved all its vigour and its
youth ; whilst I—I am thirty-six years of age, or rather
there are already of the mysterious number of years which
have been granted me, or inflicted upon me, thirty-six which
I have spent, and which I no longer have. I have already
begun to die: I have lost two teeth; and lengthened vigils
fatigue me. This tree has seen three generations born and
die beneath its shade: if I become very aged, if I escape
accidents and diseases, if I die from having lived, I shall see
it flourish thirty times more; and then, some of the children
who are now playing at marbles, and whom we are teaching
Latin in spite of themselves, whom we now coax with sugared
bread and butter, but who will then be men, will shut me up
in a deal box, and place me by the side of others under the
earth, in order to make more room for those who are upon
it, until another generation which they have brought up for
that purpose, shall squeeze them into similar boxes, and place
them beside us.

And I call this tree mine! Ten more generations will live
and die beneath its shade; and yet I call this tree mine.
And I can neither reach nor see that nest which a bird has
built upon one of its highest branches. I call this tree mine,
and I cannot gather one of its blossoms; and yet I call this
tree mine!

Mine!

There is scarcely anything which I call mine which will
not last much longer than I shall: there is not a single
button of my gaiters that is not destined to survive me many

ears.
z What a strange thing is this property of which meu are so

46 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

envious! When I had nothing of my own, I had forests and
meadows, and the sea, and the sky with all its stars; since
I purchased this old house and this garden, I have no longer
anything but this house and this garden.

Property is a contract by which you renounce everything
that is not contained within four certain walls.

I remember an old wood near to the house in which I was
born: what days have I passed under its thick shade, in its
green alleys; what violets I have gathered in it in the month
of March, and what lilies of the valley in the month of
May ; what strawberries, blackberries, and nuts, I have eaten
in it; what butterflies and lizards I have chased and caught
there; what nests I have discovered; how I have there
admired the stars which in an evening used to appear to
blossom in the tops of the lofty trees, and in the morning the
sun which glided in golden dust through that thick dome of
foliage! What sweet perfumes, and what still sweeter reve-
ries, have I there inhaled! what verses have I there made!
how I have there read and re-read her letters! How often
have I gone thither at the close of day, to recline upon a
little knoll covered with trees, to see the glorious sun set, his
oblique rays colouring with red and gold the white trunks of
the birch-trees which surround me! This wood was not
mine: it belonged to an old bedridden marquis, who had,
perhaps, never been in it in his life—and yet it belonged to
him!

Far from being the master of nature, as so many philoso-
phers, poets, and moralists pretend, man is her assiduous
slave; property is one of the baits by means of which he
burdens himself with a crowd of singular taxes. Look
yonder at that man cutting his bay, how tired he is: the
sweat pours from his brow! He 1s eutting his hay for his
horse—he is proud and happy.

Man is appointed by nature to harvest her grain, and to
sow it again in suitable soils, and to dig the earth round the
foot of trees in order that they may receive the sweet and
salutary influences of sun and rain.

The poor man has, in every moderately inhabited city,
a public library, and consequently has at his command from
fifteen to twenty thousand volumes; should be become rich,

WHAT IS PROPERTY ? 47

he will purchase a library of books for himself; that is to
say, he will only have five or six hundred, but what joy and
pride will arise from the possession of them!

You are poor—the sea is yours with its solemn noises, the
grand voices of its winds, the aspect of its imposing rage,
and of its still more imposing calms; it is yours, but it like-
wise belongs to others: at some future period, when, by dint
of labour, mental exertion, perhaps baseness, you shall have
become more or less rich, you will have a little marble basin
constructed in your garden, or at least you will be eager to
buy and keep in your house a vase containing a couple of
gold fish.

There are moments at which I ask myself whether by
chance our minds may not be so turned that we call poverty
that which is splendour and riches, and opulence that which
is misery and destitution.

“LETTER VIII.

LILY—ICHNEUMON-FLY—THE POPPY,

I BELIEVE it is not satisfactorily known what kind of bulbous
roots were deified among the Egyptians. Lilies, hyacinths,
and tulips, appear to me to have much greater rights to these
honours than the garlick and onions of our kitchens. The
Latins, however, thought that it was to the latter this ele-
vated rank belonged.

“0 sanctas gentes, quibus hec nascuntur in hortis
Numina.”

“ People holy and happy enough to see their gods spring
up in their gardens.”

The white lily has many enemies; the poets have misused
it equally with the rose. I do not know who first thought
of degrading it by rendering it a political or party symbol,

LILIES—THE CRIOCERIS. 49

It would indeed be difficult to say how many governments

and revolutions there have been in France since that tuft

of lilies was planted in my garden, how many systems

rae been lauded to the skies, and dragged through the
irt.

The lilies in the arms of France were not taken from the
lilies of our gardens: they bear no resemblance to them.
Some authors who have written volumes on this subject, say
that they are the yellow iris of the marshes; others, that the
Jfleurs de lis were originally bees; while, again, others contend
that they were lance heads.

Nevertheless, the lilies have not escaped the fate of other
political flowers, such as the violet, the imperial, and the
red pink; all have been, by turns, proscribed and rezalled,
multiplied to excess or pitilessly rooted up, in the flower-beds
of the Tuileries, and generally placed under the watchful
care of the police, considered as suspicious, hostile to power,
and mixed up with several conspiracies. The parties and
the men who planted and proscribed them are long since
dead, and almost forgotten. And yet, every spring, these
poor flowers, returned to private life, continue to bloom
again in their proper seasons.

One insect alone appears to have taken possession of the
lily, and established its abode in it. It is a little beetle,
whose form is of an elongated square, with black body and
claws, and hard elytra, or wings, of a brilliant scarlet. There
is no lily that is not an asylum for some of these. They are
called Crioceres. When you have hold of one, press it in your
hand, and you will hear a creaking noise, which you may at
first take for a cry, but which is nothing but the rubbing of
its lower rings against the sheaths of its wings.

It did not always. wear this brilliant costume—this cos-
tume under which it scarcely eats, and that very daintily
—this costume under which it appears to have nothing to do
but to strut about and make love. It was at first a sort of flat
worm, with six feet, of a kind of yellow mixed with brown,
which dwelt likewise then upon the leaves of the lily, but
which then led a very different life. It was then as greedy
and gluttonous as it is now abstemious and delicate. But
that was because it had two powerful reasons for eating. The

E

50 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

leaves of the lily which it has eaten issue from its body almost
without alteration, as if they had been crushed in a mortar.
By a particular disposition of its body, this paste of leaves falls
upon it, and forms for it a house, or a cuirass, which conceals
it entirely. There comes, however, a day which brings other
cares. Spring, and its season, will soon return. It is pleasing
neither in form nor colour. It ceases to eat, shakes its strange
vestment, walks about in an agitated manner, descends and
buries itself in the earth. Some months after, it comes out
shining, lustrous, as brilliant as you now see it, richly clothed
in the most beautiful gloss of China. Full of confidence in
themselves, the males and females seek each other, and soon
meet. Then the males die. The females have still something
to do: they lay their eggs—which at first are of a reddish
colour, but afterwards brown—and fasten them to the under-
side of the leaves of the lily; then they, in their turn, die.
When born, their children will find abundance of the food
that is necessary for them.

What! already withered leaves! I stoop to pick up these
three or four dead ones. The leaves move, and—fly away!
But there is no wind to carry them away thus. These leaves
are a moth,* to which nature has given the form, the colour,
the disposition, the perfect figure, of three or four dried
leaves, with their shades and their fibres. Under its first
form, it is a pretty large caterpillar, of a dark colour, grey and
brown, with brown hairs, and a fleshy brown horn at the
extremity of its body.

Apropos of caterpillars, Pliny says that the Romans ate a
sort of large white worm,t found in the trunks of old oak-
trees; and that they formed a very highly esteemed dish.
They were fattened for some time on meal before they were
served up to the sumptuous tables of the wealthy Romans.
‘This must have been a horrible ragodt-—if, by-the-bye, people
who, like you and me, eat oysters, have any right to deem
anything disgusting.

Here is a caterpillar which seems to have set out on its

* Gastropacha quereifolia.—Ep.

+ Probably the larva of the Goat-moth, (Co. ligni; 1
Pi kieran » (Cossus ligniperda,) or the Stag-beetle,

THE ICHNEUMON. 51

travels; in fact, it is not at home here. I recognise it now:
it is striped with pale blue and yellow, ‘spotted with black.
It comes from the kitchen garden yonder, behind that screen
of poplars; for there is nothing here that suits it. It lives
upon the leaves of the cabbage tribe, which it shares with
other green caterpillars, which are metamorphosed into those
white butterflies so common in our gardens and fields. I do
not know what sort of a butterfly this becomes. I will catch
it, and imprison it, to witness its metamorphosis.* But what
is going on now? A little fly,t of a reddish-brown colour,

whose body seems to be attached to its corselet by a slender
thread only, has pounced upon the caterpillar, which’appears
to be not at all inconvenienced by it, but keeps on its way.

It is most likely breakfast time, and it is in search of a
cabbage. But what is the fly about? What does it want?
Ts it a fly of prey? Does it mean, like a little eagle, to
carry off the caterpillar as a meal for itself and its young
ones? The caterpillar weighs twenty times as much as it
does—that is impossible. But the fly is armed with a sting
twice as long as its whole body, and as fine asahair. It isan
enemy. It is going to kill the caterpillar with that formid-
able weapon, and, without doubt, eat it. It raises its sting,
.and this slender hair separates into three parts, in its whole
length: two are hollow, and are the halves of a sheath for the
third, which is a sharp, toothed wimble. It darts it into the
body of the caterpillar, which appears to perceive or know
nothing of the matter. It soon withdraws its sword, returns
it to the scabbard, flies off, and disappears. The caterpillar
did not stop; nor does it stop. It is going to find its cloth
laid, and an excellent breakfast ready. In a few days, it will
descend into the earth to go through its metamorphosis; but
if I do not shut it up, in order to ascertain what sort of a
butterfly it becomes, my expectations would be disappointed.
The fly which stung it, and which naturalists call the ichneu-
mon, has only laid an egg in its body. That swerd, the

* It is transformed into one of those white butterflies that are so common in this
country as well as in France.—Ep.

+ The ichneumon that generally attacks the cabbage caterpillar, is Microgaster
glomeratus, The author, however, describes an entirely different insect, Pimpla
manifestata, and it has accordingly been figured.—Ep.

52 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

third part of a hair, is hollow, and has deposited an egg in
an interior part of the caterpillar, where this operation does
it no harm. From this egg issues a worm, which consumes
the caterpillar very slowly. The latter feels ill at ease, loses
its appetite, and makes its cocoon; but, in its cocoon, its
troublesome guest never ceases to devour it, till, in its turn,
it is metamorphosed, and becomes a fly similar to that which
we saw lay the egg. It pierces the cocoon of the caterpillar,
and flies away in search of a male, and after that of a cater-
pillar, in which it may deposit its eggs. The males are
without the long, sting-looking wimble.

Among the parasites whom you meet with yonder, as you
might have done here, my friend, do you think you shall
find any so extraordinary in their manner of living upon the
world?

Each species of ichneumon, of those which lay in cater-
pillars, has its favourite caterpillar. There are some so small
that they lay in an egg of a butterfly, into which they
insinuate their wimble. The worm is born in the egg, and
there finds plenty of nourishment—until, changed into a fly,
it breaks the shell of it to take flight.

There are in our gardens, and among those who pretend to
love them, good sorts of folks, who are a little like you, my
friend. Their estimation of a flower rises in proportion with
its rarity, and the distance from which it has been brought.
I have often met with these curiosity-seekers and amateurs,
people who find in possession no other pleasure but that des-
picable one of knowing that others do not possess—people
who have flowers, not for the sake of looking at them, but
showing them. Their most cherished flowers—those which
were shown me with the most ostentation—those which
served as a pretext for the most disdainful tone towards me—
were scarce plants, it is true, but of so little brilliancy in
themselves, and so completely effaced by other more common
plants, that I consider myself, a man—good, excellent, and
full of mildness and benignity—not to have yielded, except
in one single instance, to the temptation of saying to their
ostentatious owner—

“Ts that plant very scarce, sir?”

“Oh yes, extremely scarce, sir,”

iene

RARITY NO BEAUTY—FOLDS IN BUDS. 53

“Well, I am very glad to hear that, however.”

“ Why so, sir?”

“Do you fancy that you alone possess it, sir?”

“Yes, sir, I am satisfied of that; nobody has one but
myself.”

‘T am enchanted to hear you say so.”

“You are polite; but why do you say so, sir?”

“ Because, sir, it affords me the assurance that I shall not
meet with it often.”

Here is a beautiful, rich, and majestic plant: it is the
poppy; how finely cut are its sea-green leaves, how straight
and flexible is its stalk; the buds of its flowers incline lan-
guishingly towards the earth, but a day or two before they
burst, they will raise themselves gradually, and present their
beautiful, rich cup to the heavens; we may then say of them,
with much more truth than of man, that the sign of its
nobility is that it naturally looks towards heaven, which is
not true as regards man. A man who should take a fancy
to keep up the dignity attributed to him by Ovid—

“Qs homini sublime dedit, ccelumque tueri
Jussit, et erectos ad sidera tollere vultus ;

—that man would get a horrible stiff neck, and would give
up the sublime position in a quarter of an hour.

There is a bud which has risen; tear open its green en-
velope, and see how its splendid petals are enclosed in it,
ragged and without order; you might say it was the carpet-
bag of a careless student, setting out for the vacation. How
can nature treat such fine, such rich stuff with so little care?
Is there not a little affected disdain for the purple in this? I
only know the flower of the pomegranate, which is also red,
whose petals are as ragged-looking in their envelope as the
petals of the poppy. But, make yourself easy; scarcely is
the flower blown, when a mild, genial air smooths the petals
of both the pomegranate and the poppy, and renders them as
even as those of other flowers.

Different flowers have different manners of arranging them-
selves in their buds, in which they are compelled to occupy
so small a space. The petals of roses cover each other by a
portion of their sides; the bindweed is rolled and folded like

54 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

paper filtres. It is the same with leaves in the bud; those
of the syringa are folded long-wise, half upon half; those of
the aconite are doubled in their width, from bottom to top,
several times over themselves; those of the gooseberry are
folded like a fan; those of the apricot are rolled over each
other.

It is a curious sight to see plants issuing from the earth at
the commencement of the Spring; many long-lived plants
seem to yield to winter and death, they give up their summer
leaves to them, and bury themselves deeply in the earth.

But a soft rain and a mild air warns them that the beau-
tiful festival of Spring is about to commence, and every plant
must prepare itself to go upon the stage and play its part.
Some are quite dead; but, before they died, they confided
their seeds to the earth—little prolific eggs which the first
rays of the sun of March hatch—and which are eager to
burst forth; others have various processes for piercing the
earth, hardened over them by cold, drought, and wind; such
as have firm and sharp leaves, like those of the hyacinth, the
gladiolus, and the narcissus, unite them into close points, and
make themselves a passage easily; the narcissus and the
gladiolus place two of them one over the other, and come
out in a flattened blade; the hyacinths enclose their flower,
already formed, in three sharp leaves, hollowed in grooves,
whose union only forms a single point; others, like the
peony, envelope their first buds in a sheath, which falls as
soon as they get above ground.

But what will the anemones do, whose large leaves are
deeply cut, and without consistency? They make the tail
of each leaf ascend, bent in two in the middle; it is a rounded
elbow, which undertakes to break through the earth,and comes
out iike the half of a ring; then, whilst one of the sides is
retained by the root, the other, to which the folded leaf holds,
is drawn up without being rubbed the least in the world;
once out, it develops itself, and expands.

But let us return to our poppy. There are red ones of
all shades, white, some streaked white and red, and violet
coloured; there are no yellow ones, nor blue ones, nor green
ones; I don’t even know any that are streaked with white
and violet. Notwithstanding the numerous varieties of flowers

ahi

TRAVELLING WITHOUT MOVING. 55

which are believed to be discovered every day, each has its
fixed and infrangible limits; during the last twenty years,
forty leagues, perhaps, have been sown with the seeds of
dahlias, without one blue one ever being produced, although
violet ones are common enough. I will not venture to say
what has been done to procure a blue rose. The rose has the
advantage of the poppy, there being many beautiful yellow
roses.

One poppy stem produces more than thirty thousand
seeds; they are always contained in the red, the white, and
the violet. Many gardeners talk of green roses, produced by
grafting the rose upon the holly; and of black roses made
by grafting upon the black currant: these are nothing but
absurd tales; there are no black flowers, and very few green
ones, particularly of a bright green: I know scarcely any of
them that are really pretty, except the daphne-laurel, which
grows in the woods, and bears charming green odoriferous
flowers, the centre of which is occupied by stamens of a fine
orange-yellow; it blossoms in the month of February; the
berries of it, when ripe, are a deep purplish-black.

Now, here is a delightful journey I am taking, my friend,
without changing my place. When you are in a boat, it
seems that the boat is motionless, and that the two banks
fly on each side of you, unrolling, as it were, a panorama of
their shores, their poplars, their willows, and the various
flowers and the houses which border them; this is a thing
that has been remarked a hundred times; but people are so
determined to see only that which they have read, that
T have never seen it set down anywhere that if the banks of
the river appear to pass in a contrary direction to that of the
boat, this illusion only extends to a certain distance, and that
if there are, nearer to the horizon, other trees and other
buildings, the latter seem, on the contrary, to take the direc-
tion of the boat, and that these two lines of trees and houses
cross with a simultaneous passage in opposite directions.

It appears to me that I am the sport of ar illusion similar
to that which we experience in a boat, when I see the flowers
appear, each in its turn, around me; I almost fancy I am
travelling; it would appear, in fact, that I changed my place”
as often as I see the decorations, the actors, and the scene

56 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

change, however small or confined it may please me to choose
it tobe. There is not an actor that appears before his turn ;
they seem every one to issue from the earth, or. their en-
velope, at a signal, or as an answer given to the signal,—Sit
down and travel.

The sharp wind of the winter has swept away the leaves;
the despoiled trunks and branches of the trees present various
colours: the wood of the cornel-tree is of a brilliant: red; that
of the golden ash is yellow; the branches of the Spanish
broom are of emerald-green ; the trunk of the birch is white ;
the branches which have shot from the linden-tree during
the summer are of violet-red; there is a raspberry, which
the gardeners call blue-wood, and which is of a splendid
violet ; some maples have their branches green; the American
walnut is black. But the mosses vegetate and flourish, and
at the foot of a tree, the Christmas rose, the black hellebore,
opens its flowers, like simple roses, white or pale rose-colour ;
the sweet-smelling coltsfoot, the winter heliotrope, displays
from the bosom of its large round foliage, its grey and rose-
coloured tufts which shed around a sweet vanilla odour.

But December is gone; these two actors disappear at the
first signal given by the frost; here is January, covering the
éarth with snow; the frost splits the trees; it is a new scene:
the redbreast comes nearer to our dwelling; the calycanthus
of Japan opens, upon such of its naked branches as are seen
through the snow, little pale flowers, yellow and violet, which
exhale a sweet perfume, recalling at once the odour of the
jasmine and that of the hyacinth. This is a long monologue;
it is the only flower that blows in the open air during severe
cold: the flowers soon wither and fall—its grey branches
remain naked—the leaves will not show themselves before
spring.

What is going to appear with the month of February?
The nut-trees suspend their long yellow catkins, and expand
their little carmine tips; the daphne-laurel, of which I spoke
to you but now, is soon followed by another daphne, which
is called gentle wood (bois gentil), and which bears flowers
like its own, but which are lilac, rose-coloured, or white; the

“hepatica opens its little double, rose-coloured, or deep blue
roses, this is a sort of first act, an exposition in which tha

SUCCESSION OF FLOWERS. 57

personages present themselves almost one by one, or at most,
two by two.

But in March, the fruit-trees begin to display their rich
clothing ; the almond is covered with flowers of a rosy-white,
the apricot with white blossoms, the peach with rose-coloured :
near the water, the crowfoot opens its golden tufts; primroses
blossom on the banks, and yellow gillyflowers 6n the walls;
crocuses spring up in the grass, among the white stars of the
early daisy, like little lilies, with their yellow corollas, violet,
or striped with violet and white; some few violets peep forth
from under the dead leaves which fell from the trees in the
A ie then all this disappears as if by the waving of a
wand,

The bluebell opens its violet blue spikes of blossoms, and
all the flowers that have preceded it recognise the signal and
disappear; their part is played—they will come on again
next year for a fresh representation.

Look at them well, admire their various forms, their fresh
or brilliant colours, inhale their various perfumes, you will,
perhaps, never see them again; if fortunate, you have, at
most, twenty or thirty similar ,epresentations to behold.

But you see them depart without regret—they are re-
placed by so many others. In fact, flowers will soon be so
numerous it will be impossible to count them; everything
blossoms, or seems to blossom—trees, herbs, butterflies ; but
each has its day, each has its hour—none come before, none
exceed the prescribed moment.

Spring and summer pass away—the crowd gets thinner : the
queen Marguerites, the true flower of autumn, are replaced by
the dahlias, the dahlias by the asters, and the asters themselves
fade away at the appearance of the Indian chrysanthemums.
There is a variety of chrysanthemums with small yellow
flowers, which appears the last of all, and closes the gay
procession. ;

And with every leaf, with every flower, are born and die
the insects which inhabit them, and feed upon them, and
likewise those which eat these insects themselves: the flowers
sow their seeds, which are their eggs; the insects lay their
eggs, which are their seeds; after which the hellebores and
the coltsfoot re-bloom, and hatch the insects which belong to

58 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

these plants. A flower which is born and dies, is a world
with its inhabitants.

But if you are not willing to wait all the year, or if your
memory serves you badly, remain there only one day, and
see how everything passes before you; see how everything
travels to show you new objects.

My letter*is long. To-morrow I will only make the
journey of the day, as I have just made that of the year.

LETTER IX.

AWAKENING OF CREATION— THE LUPIN—NIGUT—THE SLEEP OF CREATION—THE
GLOWWORM—THE DEATH’S-HEAD MOTH—RESPIRATION OF PLANTS.

Tue sun is not yet above the horizon, but thé shadows of

night begin to disperse ;
*« Night folds her robes about her, and departs.”

How many fatiguing and wnwholesome pleasures we pur-
chase at their weight in gold, when we have it in our power
to enjoy the most solemn and magnificent spectacle—the
creation of the world! for nothing.

Night had deprived every object of form and colour; day
restores them all.

In the garden, the yellow and white flowers are the first to
receive their colouring. Such as are rose-coloured, red, and
blue, are still invisible, and exist not for the eye; the foliage

60 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

begins to show its form;-but it is black. The rose-colours
begin to appear, then the red, lastly the blue,—all the forms
are distinct. Already the hemerocallis, a sort of yellow lily,
closed during the night, re-opens its corolla, and begins to
spread around a sweet jonquil odour. The dandelion, with
its golden flower, had spread forth its numberless rays in the
grass, even before the hemerocallis; whilst the Easter-daisies,
still shut up, keep their little silver spikes gathered together
in close sheaves, of which they only expose the under part,
which is of a beautiful rose-colour.

The birds awaken, and begin their morning song. The
heavens assume a rosy tint; the grey clouds become of a
clear lilac; the east expands into a luminous yellow; the
cherry-trees planted in the west receive upon their grey bark
a rosy tint, from the first ray which the sun launches ob-
liquely at them. ‘There is the star of day! the star of life,
ascending in all his glory and majesty—a vast globe of fire
mounting from the horizon.

All the plants now awake,—the acacia, with its leaves
folded and placed one over the other. See, they separate,
and exhibit their graceful forms. The blue lupin, which has
leaves of a dusky green, shaped like hands, had closed its
fingers, and let its arms fall against its stalk ;—-now the leaves
spread, and rise to their proper position.

The lupin has caused many pages to be written by the
learned. Virgil has somewhere said, tristis lupinus. Why
did Virgil call the lupin sad? The kind of which we are
speaking is of a charming appearance; the flower is of an
agreeable shape, and a beautiful colour; other kinds afford a
sweet perfume. Why did Virgil say that the lupin was sad?
A vast number of reasons have been assigned by the learned
for it; many volumes have been perpetrated, as well by
learned botanists as by learned commentators upon this
subject, and yet they have never agreed.

I remember a question which puzzled us at college, and
remains as undecided as that of the tristis lupinus.

“Why,” asked one scholar of another— why is the salmon
the most hypocritical of fishes?” His companion reflected
for some time, but as he was not a savant by profession, he
said, “I don’t know.” A savant never says, “I don’t know;”

NIGHT. 61

he prefers error to ignorance. “I don’t know,” said the
scholar, looking at the other for the solving word of the
enigma. “No more do I,” replied the other; “if I had
known, I should not have asked you.” The only reason,
however, for Virgil’s calling the lupin sad was, that he stood
in need, for the measure of his verse, of two long syllables,
which the word tristis supplied him with. This is not an
uncommon thing with the Latin poets, whom I love to a
Féasonable extent, but whom I do not choose to raise to the
clouds, in order to give a rational colouring to any degree
of envy or malice that I may have towards my contem-
poraries. 2

But let us continue to watch the awakening of the plants.
The balsam, which had drooped its leaves towards the earth,
now again raises them towards the heavens. The primrose,
which, on the contrary, had raised its leaves, and embraced
its stalk with them, spreads them abroad, and allows them to
hang down a little.

The insects begin to buzz; the souci-pluvial opens its
flower, which is a violet disc surrounded by rays, white at
top, and pale violet underneath ; the white water-lily, which
yesterday evening closed its flowers, blooms afresh; whilst
the convolvulus, which climbs in garlands, loaded with flowers,
rose, violet, white, and striped, closes its flowers, which have
been open during the night. The day-lilies, in their turn,
expand their blue and yellow flowers. Each plant blows at
the hour that has been appointed for it: the sun, which
forces one to expand, obliges another to close; and yet to
the eye, there is no difference in them.

Insects, butterflies, and flies of all kinds and colours, are
busy everywhere.

But the dandelion closes its petals about three o’clock in
the afternoon ; the souct-pluvial is not long in following
its example, unless the weather be rainy, for then it would
have closed much sooner. The daisy, which had spread its
little bosom out to the sun, gathers itself together, and
becomes pink. Gradually the leaves of the acacia are folded,
as are those of the other trees, whose waking we this morning
witnessed; the day-lily closes; the sun is about to set; the
white blossom of the water-lily gathers its petals together,

62 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

and shuts up closely. The birds have ceased to sing, and
quarrel for the snuggest places under the leaves; you may
see the colours you admired in the morning reappear in the
heavens; but they have assumed severer and deeper shades,
The rose-colour of the morning is red in the evening; the
yellow is orange, the lilac has become violet ; the globe of fire
descends, and disappears in a red fog, which looks like the
lighted ashes of a voleano. The trees in the east, in their
turn, receive the adieu and last look of the sun, as the trees
in the west received his “good morning,” and his earliest
ray. The beetle kind fly heavily about; the horned and
rhinoceros beetles issue from the hollows of the oaks, the blue
and white stercoraires, more richly clothed than kings, rise
from the cow-dung,

It is night.

But the night has its birds, its flowers, and its insects,
which sleep during the day, and which awake while the others
sleep.

The moon is their sun.

The nightshade has opened its little purple, yellow, or
white horns. One variety, whose white flower is supported by
a long tube, has a centre of a rich violet, and exhales a sweet
odour. The evening primrose expands its beautiful perfumed
yellow cups. The convolvulus will wait till the middle of
the night.

The stars glitter forth in the heavens. In the grass the
female glowworms* begin to shine with a green, phosphorio
light ; it is only the lower
‘ extremity of their body,

ix, and the under part,
WX WS, which is so luminous.
a \ The glowworm is, in the
Waw\ \ day time, a flat insect,
dragging itself along
upon six feeble feet.

You know the history
of Hero and Leander:
THE GLOWWokM. they were two lovers,
separated by a branch of the sea. Every night Leander

* Lampyris noctiluca.—Ep

v

HUMMING-BIRD MOTH. 63

Swam across this strait, to go and pass a few minutes with
Hero. I don’t know whether Hero was very beautiful, but
with the first comer and a few obstacles, a passion is easily
kindled. Ovid says she was “beautiful exceedingly,” and I
will take Ovid’s word. One night a tempest arose, whilst
Leander, guided by the torch which his lover lighted every
evening, was endeavouring in vain to gain the opposite shore.
The poet puts a very touching prayer into his mouth: he
implores the tempest not to drown him till his return; the
tempest was deaf, and the unhappy Hero beheld the body of
her lover cast by the waves at her feet.

The glowworm on‘y fires her torch, and takes so much
pains to show it, because it may serve as a guide to a crowd of
little vagabond Leanders, to whom nature has granted wings.
The males of the glowworms are much smaller than the
females, and, I should think, much more numerous, for there
are seldom less than three or four around one female. They
are not luminous. *

While, following the example of Diogenes, but from another
motive, the glowworm bears her lantern, a large moth t
passes close to me, its wings
making a noise almost as
loud as those of a” small
bird; in fact, it is much
larger than some humming-
birds. It passes by the
sleeping flowers, it is in
search of something; it
knows that in those beau-
tiful garnet and topaz cups .
of the nightshade and ceno- Ose e eee
theras, a sweet nectar is prepared for it. There it is over an
cenothera; it hovers over without touching the flower, its
wings appear motionless, so quickly does it move them.
Then it unrolls a trunk coiled beneath its head, which escaped
my sight, but which is longer than the whole insect; that
trunk separates in two; each of the two is a perfect trunk, by

* The author is not quite correct here. The male glowworm does give out some
light, but it is very faint.—Ep.
+ Sphinz ligustri.—Ep,

64 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

means of which it sucks from the depths of the flowers the
honey they contain.

We must not believe that because it only flies by night,
this butterfly, which naturalists call a sphinx, neglects its
dress. Its wings are of a grey, shaded with various browns
and blacks; its body is painted with white, rose-coloured,
and black rings, separated along its whole length by a grey
stripe.

Here comes another, still more richly clothed; its body
and its wings are of two colours—rose, and olive-green.

But what plaintive cry do I hear upon that jasmine? Is
it that great sphinx * which has lighted there, and takes it

DEATH’S-HEAD MOTH.

into his head to moan thus? If the cry it utters is lament-
able, its aspect is not a bit more exhilarating. Its upper
wings are shaded with dark colours, the inferior are of pale
tarnished orange, with black bands. Its body is striped with
black rings, and with that same dull orange; but it is on its
corselet that nature has indulged ina singular fancy; orange
and black spots form, in a perfectly distinct manner, the
figure of a death’s head.

* Acherontia atropos.—Ep.

DEATH'S-HEAD MOTH. 65

In 1730 there appeared in Brittany a great number of
these moths; their cry and their singular appearance spread
terror in every mind. Curés spoke of them in the pulpit,
and pronounced their appearance an evident sign of the anger
of heaven. Imaginations were affected in the highest degree ;
many persons made public confession; one curé wrote a
homily upon this subject, which was inserted in “ Le Mercure
de France.” ‘The most incredulous’said that this prodigy
announced a pestilence. M. de Pontchartrain, then Secretary
of the Marine, demanded of the Academy if any of these
alarms were well founded. The Academy, having answered
negatively, was strongly blamed by the Church; the fathers
of Trevoux proclaimed in their journal, that it was very
wrong to disabuse the people concerning a salutary terror.
“ The public,” said they, “has always reason to be alarmed,
because it is always guilty, and everything which can re-
mind it of the anger of an avenging God, is always to be
respected.”

The kind of cry which emanates from this sphinx, so
justly named Atropos, is produced by the rubbing of its
trunk against the partitions which inclose it. It has been
a large yellow and green caterpillar.

The convolvulus does not expand its flowers till the night
is pretty far advanced. There is a little ugly enough cater-
pillar, which lives upon the convolvulus, and which becomes
a very pretty and singular moth ;* the caterpillar is of a
whitish green, rather velvety. The moth is of a dazzling
whiteness: its wings appear as if made of ten little feathers _
of extreme fineness. Each of the upper wings is divided into
two; each of the inferior wings is divided into three cut
parts in such a manner, that it is only with the aid of a
microscope we can discover they are not real feathers, much
more white than those of the swan, much more delicately
fringed than those of the ostrich. ;

Night is the time in which trees breathe the oxygen which.
is as necessary for their existence as it is for ours. In the
day time they will expire and return to the air much more

* Plerophorus pentadactylus.—Ep.
F

66 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

of it than they have taken; the action of the sun decom-
posing the carbonic acid gas.

These two phenomena explain the danger there is in
keeping vegetables during’the night in a close chamber, for
then the vegetables absorb a part of the oxygen, and diminish
the quantity of respirable air. This quantity, necessary for
every man, is more considerable than is generally imagined.
A man consumes per hour at least six cubic meres of air.
Most of our pleasures taken in common,—as balls, svirées,
theatres, assemblies,—begin by considerably diminishing this
indispensable ration. It is difficult ina rout or soirée, as they
are now-a-days given, for each person to have for his part
more than a metre and a half of respirable air. You would
not easily determine to enjoy any of these pleasures if you
were obliged ‘to buy them at the price of the privation
of two-thirds of your food. The privation of air produces
effects less immediate; but it is probable that it engen-
ders great part of the diseases peculiar to the inhabitants of
cities.

Besides that, vegetables shut up in a chamber absorb a
part of the oxygen, they expire an equal portion of carbonic
acid gas, which is a mortal poison when mixed in too strong
a proportion with the air we breathe, and of which it is
nevertheless one of the elements. This equally explains the
pleasure we experience in the day time under trees, a happi-
ness which is not to be attributed merely to the freshness and
shade.

You see, my friend, that without its being necessary to
change our place, it is sufficient to look around us to see
new and surprising things pass, without ceasing, before our
eyes. Not one of the plants, not one of the insects, of
which I have spoken to you in this and the preceding
letters, blossoms, shows itself, shuts up, is transformed, or
dies, either before or after the epoch, the day, the hour as-
signed it,

The dandelion always open its rays of gold before the daisy
displays its rays of silver; the cenothera never develops its
corolla before the water-lily has folded up its petals. The
blackbird whistles in the morning; the nightingale sings

THE FROG. 67

through the night; the grasshopper, in the grass, chirps
hoarsely during the burning heat of the sun, a kind -of
croaking like that of frogs in a marsh, when the sun is
sinking. Every moment has its interest, its spectacle, its
riches, its splendour!

THE FROG,

LETTER X.

WHAT I8 HAPPINESS!—RECOLLECTIONS AND REGRETS—UNIVERSALITY OF DEATH
—WHO ARE MAD, AND WHO SANE.

Wuen I endeavour to remember all the happinesses of my
life, I find there is scarcely one I had anticipated that I
secured in the end.

Happinesses are like game: when we aim at them too far
off, we miss them.

Most of those which recur to my memory have come
unexpectedly. For many people, happiness is a gross,
imaginary and compact thing, which they wish to find all in
a piece; it is a diamond as large as a house, which they pass
their lives in seeking and pursuing at all hazards.

They are like a horticulturist of my acquaintance, whe
dreams of nothing but meeting with a blue rose, a rose which
I have sought after a little myself, and which it is more
unreasonable to hope for than the diamond of which I spoke

‘WHAT IS HAPPINESS ? 69

to you just now. Since this fancy seized the poor man’s
brains, other flowers have had ‘neither splendour nor perfume
for him.

Happiness is not a blue rose,—it is the grass of the men-
dows, the bindweed of the fields, the wild rose of the hedges,
a word, a song, a no matter what.

It is not a diamond as large as the house: it is a mosaic of
little stones, each one of which often has no separate value
of itself.

This large diamond, this blue rose, this great happiness,
this monolith, is a dream. Every happiness I can recal, I
neither pursued long, nor sought for; they have shot up and
blossomed under my feet like the daisies on my grassplot.

I have ever found my greatest happiness in a garden over
which I could have jumped—in a chamber in which I could
not take three paces. That chamber, I remember it still; I
have but to shut my eyes to see it; it appears to me that I
see it in my heart. It was furnished with chairs covered
with yellow Utrecht velvet, with a table near the chimney,
and an old piano between the two windows. One day she
endeavoured to teach me to play with one finger, an air which
she sometimes sang, and which I passionately admired. Her
father was seated in the chimney-corner reading his newspaper.
First, she played the air for me, then she bade me try. I
could not get over more than the first three notes; she played
it more slowly—but I succeeded no better. She laughed at
my want of skill, Then she took my hand to make me strike
the notes with my finger: it was the first time our hands had
met. I trembled: she ceased to laugh, and withdrew her
hand, and we remained both silent. The day was closing, and
mixed a profound meditation with our emotions. Our looks
met: it appeared to me that I became her, and that she be-
came me; that our blood mingled in our veins—our thoughts
in our souls. Two large tears fell from her eyes, and rolled
down her cheeks as two shining pearls of dew in the sweet
morning on a rose. Then her father, whom, with all the rest
of the world, we had forgotten, let the paper fall which he
could no longer see to read, and told his daughter to light
the lamp. “And.you cannot see any more than I can,” he
added, “for it is some time since I heard the piano.”

70 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Well! to obtain this happiness—and I remember no other
so great in my life—I had but to descend a flight of about
fourteen steps, and come from my own chamber into that
of the yellow chairs. And my chamber, so small, so poorly
furnished, what joys it has contained! It was there that
I made for her ten thousand verses, not one of which she
ever saw; it was there I wrote to her so many letters; it
was there that I re-read so many times the few letters she
ever wrote me, that the Alexandrian library itself could not
have supplied me with more reading.

And that staircase—those fourteen steps which separated
us—how many times have I descended it and ascended it to
meet her, to meet her father or their servant, to see her door,
to see the bell she had touched, the rush mat upon which she
had placed her feet! and all in the hope that she would
recognise my step, that she would hear me ascend and
descend, that she might say, ‘ There he is!”

I travelled three hundred leagues on that staircase, my
friend, and at each step met with a happiness, or, at least, an
emotion.

How beautiful were the flowers of the spring of our life,
and how they have faded! how many things are dead within
us, for which we never dream of wearing mourning! so far
from that, we mistake our mutilations for useful retrench-
ments, we take pride from our losses, we call our infirmities
virtues; the stomach no longer digests properly, and we call
ourselves sober; our blood is chilled, and we say we have left
off loving, when, actually, love has left us; our hair, our
teeth die, and yet we seldom think that we must soon die
altogether. We worry, we torment ourselves for a future
which everything tells us we shall never see. I knew a man
of eighty years of age, who frequently said—* Well, I really
must set about thinking of my future!”

And yet we are not without warnings; everything speaks
of death.

This house we live in was built for a man long since dead,
by masons who are likewise dead. These trees, under whose
shade we indulge in our reveries, were planted by gardeners
who are dead. The painters who created the pictures on
our walls are dead. Our clothes, our shoes, are made from

WHO ARE MAD, AND WHO SANE, 71

the wool and the hides of dead animals. The boat in which
we glide between the river’s green banks—why, it was a dead
tree that supplied the planks for it. This fire before which
we chat, is fed by the members of carcases of trees, Your
joyous festivals, your every day repasts, present to your eyes
and your appetites portions of dead animals, This wine, of
which you boast the age, reminds you that he who gathered
the vintage, he who made the corks, that he who bottled it,
and all who were then living, are dead. And in the evening,
when you go to the theatre to see Cinna or Mithridates repre-
sented, those personages you look upon, are they not the
shades of the dead whom you evoke that they may come
and gambol before you and amuse you?

When these thoughts come over me, I am sewed with a
profound horror for all trouble, anxiety, and agitation; I only
think of living quietly, without a care for the present or the
future, and I wonder at the extravagance of all those men
who, having but two hours to sleep, pass those two hours in
making and turning over their bed. It appears to me that
I then see all these people who are elbowing each other, in
order to attain I don’t know what, to be furious madmen ;
and I became of the opinion of that philosopher, who pre-
tended to have discovered the true reason for there being, in
all great cities, a lunatic asylum: it is, that by shutting up
some poor creatures under the name of madmen, strangers
might believe that all who are out of that hospital are sane.

ma ae

Aga Fee

LETTER XI.

UPON MY BACK.

I am, at this moment, stretched upon a grassy bank sprinkled
with violets, beneath a great oak which shelters me from the
sun; I cannot imagine any change sufficiently agreeable to
induce me to quit this position. JI am upon my back, more
than half buried in grass; my two arms, crossed behind my
head, elevate it a little; the thick foliage of the oak forms
a green transparent tent over me; between certain branches
T catch blue patches of the heavens, I hear a thousand noises
in the air, a chaffinch twitters at the summit of the tree, bees
buzz around me, some soft puffs of a cooling wind just stir the
trees; I listen, and I look around me. Across the blue
heavens pass long flocks of silk, whiter than anything we are
acquainted with, and which float languidly in the air, sinking
and rising; this is what the country people call the Virgin’s
thread; saying that they are threads escaped from the distaff

LOVE AMONG FLOWERS. 73

of the Virgin Mary. I love not to have such associations
destroyed, and it was by no means a pleasurable discovery to
me, when I one day ascertained that these threads were pro-
duced by a species of spider.. A grain of groundsel sur-
mounted by a little downy parachute, sails over me through’
the air, to go and sow itself at a distance; a seed of the wall-
flower, flat and light, is carried by the wind to the top of an
old wall, or into the fissures of the tower of the church, to
decorate them with its golden stars. There is a bee just gone
by, with its feet laden with the yellow dust it has collected:
from the stamens of flowers; and the wind blows the yellow
dust about in all directions.

I have seen flowers which contain in their corollas both the
husband and wife; I have seen others which bear them sepa-
rated, but upon the same plant; there are, however, trees
and flowers which only produce separately, males or females,
and these are frequently planted by chance at a great distance
from each other; there would be no loves, no marriages, no
reproduction, but the air takes upon it the charge of bearing
the caresses of the husband to his spouse, in the form of
those little yellow bags, which contain a fructifying powder.
Bees and other insects which fly from flower to flower, are
little messengers who carry perfumed kisses from the bride-
groom to the bride; it is thus they repay the hospitality they
receive in the rich corollas and nectaries filled with delicious
honey, and thus the wife receives in her bosom the message
of her absent husband.

The facility which nature has accorded to plants to corre-
spond thus intimately through the track of the air, and by the
means of insects, bears with it consequences of which certainly
we ought not to complain; but which, nevertheless, in a human
point of view, must appear as a means of diseases. I will
show you in what its consequences consist, There is a white
pink, which, if left to the regular course of nature, would
only bear white pinks; but frequently, by the intervention of
bees or other insects, the white pinks become red, or white
spotted with red. It is to such errors, if errors they can be
called, which produce such beautiful effects, that we owe the
numerous varieties of flowers with which our gardens are
ornamented.

74 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

This, besides, has not the same inconveniences as among
men; in the first place, love among flowers is not selfish ;
they are happy in loving and blooming, and are perfectly
unacquainted with jealousy, that degrading feeling composed
of avarice, pride, and angry love. It is not likewise as in
the poor human families called rich, in which one child, who
happens to come first or be a favourite, is a disinheritor of the
others ; the riches which flowers leave to their children are
immense and eternal; they consist of the earth, the sun, the
air, the shower and the dew; there is nothing to dread, there
will always be plenty for every one.

Here passes in its turn an ichneumon, similar in form to
that which I saw depositing its eggs in the body of a cater-
pillar; only this is much larger. It also will deposit its eggs
in the body of another insect. This insect is a worm destined
to become a tolerably large beetle. This beetle knows that
its little ones have enemies; therefore, it is in a place which
appears inaccessible that it takes care to conceal its eggs.
It deposits them under the bark of trees. Alas! useless pre-
caution, fruitless cares! There is the ichneumon, prowling
around the oak beneath which I recline ; it alights and searches
the trunk of the tree; it stops. The wimble which it bears
at the extremity of its body divides into three parts, of which
two form the sheath of the third; it plunges its naked
weapon, finer than a hair, into the bark. The task is long
and wearisome, but it finishes by succeeding. It remains
motionless for some seconds, and slowly withdraws its saw.
If I pleased, I could lay hold of it with my fingers; it isa
fortunate thing that no bird surprises it whilst thus engaged.
But the wimble is withdrawn and returned to its case. The
ichneumon flies away. By an unknown art, by a wonderful
instinct, it has been able, through the thick bark of the oak,
to ascertain the spot where the beetle had concealed its egg,
which is become a worm; and the ichneumon, in its turn, has
deposited its egg in the body of this worm, which will serve
it for pasture.

Butterflies of all colours pass before my eyes, sporting
about in the air. I see the Red Admiral,* which is black, and
bears upon its wings bands or stripes of a fiery red. When

* Vanessa atalanta.—Ep.

: JEWISH TRADITION. 7
it was a caterpillar, it was brown, marked with a line of yellow
spots on each side, and covered with hairs. It lived then
upon the nettle, and delighted in leaves which it no longer
cares about, but which it will take care to return to when the
time shall come for it to lay its eggs, in order that the little
caterpillars which issue from them may find at their birth a
home and food that will suit them.

How is it possible to paint all that I see passing before me,
all that moves in the air, and also all that I cannot see ?
Through a little space between the leaves of the oak, the sun
darts a white, brilliant ray, and myriads of little flying
creatures sport in that ray. They are so small that they are
no longer visible if a cloud for a moment obscures the sun
and extinguishes its beam.

Myriads of animals have been discovered in a drop of water,
by means of the microscope, because a drop of water can be
kept steady under the glass of the lens. If we were able, in
a similar manner, to isolate a drop of air, it is more than
probable we should perceive thousands of insects which escape
our sight. There are ichneumons,—we have seen them,—
which lay their egg in the egg of a butterfly. Who can
venture to say that the egg of the ichneumon is not pierced
in its turn by another insect which we do not see?

We should have been wrong, before the invention of the
microscope, in denying the existence of all the otherwise im-
perceptible insects which have been revealed by its means.
I would not dare to assert that there are not other tribes
which the microscope even cannot show us. Who knows if
those maladies which regularly prevail in certain seasons, or
which affect us irregularly at distant periods, as plagues and
epidemics, are not caused by insects which we respire in the
air?

We find it related in an old collection of Jewish traditions,
that Titus boasted of having conquered the God of the Jews,
at Jerusalem. ‘Then a terrible voice was heard, which said:
“Wretched man, the smallest of my creatures shall triumph
over thee.” A fly or gnat glided into the nostril of the
emperor, and penetrated to his brain. There, during seven
years, it fed upon the brain ; no art, no medicine could dislodge
it. After horrible sufferings Titus died. His head was

76 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

opened to ascertain what the disease could be which had
baffled the efforts of all his physicians, and the insect was
found, but amazingly enlarged.

Whilst allowing my eyes to wander amidst the leaves of
the oak, I perceive singular fruits and very strange flowers.
There are little green apples marked with a rosy tinge on one
side, like the red-streak apple. There are upon other leaves
little red berries. These fruits have an insect for kernel, the
seed of these flowers are the eggs of insects. They are
dwellings produced upon the leaves by the puncture of little
flies which lay their eggs in the interior of the leaf. This
puncture produces the same effects upon the leaf as the sting
of certain insects produces upon us; the leaf becomes in-
flamed, swells in a round form, and produces a ball, in which
the little worm which comes from the egg, and which is to
become a fly, grows and feeds up to the moment of its trans-
formation. Other flies also sometimes come to lay in the inte-
rior of these galls, as these excrescences are called, after they
are formed, although their offspring do not feed upon the leaves
of the oak. So far from that, they will become carnivorous
flies; and it is the first inhabitant, the one for whom the
retreat was created, which will serve them for food. After
having eaten it, they inherit the house, are then transformed
into real flies, as the proprietor would have been, pierce the
gall, and go to seek females who, like themselves, have been
laid in other galls, have eaten the inhabitants of them, and
seek a male in the plains of air.

Almost all plants give birth to different galls, in which
various insects grow, and are transformed, eat or are eaten.
Upon the leaves of the viburnum arise galls, from which
issues a little beetle of a cinnamon colour. The red-tinted
galls of the leaves of the willow contain a sort of caterpillar,
which escapes from them at a certain moment, because it is
not in the gall that it is to be transformed ; it-will bury itself
in the earth, until it issues from its shell in the form of a
four-winged fly. The wild rose has sometimes a gall covered
with a sort of reddish-green hair, of a very singular ap-
pearance. If we keep some of these galls shut up, we shall
see flies of three or four different species issue from them.
We must not, however, believe that they have rights, if equal,

WHAT ARE STARS? 77

at least not similar ones to the proprietorship of this domicile.
Some occupy the gall by right of birth; it was their mother
who formed it by a puncture, and who deposited the egg in
it, from which proceeds the worm which they have been
before they were flies. These are little big-bellied, hump-
backed flies; the male is quite black, the female has a black
corslet, and a chestnut-coloured abdomen. These are the
legitimate possessors ; the others to a quasi birthright, add the
right of conquest. This is the manner in which the thing
falls out: two roundish eggs are deposited in the hairy gall of
the rose-tree ; a black and chestnut fly, the cynips of the rose,
has in the first place laid its egg, and by its puncture causes
the gall to grow; an ichneumon has laid the second ; these
two eggs remain for some time together, are hatched, and
become two worms. The first eats the interior of the gall,
which grows and enlarges in proportion; the second sucks
the first, which is renewed as fast as the other eats it, like
Prometheus under the vulture, which consumed his liver,
“dmmortale jecur.” In fact, a carnivorous worm would soon
die with hunger if he took it into his head to devour the
worm which is shut up with him at once. A man would not
live long if he had only one sheep to eat.

But there is the sun declining ; day departs. Absorbed in a
sweet reverie, which is increased by the sound of the church
clock, announcing the evening hour, I had forgotten to look
at objects, or looked vacantly. The first stars appear through
the foliage; what are these stars? The most learned astro-
nomers tell us at what distance the planets are from our earth ;
they know which move, and what route they pursue; but
that is the boundary of their science. Suppose we should be
told, England is situated under such a degree of latitude, it is
an island, we believe we can distinguish the mountains of it.
We should not believe we were very well acquainted with
England; but that, nevertheless, is the point to which our
astronomical knowledge extends; and what labours, cares,
inventions, watchings, calculations have been necessary in
order to attain that.

These globes of fire, are they worlds like ours? Oh! then,
my friend, what a joke is travelling! what does it signify to
journey more or less miles in one of the globes, more nume-

78 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

rous, perhaps, than the sands of the sea, which gravitate round
the sun? You will be very proud when you have made the
tour of our world; and there are above us more worlds than
you will in your voyages shake grains of sand from your feet,
and all these worlds are unalterable by you; there are some
of these worlds so distant, that each of them forms in our
eyes nothing but an impalpable grain of luminous dust.
There are probably some so distant from us that their light
has not yet reached us since the creation of our world,
although light travels four millions of leagues in a minute.

Now, these are what I call voyages and distances; what
signify the two or three thousand leagues you will have
travelled when you return? Truly, the advantage is not
equal to the trouble and danger.

These worlds, are they destined to receive the souls of
those who die? is death the commencement of immortality?
at that awful moment do the wings of our soul develop
themselves like the wings of the butterfly which issues from
the winding-sheet it has spun for itself when a caterpillar?

The wind brings me, in soft breatnings, delicious odours
and distant sounds. From afar I can catch the notes of a
horn, almost lost in the rustling of the trees; the air becomes
fresh, I will go to my nest.

Have you, in the course of your day’s journey, seen as
many singular things as I have perceived, without changing
my place, reclining on my back on the grass?

To-morrow I shall stretch myself on my face.

LETTER XII.

coLOURS,.

Te learned, who have invented so many words, ought to

have imagined some that might give us an exact idea of:

colours and their shades. I confess that this embarrasses me
more than anything else in the account of my journey.
There are but very few words to designate colours, and even
they are taken at hazard from ideas that are very far removed
from each other. This annoys me the more, because colours
have for me harmonies as ravishing as those of music, because
they awaken in my mind thoughts perfectly strict and indi-
vidual, and their influence acts powerfully on my imagination.

I was once put in prison; well, the walls themselves were
not half so disagreeable to me as a certain chocolate colour
with which they were clothed; I recognised, to a certain
point, the right which society has to put a man in prison,
but I could not admit the right of surrounding him with this
horrible colour.

One of the things most disagreeable to me in travelling,
is the manner in which the chambers of inns are decorated :
yellow curtains and red fringe, chairs with red covers and
yellow fringe; these colours so generally and so barbarously

ey

80 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

brought together by upholsterers, produce, with me, the most
disagreeable impressions.

It often happens, even in houses in which I am not very
much at home, that I rise in the midst of a conversation to
go and separate two inimical colours, which some unlucky
chance has brought into conjunction upon one piece of furni-
ture. There are, for me, between colours and their shades,
discords as strong as those that can possibly exist between
certain notes of music.

There are no false colours except in the nomenclature of our
marchandes des modes; but there are assemblages of colours
as false as the notes of any one who had never had a bow in
his hand, but took up a violin and scraped away at random.
I remember two persons who were always disagreeable to me
on account of the colours they persisted in weexing: the first
was a certain large woman, who always appeared in green
dresses and yellow bonnets; the other, a man who decked
himself out in staring red waistcoats and bright blue cravats.
I endeavoured to contend against the prejudices inspired by
such disfigurements; I have reason to repent of them: I
have since had much to complain of in my relations with
these two persons.

There are at least as many people with a false sight as with
a false ear, without speaking of painters, some of whom see
yellow, and others blue or grey, as if they looked at objects
through spectacles of these colours. ©

It is remarkable that country people seem to acknowledge
no colour but red, the domain of which, for them, embraces
rose-colour and orange, and all the shades comprised within
these two colours :—yellow, but only certain shades; when it
is pale, they call it white; when deeper, it is red ;—blue,
which begins at amaranth and embraces all the shades of
violet, except pure blue, which they sometimes confound with
green. They know green pretty well; white is applied to all
pale shades, black to all deep shades.

Being one day on the sea-shore, I walked over a track
completely covered with little withered flowers, and so close
together, that I thought, if viewed from a distance at the
time of their blowing, the entire hill must have appeared of
their colour. Well, not a soul in the country could tell me

COLOURS OF FLOWERS, 81

what was the colour of this flower 3; I was not able to procure
two answers sufficiently alike to give me a definite notion of
them. Country people in general trouble themselves but
little with the poetical side of nature: idylls and eclogues are
falsehoods. I only remember two appreciations which I
heard made in the same day by two peasants: one concerned
a young elm which, planted among older elms, had hastened
to attain their height, in order to enjoy its share of the air
and the sun. Jt had a stem straighter and more tapering
than that of a poplar; it waved its green luxuriant head at
the least wind. “What a misfortune it is,” said one of my
neighbours, “that you have not another tree like that!”
“Why?” “Because they would make such a superb ladder.”}
As in the spring time I was looking at the blossoms of the
peach-trees, which began to show their rosy tips, another said
to me,—“ You see the crop begins to promise.”?

I once heard a gardener ask his master, who was one of
my friends, permission to sleep for the future in the stable.
“There is no possibility of sleeping in the chamber behind
the greenhouse, Sir,” said he in support of his request;
“there are nightingales there, which do nothing but guggle
and keep up a noise all night.”

Whilst endeavouring to describe to you the colours of cer-
tain flowers or insects, I have remarked that I was likely to
make myself better understood by employing, to designate
these colours, certain names of precious stones. It is very
singular that most people are better acquainted with the
stones which inhabit the depths of the earth at a thousand
jieagues from them, or the pearls and corals which must be
fetched from the bottom of the sea, than with the flies which
fly against our windows, or with the flowers which spring up
under our feet, which surround us on all sides, and are before
our eyes from our earliest infancy; this is because vanity has
attached a singular value to precious stones, and has neglected

(1) We doubt the accuracy of this remark, as a ladder is invariably made of a single
tree, the holes for the steps being first bored through the entire substance, and the
tree then sawn longitudinally.—Ep. :

(2) Both these instances are excelled by the old English story of the poetical
traveller pointing out to his friend the pretty lambs frolicking in a meadow. “Ay,”
rejoined the other, “‘ only think of a quarter of one of them, with asparagus and mint
sauce!”

82 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

to notice common riches which nature has spread with such
profusion over the surface of the earth. Truly, there are
some precious stones which are singularly agreeable to my
sight, but there is not one whose colours may not be found
upon some flower or some insect. Is not the chrysis a living
jewel, composed of an emerald and a ruby? Do you know
a sapphire of so pure a blue as the corn-bottle of the fields,
as brilliant as the sage called Salvia patens, as the Delphinium
vivace, which flourish in our gardens? Seek then among
stones for the scarlet of certain geraniums, and of the little
red verbena, which eclipses the geranium itself. Are these
emeralds endued with the transparency of the leaves of the
oak under which I reclined yesterday, when the sun was
above it? Is there a diamond which has the fire and the
colours of drops of dew in the sun? Is not a garden a
living jewel-case, full of jewels which fly, and others that
blossom and spread around their perfume? But precious
stones are dear, all the world cannot have them, and that
is the reason all the world wishes for them. The matter,
besides, is not to see or to have precious stones, the object is
to show them. What I tell you is neither a paradox nor
a jest. What do you admire in precious stones? Is it the
colour? You have but to look around you; flowers and in-
sects have more beautiful colours than they have. Is it
their hardness? The sand of your garden is very hard, the
iron baleony of your window is very hard, and yet you take
no pride in them: it must be then the value, it must then
be money!

Besides, all precious stones are so closely imitated in glass,
that few persons can distinguish them. Many women exhibit
their real jewels only occasionally, and habitually wear false
diamonds mounted in the same manner, to avoid thefts and
accidents. Truly, these latter have as much brilliancy, and
render the women who wear them as attractive, otherwise, .
you may be assured that not one of them would resign her-
self to such a sacrifice. What then is the use of the others,
the true ones, shut up in their case? They have them,
others know that they have them, and are acquainted with
their value—that is all.

But let us return to colours. Many colours have taken

DESIGNATIONS. 83

their denomination from certain precious stones. Well, these
denominations have no meaning, because the same stones
vary singularly in their shades, and even in their colour.
Ask a mineralogist. The ruby is of a brilliant red, or rather
softened with violet, but there are rubies which are of an
orange red, and rubies of a rose colour. The emerald pos-
sesses all the tones of green, from the palest to the darkest.
There are likewise white emeralds and yellow emeralds. The
topaz you think must be yellow, for want of a word to specify
a colour, and of all possible yellows, from that nearly white
to a deep orange; but there are white topazes, green-tinted
topazes, and others almost blue. The garnet is of a kind of
deep crimson ; inquire again of the mineralogists, and they will
tell you that there are also orange garnets, green garnets, and
black garnets. '

Now, if there were anything we ought to be perfectly
acquainted with, it would be the plants and the flowers upon
which we have trodden from our infancy. By their means,
then, if men would only deign to look at them sometimes,
we should have, for the purpose of designating colours, a
complete gamut, which would be wanting in no tone or the
fraction of a tone, and a language exact and well arranged,
inasmuch as the words would have a fixed meaning, invariable
and the same for all. Some names of colours have been
borrowed from flowers; and everybody, when they pronounce
them, knows perfectly what they mean: capucine, lilac, violet,
amaranth, bouton d'or (buttercup), feuille morte (filemot),
rose. The names of colours borrowed from fruits are equally
intelligible —orange, lemon, plum, apricot, apple-green ; but
there is a crowd of these whose denomination is absolutely
worth nothing, because it is drawn from objects which we
have seldom before our eyes, or which are conventional with-
out any existing type, such as Prussian blue, Royal blue,
French blue, &c. Naples yellow, Chrome yellow, Gold yellow.
In addition to these words, which convey nothing fixed or
clear to the mind, there are between the shades of yellow
and blue which they designate, more than fifty intermediate
shades which there are no means of expressing. It is very
plain that blue signifies almost nothing, since an object may
have, at least, fifty different manners of being blue. We

84 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

have bestowed upon each colour two demi-tones, as we have
to each note of music; we say deep blue and clear blue, as
we say A sharp, or B flat. I don’t know whether musicians
are satisfied with these divisions, but, toa certainty, colourists
are not, There are thirty different clear blues, and as many
deep blues. Besides, how can we hit upon the right note?
What, in colours, is the blue natural, the true blue, the
natural blue? It becomes clear, then, that colours can only
be expressed by comparisons, and the most limited capacity
can comprehend that these comparisons ought to be taken
from objects which are most familiar to us, and which vary
the least. Flowers present us with these two advantages,
and, in addition, that of containing in the same order of
things and ideas all colours and all possible shades.

Red strikes man more than any of the other colours; it is
admired by children and savages. Some of its different shades
have, consequently, been distinguished, and names given to
them; there is no other colour for which ordinary language
furnishes s0 many,—crimson, scarlet, carmine, purple, carna-
tion, vermilion, and several others; but even these denomi-
nations convey a vague idea to the mind, and it is difficult to
make three persons agree as to the precise meaning of them.
Ask the learned what was the precise shade of the purple of
the ancients,

There are numberless shades that have no names at all.
Let us take for example the least common colour among
flowers, blue, and let us begin our gamut. Certain hyacinths
will first give you a white scarcely tinged with blue; the
Parma violet is of an extremely pale lapis blue; then comes
the blue geranium of the meadows, then the Chinese, Wistaria,
then the blossom of the flax; then come in order of shades
the Forget-me-not, Borage, Bugloss, Sage, the Cornflower,
the Nemophylla, the Anagallis Morelli, the Plumbago Car-
pentz ; the long-leaved Larkspur, with single flowers, and then
with double ones, which is of a metallic blue; and at last, as
the deepest shade of dark blue, almost black, the berries of
the Laurustinus.

If these designations were in use, they would give im-
mutable ideas of colours, by means of a language for which
no word has to be imagined, or a barbarism created: at a

VARIETIES OF COLOURS. 85

thousand leagues, at a thousand years’ distance, we could
speak of these colours with rigid precision, because every
one would have his gamut-type before his eyes,

You have already borrowed from flowers the -word rose;
but you have no words to express the shades of the rose.
Well, you may find them at once in the different varieties of
roses: the hundred-leaved rose, the rose of the four seasons,
the Bengal rose, are not of the same rose colour, and the
blossom of the peach-tree and that of the hyacinth have each
particular shades.

And white, now; how can you express the shades of white?
Look out of the window, a good way off; there are four trees
covered with white blossoms,—a cherry-tree, a plum-tree, an
apricot, and an almond-tree: I declare to you, that far as
T am from them—a distance at which their form is invisible
and at which their colours alone can be perceived—I should
never confound these four trees with others whose blossoms
are white, although of a very different shade. Give me, in
the same way, an exact tint of a rose-colour or white, and
I will tell you to what flower it belongs; but to do so, it
must not be a strange thing to meet with a man who has
deigned to pay some attention to the magnificence with which
the earth is covered.

Language is at least equally poor in its attempts to express
scents; but there I am at a pause; I am not nearly so well
up in sweet smells as in colours.

Now here, my friend, is a letter which must have been
very ennuyante, for readers to whom nature has not given,
with regard to colours, a susceptibility equal to mine.

LETTER XIII.

ON MY FACE.

CimB mountains, my dear friend, cross torrents, descend
precipices, be drawn by horses, asses, mules, reindeer, camels, or
dogs, according to the country in which you are. Here am
I, returned again to my oak, once more reclining on the grass,
but this time with my face downwards, somé few inches from
the ground, and it appears to me not at all unlikely that I
shall be as fortunate as you in our common ardour in search
of that which is new.

After we have viewed small things closely and attentively,
we gradually lose the feeling of their dimensions; this green
moss appears to me to be trees, and the insects which wander
over its velvet surface, assume in my eyes an importance
equal to that of the deer and stags of a park. Moss is in-
teresting in more than one respect; in addition to the charm
of its wavy, changeable colour, it is one of Nature’s important
agents. The Great Worker who constructed our abode, has
established things in it in such a manner, that everything

VEGETABLE MOULD—LICHENS, 87

lives, dies, and renews itself; and it seems as if He has
arranged everything so completely, as to require Him to take
no further heed of it. The life and death of vegetables, like
the life and death of men, are but transitions. Death is the
nourisher of life. A thing does not perish that it may no
longer exist, but that another may exist in its turn; and when
a certain circle is completed, the last production of this circle
dies in its turn to resuscitate the first. Look at a naked
rock, it is at first covered with rounded yellow patches ; these
patches are already springing into vegetation.

Mould of all kinds, for which we entertain a great repug-
nance, presents to the eye armed with a microscope charming
vegetations, little forests which abound in their peculiar
animals,

Mushrooms, which are a species of mould, cover arid spots
with their whimsical forms and various colours, which in
some kinds are even brilliant. The orange is of a capucin
colour; the false orange is of the same colour, spotted with
white; the red agaric is carnation, the viscous agaric is
orange ; others present all the shades of purple and brown, or
are marbled with various colours.

These first vegetables die, and with their remains leave
upon the rock or upon the barren grit a small quantity of
a sort of mould, very small, but just large enough to allow
certain lichens, which scarcely require any aid, yet cannot de
quite without, to shoot up and vegetate in their turn. The
mould which you see upon bread, preserves, &c. bears at the
extremity of the filaments, little heads which burst for the
escape of a productive dust, by means of which they are re-
produced. Upon a pot of preserves may be found a great
number of species of these small vegetations, differing from
each other in form and fructification.

There is a particular kind of mould which attacks the seed
of wheat, which is simply a parasitical plant.

The lichens die in their turn, and augment with their
remains the layer of vegetable earth, in order that, succes-
sively, other species of stronger lichens may extend and in-
crease that layer of earth on dying. In this manner, plants,
to which a multitude of names have been given, succeed each
other, until that layer of earth acquires sufficient thickness

88 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

and condition to allow mosses to spring up and spread their
velvety carpet. ;

Ancient medicine used and abused certain lichens greatly,
particularly one, which was a lichen that grows upon the skulls
of the dead, and which was called “ usnée du crane humain,”
(muscus é cranio humano).

There is a book bearing date 1684, published at Paris, but
written by Sir Kenelm Digby, an Englishman of the time of
Elizabeth, entitled,—“ Sovereign Remedies and Secret Ex-
periments, by Sir Kenelm Digby, Chancellor of the Queen of
England. With many other secrets and curious perfumes
for the preservation of the beauty of Ladies.” This book,
among other curious things, contains secret remedies which
were then, as they are now-a-days, heaps of secrets which
death teaches the doctors. The true receipt for the making
of the Orvietan is among them. I copy it.

The true composition of the Orvietan or Antidotary Compo-
sition, more excellent than the Theriaca.

Honey, one pound.

Syrup of lemon, four drachms.

Fine sugar, half-a-pound.

Theriacal water, 1 pound.

Roots of angelica, one ounce.

Of coral, tormentil, scorsenia, rhaphane, white ditany and pyrethrum, each one
ounce, except the tormentilla, of which there should only be half an ounce.

These roots are to be pounded and sifted: twenty-one others which follow, and of
which I will spare you the names, are to be pounded, but not sifted. Ten kinds of
seeds are then added, with one ounce of the first horn of a stag (from the right hand
branch); 1 drachm of the heart of a stag, pounded; half an ‘ounce of pounded
pearls, a hare’s heart dried in an oven; the heart and liver of two vipers; half an
ounce of white coral, and of the scrapings of a human skull, only half an ounce.

I cannot forbear quoting two different remedies against
epilepsy. The first is excellent, but still not better than
most of those the book contains; it is announced without
particular recommendation: the patient is only required to
swallow as much of the dung of a peacock as will lie on
a fifteen-sous piece, and he will be cured. Now here is a
consideration which never presented itself to the minds of
financiers, who have since that time expelled from the coinage
and proscribed fifteen-sous pieces; and now there are no
fifteen-sous pieces, how is it possible to ascertain how much
of the peacock’s dung ought to be swallowed? Happily, at

page 19, another still superior receipt presents itself.

MOSSES AND FERNS. 89

“ Remedy for epilepsy or falling sickness, tried by M. Digby,
which cured the son of a minister at Frankfort in Germany,
in the year 1659 :—Take of polypode of oak, well dried and
reduced to a subtle powder—of the moss grown on a human
skull of a person who has suffered a violent death—of the
parings of human nails of the hands and the feet, of each two
drachms; of the root of dried peony, half an ounce; and of
true oak mistletoe, half an ounce. This last must be gathered
in the decline of the moon,” &c.

But let us return to our mosses: the moss perishes in its
turn, after having allowed to escape from its little urns a
fecundating dust, which it confides to the winds, and which
will reproduce it at a distance. We easily recognise the
males and females in the mosses, sometimes, and in certain
species, united on the same stalk, and separated in other
species; the male bears little buds, the female little urns,
covered with an operculum or lid, which detaches itself when
the seeds are ripe, to allow them to fly away without
obstacle.

Civilization is proscribing in the country a very charming
thing: the thatched roofs of cottages covered with moss, and
surmounted by the iris, with its sharp leaves and rich violet-
coloured flowers. The tiles and slates that flatter the pride
of the owners are far from flattering our eyes to an equal
degree.

To the dead mosses succeed ferns. Ferns have large feathery
leaves, which have altogether the appearance of the wings of
birds. The fructification of the ferns is very singular: under
the leaves, or rather on the under side of the leaves, you
may see, regularly ranged, several lines of brown-coloured
rings; these rings are formed by the seeds, which are as if
glued upon the inferior epidermis of the leaf. In some
species, these seeds are enclosed in a membrane which opens.

The Jearned have taken possession of the ferns; they call
the seeds spores;—pray, don’t ask me why. The little
packets of seeds have received the name of spores ; others call
them sporanges; the ring which surrounds them, and which
very properly has been called simply a ring, in the same
manner as they might have called the seeds seeds, and the
packets of seeds packets of seeds—the ring was first callec

90 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

gyrus; but other savants arose, and have decked it with the
name of symplokium. The membrane which covers the seeds
was at first called cridusium, then involucrum, then tegu-
mentum, then perisperangium;—I don’t think they ever
thought of calling it a membrane.

There is a species of fern called Ophioglossum, which had the
reputation of being a cure for the bite of serpents; at a later
period it was proved to be of no avail against the bite of
serpents, but was excellent in promoting the growth of hair;
it is in reality good for nothing but to make mattrasses for
children, and form, by its decayed parts, earth in which larger
vegetables may grow.

The learned, a long time ago, classed the ophioglosse, and
pronounced that it was an Osmond, but this fern has since
been unmasked by other men of science; it has been turned
out from among the Osmonds as an intruder; it is now
nothing but a Bostrichium.

Oh, kind Heaven! hast thou permitted these learned ones
thus to persecute the plants which are spread over the earth,
and to annoy and weary those who do really love them to
such a degree as almost to make them hateful to them?

Behold in all parts of the grass, the margeline and the
white chickweed, which present to the little birds, all the
year round, a well-furnished table; and, in order that they
may never want, the chickweed is endowed with a fecundity
that no other plant possesses: in the course of one year, the
chickweed has time to germinate, to shed its seed, and bear
others, seven or eight times. Seven or eight generations of
chickweed cover the earth every year: it occupies the field
naturally, and invades our gardens; it is almost impossible
to destroy it; besides, of all the herbs naturally inhabiting
the earth, which dispute the soil with the usurpers we in-
troduce, the chickweed is that which injures our cultivation
the least; one would say that it wished to be tolerated, it
scarcely has any hold on the earth, with its few fine slender
roots.

It is a very curious thing to observe with what promptness
autochtonous plants, as the historians say,—that is to say,
aborigines of the soil,—return to the charge in gardens that
are neglected.

WEEDS AND BRAMBLES. 91

Leave your garden, make a journey, and return after a
year’s absence.

Certain little running trefoils, dog-grass, nettles, and chick-
weed cover the earth in such profusion in a few weeks, that
they seem to wish to devour all the substance, in order that
there may be none left for the strangers; they starve and
smother the low plants; the trees which we have imposed
upon the soil appear to brave their efforts, but the ivy climbs
slowly from their feet to their summit, embraces them closely,
and dominates over them triumphantly with its green gar-
lands. From that time the tree is conquered, it must suc-
cumb; there comes a season in which trees have lost their
leaves ; it is the season in which high winds begin to prevail ;
in general their naked branches resist, because they afford
little hold for the wind, but the close leaves of the ivy form
a sail which receives it, makes the tree bend, and. frequently
breaks it; lichens have helped it, they have covered the trunk
and the branches of the tree with a cuirass that has deprived
it of the mild influences of the rain and the sun; it has lost
much of its strength, when the ivy, by means of the winds,
brings it down upon the grass.

Brambles, on their part, armed with sharp points, spring
up to the assault of the shrubs. Like that giant, the son of
Tellus, who fought with Hercules, and recovered his strength
every time he touched the earth, the bramble takes root at
every point of its long branches that comes in contact with
the soil; it forms arches and inextricable nets; it embraces
and strangles them.

This is not all: the revolt is propagated among the plants
which we believed to be our allies, or the most faithful and
submissive of our slaves.

The wild rose has caused the king we imposed upon him
to die with hunger, and insolently raises his thorny branches
around the withered and crownless head of the dethroned
monarch.

The almond-tree upon which we had grafted the peach, has
denied his sap to the usurper; the peach branch is dead, but
the almond has thrown out numerous shoots, its own children,
which it nourishes with the affection of a parent.

The piece of water is become a marsh filled with frogs;

92 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

the grass has disjointed the marble of the basin; the walks
you had traced, covered with gravel, and rolled so many,
many times, are now hidden by a thick coat of grass; whilst
the grass plats, which you kept so smooth, so free from
foreign weeds, these grass plats are invaded by the wild tre-
foil, moss, and all sorts of plants and mushrooms.

Everything is changed, everything is destroyed, the exiles
have returned, the slaves have broken their chains, the
usurpers and tyrants are destroyed, your garden is more wild
than the most neglected field. There is a terrible reaction
against man: the indigenous plants are in the effervescence of
triumph, they give themselves up to saturnalia, to the orgies
of vegetation and liberty.

LETTER XIV.

THE VIOLET—-ANTS~—THE POWER OF LOVE—MIRACLES.

My turf is full of violets of all the known sorts. Nowhere
is another flower that has had great difficulty in triumphing
over the insipidities and the common places of the little
versifiers who have “babbled” about it upon hearsay, and
all one after the other. No one will accuse me of ill-will
towards the violet, I who have made an entire plat of it! and
see what care I have taken of them, see how I have shaded
them with trees in order that the sun’s rays may be softened
before they reach them! The black American walnut, the
yellow-wooded ash, acacias, with their rose-coloured and white
blossoms, the white poplar, whose leaves are lined with silver,
the service-tree, with its branches of coral, the ebony with
‘its golden clusters, the red chestnut-tree, with its great rosy
thyrses, the beech with its purple foliage, are all only there

94 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

to afford a salutary shade to my violets during the heats of
summer.- Well! I must unveil the hitherto misunderstood
violet ; I love it, but I know that it is the sign of invincible
passions ; I cannot be undeceived, since I know it, and I
love it as it is,

All versifiers, all romance writers, poets of the shepherd's
pipe or the reed, are about to rise up in insurrection against
me, against me who have already taught them that they can-
not dance at all upon fern, aa with great difficulty under
nut-trees, two things under pretext of which there have been
three thousand verses made, at least!

The violet is not modest!

Why did you say that the violet was modest? because it
conceals itself under the grass. The violet does not conceal
itself under the grass, it is concealed there by nature. No
one is modest from being born in an humble and obscure
situation.

Why don’t you say that gold is modest; gold which con-
ceals itself in the bowels of the earth, and which, even when
found, frequently disguises itself in some mineral which has
very little the air of being gold!

Why don’t you say diamonds are modest; diamonds that
are concealed in the earth even more secretly than gold, and
which must be broken and cut to bring out their splendour?

Why don’t you say pearls are modest; pearls which are
only found in the depths of the ocean? °

But the violet! the violet is born in the grass, it is true ;,
but what stratagems does it employ to get out of it! besides
the colours which it affects, and which make it easily dis-
tinguished, does it not exhale that delicious perfume which
would reveal it even to a blind man? The modest violet,
indeed! do you see to what it has attained? It has covered
the heads of the Church, the bishops and the archbishops,
with its livery; black is the mourning of all the world, violet
has become the black of kings, and the mourning of the
purple—the modest violet!

But observe its allurements, its cdquetries: kere it is
white, there it is as double as a little rose, white, violet, grey,
and rose-coloured !

When the world thought proper to mix it up with politics,

THE VIOLET. 95

far from stealing away from the orations that were prepared
for it, it had the charlatanism to exhibit itself tri-colour!
Look at this one; its outward corolla is violet, its internal
petals are blue and rose-coloured; disguised thus, the gar-
deners call it the “violette de Bruneau.”

The violet modest! it has been proscribed, persecuted,
exiled,—all which is nothing but so many coquetries.

The violet modest! Go to the opera, two hundred women
have bouquets of violets in their hands.

How well it avenges itself for being born in the shade!

But I must reveal to you another ruse which it employs
to retain our admiration ; other flowers permit their perfumes
to be preserved in essences; perfumers sell us in the winter
odour of roses, odour of jasmine, odour of heliotropes, and
of a dozen other flowers. The violet alone refuses to separate
its odour from itself, it is to be met with nowhere but in its
own corolla; perfumers are obliged to make, with the root
of the Iris of Florence, a certain false and acrid violet odour,
of which every returning spring compels us to acknowledge
the insufficiency.

“You wish to inhale the odour of violets, my sweet, fair
friend,” says the violet to a lady very fond of its perfume,—
“wait till I return; inhale the scent of roses, or of jasmine,
there is no need of roses and jasmines to procure you that
pleasure, perfumers put their odours into bottles; but for me,
my dear, you must wait.”—And this is the modest violet!

The violet is a sort of Cincinnatus, such as modern times
produce, who only retire to their country and turn their
hands to the plough, upon condition that they shall be there
sought for in order to be made consuls, generals, or dictators.

The ancient poets pretend that when Jupiter had meta-
morphosed Io into a heifer, he gave birth to the violet, in
order to present her with herbage worthy of her; it was this
that made me form the idea of having a plat entirely com-
posed of violets.

There often exhales from certain flowers something more
and even better than perfumes; I mean certain circumstances
of life with which they were associated, and with which they
inseparably dwell in the mind, or rather in the heart, as the
hamadryads were not able to quit their oaks! And may

96 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

there not exist some such cause for my extreme partiality for
the violet? Perhaps—but no;—there are some memories
too holy for friendship even—we are travelling round a gar-
den—not laying bare scarcely cicatrised wounds.

Upon a stalk of groundsel there is a caterpillar formed of
black and yellow rings, dining with an apparently good appe-
tite ; I will catch it: on putting my finger to it, it falls to the
ground rolled up into a ball, and lies quite motionless. It
will not be long before it spins a thin cocoon, from which it
will not come out in less than a year, in the form of a little
moth, as richly clothed as it was in its first shape, but it will
be of a very different colour. Its head, its corselet, and its
body will be of a beautiful black; its upper wings will be of
a grey black, upon which will be marked a line of a bright
carmine, with a spot of the same colour underneath, forming
on each wing a kind of point of admiration. The inferior
wings, and the under part of the butterfly, will be of this
same carmine. It carries its wings in the form of a roof.

Ants are marching through the grass as we would march
through a thick forest; there are for them, between these
closely growing blades, routes, roads, and foot-paths.

Many tales have been told about ants, many fables imagined
and invented; falsehoods have been heaped upon falsehoods,
and yet in the accounts of the false wonders related, the nar-
rators have stopped far short of the real marvels.

Ants have no granaries in which, during summer, they
store provisions for the coming winter.

La Fontaine said so:—but La Fontaine was mistaken.
La Fontaine had as much wit and bonhommie as any man; but
he was not perfectly acquainted with all the actors he brought
upon the stage. A crow could not carry a cheese, nor would
a fox covet it, if it could. La Fontaine, in this respect, re-
sembles translators, who, although well acquainted with Latin,
translate excellent Latin into very bad English, They may
be fairly reminded, that, in order to translate, it is not suffi-
cient to take something away from one language, they must
know how to convey it skilfully into another. La Fontaine
was well acquainted with men, but had but little knowledge

(1) Callimorpha Jacobea, It is one of the very few Lepidoptera whose wings
are alike on both sides,—Ep.

ANTS. 97

. the animals under whose forms he wished to represent
them.

Let us watch that ant. Do you remember we have already
met with the ant under the leaves of a white rose-tree, when
it was tickling the aphides, in order to make them yield a
saccharine liquid of which ants are very fond? Here they
are in great numbers; we must be near the ant-hill.

Three sorts of ants dwell in this little subterraneous city ;
the females, the males, and the people; the people have no
sex, and do the work of the community, the males and
females do no labour.

Their subterraneous abode is constructed with much art;
little galleries terminate, at intervals, in more extensive places,
supported by pillars; all this is done with earth and a sort
of slime, by means of which the working ants make a mortar.

This is the busy period of their lives. Both males and
females have wings, for they must leave the earth, as it is in
the air their nuptials are accomplished. They soon descend
from the clouds, as many other lovers do; the males soon die :
but the females have many cares; in the first place, as they
stand in no more need of their wings, they tear them off
themselves, if they do not happen to prefer having it done
by the workers, who would not fail to deprive them of them
quickly. In fact, the time for frivolous adornments and
pleasures is over ; they have entered upon the serious busi-
ness of life; they must remain upon the ground. The females
then wander about through their grotto, and let fall, at
hazard, their little eggs,* of which nightingales are so fond,
the workers pick them up and gather them together in heaps
in the places which separate the galleries. The larve are
soon hatched, and are not long before they spin themselves
little cocoons: when the moment comes for their issuing from
their confinement, the workers tear the cocoons, and thus
facilitate the operation ; then they carefully extend and smooth
the wings of the males and females. From these eggs are
born, in fact, not only ants of both sexes, but the workers
also, who have no wings: during several days food is brought
to the newly born, and then they are allowed to go out.

* M. Karr is in errcr here. The “eggs” which the nightingales eat are really

the cocoons in which the pupa attains its perfect state.—Ep,
H

98 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

There are several species of ants which seldom quit their
dwelling, but these are like pastoral nations, they dig their
ant-hill beneath the roots of certain herbs or grasses much
relished by aphides, when they transport thither those little
green cows, which find in the roots, laid bare by the ants,
a nourishment which they transmit to what may be called
the cow-keepers, in the form of a saccharine liquor.

Whither are those ants going in such close battalion? I will
not say with Virgil: nigrum it campis agmen, a black bat-
talion marches across the fields. These are of a different
species, they are of a red or russet colour, and are on their
way to attack a hill of black ants.

We may fancy we see the Cimbri and the Teutons with
their fair hair, invading the countries of the south.

They have discovered the fort of their enemy, and descend
to the assault, spreading death and terror. Becoming im-
mediately acquainted with the place, they bear away the eges
and the larvee of the black ants in triumph to their own re-
treats. There they will see them born, and bring them up
in obedience and in ignorance of their true family. These
black ants become the Helots, the slaves, of the red ants, who
make them work with them for their own profit.

If, my friend, you have got rid of the habit of measuring
the importance of things by the size of those who perform
them, you will readily confess that there is no difference be-
tween these insects which live under the grass and men who
walk upon it. Ifthe size be of such vast importance, horses,
oxen, camels and elephants are much above man. Can you
find me, in the annals of the military glory of man, a battle
which can be otherwise described than that of these ants
before our eyes? And when we think that the Sovereign
Creator and Master of men and ants beholds them from on
high, can we convince ourselves that the one can have
really so much more importance in His eyes than the others?
How many men there are who would smile at seeing us look-
ing at ants, and who think that God has his eyes constantly
upon them, and passes his eternity in observing what they
think of him!

Have we not, as these ants have, wings which we unfold at
the period at which love raises us to the heavens; these

REALITY MORE WONDERFUL THAN FICTION. 99

wings, are they not, sooner or later, torn from us by the
necessities of the human condition, by other people who,
strangers to the ravishing poetries of love, bring us back to
the flat realities of their existence, and chain us down to the
earth among them, to employ ourselves there with vile cal-
culations and shameful lucre?

Seriously, are you not surprised at the wonders which sur-
round man, and which he does not take the pains to look at?
Are you not ashamed of the distance you may have travelled,
of all the fatigues you have undergone, of all the dangers
you have encountered, when you compare the accounts you
are able to give with those which I describe without leaving
my home? It is in vain that you reckon, in order to re-
establish the equilibrium, upon the embellishments which
every traveller adds to his canvass; I tell you nothing but
truths; but truths that you could not have invented. False-
hood is always obliged to submit to the perplexing care of
resembling truth; truth holds on its march unimpeded by
this mean, embarrassing consideration.

This reminds me of one of the most amusing fairy tales
I ever read :—and I have read many, for I loved them dearly
in by-gone days.

Three princes were sent by the king, their father, to bring
back wonders from distant countries: the one whose present
should be the most extraordinary was to succeed him on the
throne. The youngest, whom the tale-teller evidently favours,
brought back a walnut, and his brothers smiled disdainfully.
The walnut was cracked, and there came out of it a hazel-nut,
the hazel-nut contained a pea, the pea a grain of hemp seed,
the grain of hemp seed a grain of millet; the grain of millet
‘was opened, and a piece of cloth was drawn from it twenty
ells long.

When I read greedily so many beautiful stories, when I
saw so many genii, enchanters, fairies, beautiful princesses and
loving and brave princes, many times was I wont, at the end
of the volume, to sit and carry on the vision in my thoughts ;
then I awoke, and wept with grief at only living in life, in-
stead of living in fairy tales; but I very early discovered
that real life contains a hundred times more wonders than
these charming fables:—and I became reconciled to my fate.

100 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

When in love, I felt myself covered with the enchanted
armour which rendered knights invulnerable. My strength
appeared to me invincible, and my courage above my strength.
The thought of her I loved was a talisman; her name, a
magic word which triumphed over obstacles and rendered
everything powerless before me.

One day, I plunged into the water to endeavour to save
an unfortunate man who was drowning; he seized me, and
clung around me like a serpent; I was on the point of
perishing with him—lI pronounced the name of Magdeleine,
and, animated by a supernatural strength, I regained the
surface of the water, bearing the drowning man with one arm,
and swimming with the other.

At another time I wrote to her :—

“They want to marry you; that happiness which another
promises you I will give you. Do you wish for riches, gold?
—I shall have them ; speak, what do you wish for?—there is
nothing above me or my powers. Do you wish for palaces
of marble, or gold, to tread under your feet? Do you wish
for honours? Do you wish to be a queen? Magdeleine,
everything is yours! everything the world contains; for, I
feel it, no one will be able to dispute with me that by which
I may attain you. Wait a year, wait a month, wait a day,
and I will bestow a crown upon you.” .. .

And I was true; I felt that I had the power to do all this,
And, another day, when she had told me that she loved me,
I left her abode 80 exalted, so lofty, that I stooped as I went
for fear of unhooking some star, or setting fire to my hair;
and I endeavoured to avoid running against the persons I
met with, for fear of breaking them to shivers like glass.

The flowers began to talk to me: the white rose had
nothing but perfumes for others; for me it had soft words
which it breathed into my heart; the honeysuckle had for
my lips sweet kisses, and exhaled for me alone, not its ordi-
nary perfume, but the odour of the breath of her I loved.
The winds even brought me soft and mysterious voices.

And then, all at once, I don’t know what wicked enchanter
intruded himself among so many miracles. Magdeleine’ be-
came a woman very like other women ; and I,—I was changed
into I don’t know what stupid animal. Flowers were nothing

DISENCHANTMENT. 101

but flowers for me as well as for other people. I could make
nothing out of the whisperings of the winds in the tree-tops.
The honeysuckle only offered me the same odour which it
presented to every vulgar nose. From that time I have dis-
covered nothing marvellous in myself; my early years, like
prodigal mothers, ruined and disinherited my latter ones.

But I became a spectator in life, and I looked about me.

Then, by observing others, I found that I had blossomed
as the flowers blossom, that my soul had bloomed, and had
exhaled its perfume, which is love; then my rich corolla had
withered and fallen off; that this was all to be so; that I had
finished my part, and had acted wisely in sitting down as
comfortably as I could, to look on and observe other men.

From that I proceeded to the observation of nature, and
T again met with all the wonders of my beloved fairy tales ;
and I happened to recollect the grain of millet and the
famous piece of cloth; and I said to myself—* Well! what is
there so extraordinary in that?”

Tn fact, here is a little grain much smaller than that of
the millet; here is the seed of the cenothera. Put it in the
earth; there will spring up from ’it a tall and beautiful plant,
with leaves and flowers and a delicious odour, yielding five
or six hundred seeds, from which will come five or six hundred
plants. This single little grain contains infinite generations
of similar plants, with their leaves, their flowers, and their
perfumes. '

You put it in the earth to-day: well! all the men who
now cover the globe shall be dead, and there will still continue
to issue from it other flowers, and other seeds which will
engender other flowers.

What has become of your false miracle, and your wretched
twenty ells of cloth?

Why do you put twenty ells of cloth in your grain of
millet? It contained much more than that; it contained
beautiful stalks with long pendent ears; it contained that
which might cover the earth in less than ten years. Who can
count the number of birds that might be fed from the pro-
duce of that millet seed?

LETTER XY.

THE TULIPS, AND THEIR STORY,

I KNEW a man who had always been happy until the moment
when some one sent him a present of a dozen tulip roots.

I never saw but one man more embarrassed, and that was
a merchant of Marseilles, to whom an African prince sent
two tigers and a panther, begging him to keep them for his
sake.

The poor man asked some one if tulips would grow in water
ona chimney, as hyacinths do, and was assured they would not.
He went to see a friend who was a great amateur of tulips,
and offered him his twelve bulbs. His friend answered
somewhat haughtily, that he sometimes gave away tulips, but
that he never accepted any; not caring to see his flower-beds
dishonoured by any flower without a name or of base extrac-
tion ; besides, those which he possessed had been sown and
cultivated by himself ; it was a sort of family into which he
was not willing to admit strangers.

THE TULIPS, 103

Our friend was a bachelor, and spent not more than an
eighth part of his income. “Peter,” said he to his servant,
“M. Réault will have nothing to do with my tulips; to whom
can I give them?” Peter said that the yard in which the dog
was allowed to run had originally been a little garden, for
two lilacs and an acacia proved it; that they had only to turn
up the earth to have a hundred times more room than could
be wanted for twelve tulips; and that on the morrow he would
set about it. Accordingly, Peter rose early and began to
dig. He had bought a spade and a rake for eight francs, and
his master began to think the tulips dear, and that it was
really a pity M. Réault would not accept them. The follow-
ing night the dog, which till that time had been allowed to
be loose in the yard, revenged himself for his captivity by
frightful howlings. Next day Peter said to his master—Sir,
T have turned up earth enough to plant a thousand tulips,
but there is one thing that stops me; I don’t know at what
depth they should be planted.-—“Oh! you must take your
chance; they are sure to come up some time or other.” —“ But,
Sir, I have a cousin who is a gardener, and I have told him
to come this morning. Monsieur will only have to pay him
for half-a-day’s work, and the tulips will be planted properly.”

At a house at which he called in the course of the day, a
lady said to him—“TI am told you are planting a garden.”

“No,” said he, “I am simply putting in the earth twelve
tulip roots which M. Bernard sent me.”

“Oh, then, they are most likely something beautiful ; he is
considered a great amateur; besides, people don’t make a
present of a dozen tulip roots, unless they are rare and
valuable plants.”

“T really know nothing about the matter.”

“How is it that you have not had a garden before this
time?”

“T never thought of it.”

“Mr. Delarue has a charming garden; I and my sister
went to see it the day before yesterday.”

“Ah! if I had a garden, then you would come and see it?”

“Very probably we might.”

Arnold returned home with his mind very much pre-
occupied; he had remarked this lady for some time _past,

104 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

but the disagreeable sensation he had felt upon hearing of her
visit to Mr. Delarue, warned him that he took more interest
in her than he had been aware of. The gardener was preparing
the holes for the tulips, when Arnold stopped him, and said,
“Do you think a good garden could be made of this yard?”

“Tmpossible, Sir; your yard is not larger than my hand.”

“That is true; I should like, however, to have a beautiful
garden.”

“Give me the ground, Sir, and I will soon provide you
with that.”

“T have but this yard.”

“Why, then, Sir, don’t you buy that large piece of ground
which separates Monsieur’s house from that of M. Durut, and.
which M. Durut wishes to sell? It is said it can be bought
for a mere nothing.”

“Let us look at the piece of ground.”

The enclosure was large; some parts of it even were already
planted; a handsome screen of poplars separated it from the
garden of M. Durut. Application was made to the notary;
the thing was to be sold cheap. Arnold purchased, paid
down the money, and the gardener was set to work. The poor
dog, which during three nights had not for one minute
ceased howling, was reinstated in the yard.

“Shall I really have a handsome garden?” frequently asked
M. Arnold. ;

“Certainly, Sir,” replied the gardener; “you shall have
such things as are seen nowhere else; you shall have green
roses, black roses, and blue roses.”

“Indeed.”

“ Yes, Sir; I have the receipt to make them, in an old book
of my father’s.”

“And is it very desirable to have green, blue, and black
roses 2”

“Yes, Sir; nobody else has any.”

Arnold never quitted his garden or the gardener; he planted
and took up again; everything must be ready by the follow-
ing spring. M. Durut, the vendor of the enclosure, paid him
first one visit, then another; and soon, whenever he perceived
M. Arnold in his garden he joined him. “Fortunately,” thought
Arnold, “when the poplars are in leaf, he will not be able to

THE TULIPS. 105

see Tam here.” M. Durut was a man of fifty years of age,
invariably dressed in an old great-coat and a shabby hat, who
was at war with the whole neighbourhood, and was ruining
himself with lawsuits, one brought on by another. As he
was very much engaged with his lawsuits, he was talking of
them incessantly, and adorned the accounts he gave of them
with all sorts of invectives and maledictions against his
adversaries; in addition to which disadvantage, he never
seemed to remember that he had sold his enclosure. When
he spoke of it, he always said my garden, and found fault
with everything that was done in it; it was much better
managed in his time. “What do you take up this for? What
do you plant that for? Youare spoiling everything.” Arnold
was a mild man, but the annoyance made him savage. One
day, when M. Durut had given him a rather stronger dose
than common, he said to Peter, “When M. Durut comes
again, I will not be at home.”

The next day M. Durut perceived Arnold through the
window, and came and rang at his bell. Peter, according
to his master’s orders, told him he was gone out.—“ Gone
out ! gone out! why I this moment saw him in my garden—
and in M. Durut went. Arnold was furious, and could scarcely
restrain himself. This time he did not put himself out of
the way, and by means of an oratorical precaution, consisting
of a “Permit me,” he continued to assist the gardener, although
the latter had six or seven journeymen round him. When
M. Durut was gone, Arnold said to Peter,—

“ What did I tell you?—did not I desire you not to let
M. Durut in?”

“ Certainly, Sir, but he saw you in the garden, and would
come in, in spite of me.”

“That was one reason the more why he should not have
persisted ; he ought to understand that I wish to be alone. If
you let him in again, I will discharge you.”

“ But then, Sir, you must not show yourself in the garden.”

Arnold then broke forth into an eloquent invective. “What
the deuce! did I buy this garden of this old rogue to have no
free enjoyment of it? Who could have dreamt that the pro-
perty was subject to the intolerable nuisance of his presence?
The garden is mine—I have paid for it—and I will not pay

106 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

for it over again, at a thousand times higher price than the
first, by enduring the annoyance which this eternal litigator
inflicts upon me daily. I did hope to have the patience to
wait till the poplars were in leaf; but, do you hear, Peter,
I will not see him again.”

M. Durut presented himself the next day. The same answer
from Peter; the same persistence on the part of M. Durut.

“ But, Peter, I am sure he is at home; I only this moment
saw him in my garden.”

“Very likely, Sir; but master told me himself that he was
not at home.”

“ Then, Peter, go and tell him I am here.”

“ It’s of no use, Sir ; there is nobody at home.”

“ Ah, that’s all very well,—go, I say, and tell him J am
here.” ;

“ No, Sir, I shall not go; master would discharge me.”

M. Durut returned home, and called to Arnold out of his
window — “ Hilloa! neighbour!” Arnold pretended to be
very busy, and made no reply; but M. Durut was not dis-
couraged by such a trifle as that. “Hilloa! neighbour!”
cried he; “ Monsieur Arnold!” Arnold could have thrashed
him well with all his heart. “ Hilloa! gardener; tell M.
Arnold I am calling him.” Arnold left the garden. “The
leaves are very backward!” sighed he.

The next day M. Durut returned to the charge, met with
the same repulse from Peter, and went again to his window
to call Arnold. The latter for a time affected deafness, but
his patience was at length overcome.

“ Well, Sir, I hear you plainly enough!” replied he.:

“ That’s well,” cried M. Durut. “Why, Peter persisted in
saying you were not at home, although I told him I saw you
in my garden; he would not admit me!”

“ Peter was right, Sir; I am not at home.”

“ How, neighbour? what does that mean?”

“ That means, Sir, that there are moments in which I wish
to be alone; and if we are to continue good neighbours, we
must not incommode each other.”

“That is to say, Sir, that your door is shut against
me.”

“ That is only to say, Sir, thac you will do me great plea-

17?

THE TULIPS. 107

sure by coming to see me occasionally ; but that each of us
must be at liberty in his own home.”

“ Oh, I understand you, Sir; I will not inconvenience you
again |”

“ That is all I require, Sir.”

“ Very well, Sir.”

And M. Durut shut his window violently. Arnold fancied
himself happily delivered from annoyance; but from that day
all the stale vegetables, bones of meat, and other refuse from
the house of Durut, were thrown over the wall into Arnold’s
garden. I will not venture to mention all that was done in
this way. At first, Arnold had them removed without com-
plaining; but one day, when the nuisance had been more
serious than usual, he perceived M. Durut at his window, and
called him. M. Durut took no notice. Arnold called a
second time ; M. Durut then condescended to hear him, and
answered—

“ T am not at home, Sir.”

“ Come, come, Sir; I am not now disposed to joke.”

« Oh, Sir, every one ought to be at liberty in his own home!”

“ Certainly, Sir; but Linsist upon your not throwing your
refuse, in the manner you do, into my garden.”

“Ta, ta, ta, ta, ta!”

And M. Durut left the window. Arnold ordered his ser-
vants to throw everything back, for the future, that should
come over the wall from M. Durut’s. M. Durut had a com-
plaint before the mayor, that M. Arnold threw refuse over
into his garden. The mayor summoned Arnold, and repri-
manded him, Arnold replied that he only returned that
which had been thrown into his garden. The mayor did not
believe him. Arnold grew angry, and, by some hasty expres-
sions, prejudiced the mayor against him, Three days after-
wards, a summons was brought by an officer to Arnold’s house.
The king, according to the formula employed by officers, who
thus attribute to the king strange words and strange things,
commanded Arnold, within twenty-four hours at the utmost,
to cut down the poplars which formed a screen between the
two properties, the document being embellished with the most
formidable threats in the event of its not being obeyed. Arnold
was astounded, and went to consult his man of business. The

108 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

latter came and looked at the trees, and said, “They must be
cut down; the law is precise. The trees must not be less
than six feet from the party-wall; and there are but four feet
between them and the wall.”

“ But he planted them himself!”

“No matter; the two properties were then his own. They
must be cut down.”

« And suppose I do not cut them down?”

“ You will be compelled.”

The poplars were magnificent ; covered with their young
leaves of a transparent green, they made the most beautiful
green curtain imaginable. Arnold was in despair. Ske for
whom he had made the garden had promised to come and
see it as soon as the tulips should be in bloom, which could
not be many days later. If this screen were cut down, the
whole effect of his garden would be destroyed. He called the
gardener, and asked him if it were possible to remove the
poplars to a distance of six feet from the wall.

“ Certainly, Sir.”

“« And will they live?”

“No; because it is not the season for transplanting. A
month ago there would have been no difficulty.”

He repaired again to the office of his man of business.

“ Make the matter up as well as you can: I must keep
my poplars.”

“ That depends upon your neighbour.”

“ Go and see him: offer him money.”

The man of business was very ill received, and M. Durut
only replied to his proposals by a fresh summons. Arnold
arried it to his man of business.

“Can you, by any chicanery, preserve my poplars for a
ortnight?”

“Yes, by opposing the summons, and by citing your
adversary to prove the fact. We, on our part, will maintain
before the tribunal, that the trees are six feet and a half from
the wall; the tribunal will appoint proper persons to ascer-
tain the truth; these persons will make their report ; and we
shall gain by that means a good fortnight. But it will cost
you very dear ; you will have all the expenses to pay, and will
be obliged to cut down the trees at last.”

THE TULIPS. 109

“ Well, never mind; they must not be cut down till after
a fortnight.”

The man of business carried on the contest, and it fell out
exactly as he had foreseen it would: only the weather became
colder, the tulips were not open, and the tulips alone were
the object of all these cares: he was obliged to cut down the
poplars. Some one advised Arnold to have trees painted on
the wall; that was ugly enough, to be sure, but at this season
of the year there was no such thing as planting.

Mademoiselle Aglaé was to come two days after, the twelve
tulips were fully out, the weather was magnificent, the garden
was filled with all the flowers of the season. Arnold went to
call upon M. Réault, for Mademoiselle Aglaé had said, “ We
will bring two or three of our friends with us; but nevertheless
have somebody there ; it will be more proper.”

M. Réault, he who had declined the roots, was in company
with several others who came to see his tulips. He had a
wand in his hand, and exhibited them with an emphasis
which none can conceive but those who have seen in this
situation an amateur of tulips among his blooming flowers.

The party was assembled under a tent, between two beds
of tulips planted in regular rows. M. Réault stopped for
a moment to see who came in, and when he perceived it was
only one of the profane, he bade him “ Good morning,” with a
nod, and, without quitting his serious tone and manner, re-
sumed his demonstration; he was then before a tulip of a
white ground, streaked with violet.

“ Gentlemen,” said he, “this is Vandaél; it is a pearl of
the kind; it is not in all its beauty; the month of April was
cruel for our plants, and March was perfidious.”

“This is Joseph Deschiens; we know nothing to be com-
pared to this superb plant; the ground is white, and the
stripes violet.”

“ But,” interrupted Arnold, “was not that which you de-
scribed just now, and which you called Vandaél, likewise white
and violet?” M. Réault smiled disdainfully, looked at the
other spectators, and, without condescending to reply to
Arnold, continued,—

“ Here is Gluck, white and violet, a magnificent plant of
seventh line.”

110 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

“ Your pardon!” again interrupted Arnold; “but Vandaél
and Joseph Deschiens are likewise white and violet.”

This time M. Réault shrugged his shoulders with a move-
ment of impatience; one of the spectators replied to him by
a nearly similar sign, but which, however, had this particular
shade, that it exhorted M. Réault to have pity on the profane,
and exercise his patience. This gentleman remained a little
behind with Arnold, and said in a low voice, “You are not
an amateur, Sir?”

“ Not yet, Sir; I have only twelve tulips.”

“ Ah! that’s very few indeed ; there are eighteen hundred
here, and all different.”

“ But, Sir, I have only yet looked at three, and they ap-
peared to me perfectly alike.”

“ Ah, Sir! these three plants are no more alike than day
and night; for experienced eyes, there is no resemblance
between them.”

“ No resemblance! that appears rather strong, Sir.”

“ Tt is you, Sir, who are not strong upon the subject of
tulips. All three are violet and white, it is true; the ground
of all three is white, and the streaks are violet; but the violet
is not the same.”

“ Ah, I perceive!—thank you, Sir.”

“ Don’t name it, Sir.”

Both rejoined M. Réault; he was pointing with his wand
to a white and rose-coloured tulip.

“ Czartertski, gentlemen, a flower of fifth line; allow me to
point out the whiteness of the onglets; and what a carriage |
Gentlemen, what a carriage!”

And whilst saying these words, M. Réault pressed his
wand against the green stalk of the tulip, and appeared to
make the greatest efforts to bend it, without, however, suc-
ceeding.

“It is a rod, gentleman ; it is a bar of iron.”

“ Sir,” said Arnold to him who had already had compassion
on him, and afforded him a charitable explanation, “do you
believe that M. Réault really presses so hard with his wand
upon the tulip?—and is it also a great advantage that the
stalk of such a light flower should be a bar of iron, as he says
it is?”

THE TULIPS. 111

“ Yes, certainly, Sir; that is a condition without which we
never admit a tulip into our flower-beds.”

“Napoleon 1st,” said M. Réault, before a white and rose-
coloured tulip; “that isa plant I strongly recommend to your
attention.”

“ Well, Sir,” said Arnold to the complaisant amateur, “ if
it were not for what you have told me, I should venture to
say a strange thing. The rose colour of these tulips is pro-
bably not the same shade of rose colour; but if I had come
here alone, I should have fancied I saw two tulips, each mul-
tiplied nine hundred times, the one white and violet, the other
white and rose.”

“ Zounds! Sir; when a person knows nothing ”

The demonstration was here stopt for a moment. The
other amateur was seized with admiration, absolutely over-
come before the Incomparable Purple. “ Ah, Sir,” said he
to M. Réault, “permit me to stop here! Friend,” cried he
to an under-gardener, “please to bring me a chair.” The
chair being brought, he sat down, with his two hands placed
upon the top of his cane, and his chin upon his two hands;
thus he remained without speaking, his eyes fixed and his
mouth half open. The other left Arnold, and came to esctacise
also behind his companion. As for M. Réault, he stood
motionless, with a most ineffable smile playing on his lips.
Arnold saw nothing in the Incomparable Purple but a white
and red-coloured tulip, the shades of which appeared to him
to be exactly repeated in four or five hundred others, before
which they had passed in silence, or to which they had only
accorded compliments called for by politeness. At length
the enthusiast arose, and said—

“ Monsieur Réault, I do not wish to trespass on the time
of these gentlemen; but I shall request you to grant me
permission to come alone, and pass an hour seated before
your tulip.”

“ Sir, you do it too much honour.”

“ Sir, I only pay it the honour it merits.”

“Tt must be allowed, Sir; for in such a case I do not pre
tend to any false modesty—it is a plant of great merit!”

“ Sir, it is a jewel !”

“M, Réault,” said Arnold, “I request your pardon; and

112 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

yours likewise, gentlemen. Permit me to say a ‘word to
M. Réault, and to leave you; I am waited for upon an affair
of consequence.” He took M. Réault aside, and said—

“To-morrow some friends mean to do me the honour to
come and see my tulips.”

“ Your tulips!—What do you mean by your tulips?”

“ Faith! only the twelve roots I offered to you, and which
you refused.”

“ Ab! ah!”

Will you do me the pleasure of coming?”

“ What, to see your twelve roots?”

“To see me, and breakfast with me, with three or four
other persons; at the same time, you can tell me if my tulips
are good for anything; but I can tell you beforehand, you
have not one of the twelve.”

“ Indeed !”

“ It is true, I assure you.”

“ T should like to see that. At what hour?”

“ Eleven.”

“J will be punctual.”

“ To-morrow ?”

“ To-morrow.”

The next day Mademoiselle Aglaé and her sister came a
little after eleven o'clock, but Arnold was disagreeably sur-
prised to find they were accompanied by M. Dulaurier ; M.
Réault entered almost at the same instant. He and
M. Dulaurier were acquainted, and made mutual excuses for
not having yet been to see each other’s tulips. “Ah, Sir!”
said the one, “the month of March did me great injury.”
“ Monsieur,” said the other, “I must request your indul-
gence; the month of April has treated me sadly.” Breakfast
was announced ; the ladies were surprised, declared they could
eat nothing, and finished by becoming humanised. Durin
breakfast, Arnold visibly lost his spirits: he could not help fan-
cying he saw signs of intelligence pass between Mademoiselle
Aglaé and M. Dulaurier, which rendered him a prey to horrible
misgivings; but the sister of Mademoiselle Aglaé removed all
doubts, by taking an early opportunity of announcing to him
that her sister and M. Dulaurier were to be married in three
weeks. Arnold then became aware that “uncertainty is the

“rn

THE TULIPS. 113

worst of evils, until the moment in which reality comes to
make us regret uncertainty.” Arnold was stupefied by the
blow; sometimes he remained sad and silent; and then he
gave himself up to flights of very little probable and ill-
sustained gaiety. He was joked about his painted wall, and
his trees in oil, and at length they came to the tulips—the
dozen tulips! They were tulips taken at hazard, and.differ-
ing widely from each other. One was entirely of a beautiful
yellow ; another opened its calyx with so brilliant a red that
the eye could not dwell upon it; this had a yellow ground,
and upon this yellow ground were spread brown and black
stripes ; two of them had a white ground, like thoseof M. Réault,
and of these two, one was streaked with violet, and the other
with rose colour. M. Réault and M. Dulaurier looked at each
other. M. Dulaurier smiled; but M. Réault, after several ill-
repressed efforts, finished by giviug vent to most violent
explosions of laughter. The two ladies and Arnold looked
at each other with some inquietude, fearing that he was seized
with an attack of insanity; but, after five or six minutes, he
recovered the power of speaking, although his words were
interrupted by fresh peals of laughter,—“ Ah, my dear Arnold,
Tam laughing too much, it makes me ill!—You call these?”

“ Parbleu! why, tulips!”

“Tulips, my dear Sir! you will choke me, parole dhonneur,”
and off he went with a fresh fit of laughter. Arnold, who
had, for other reasons, so much anger rankling in his heart,
was but too happy to have an opportunity of showing ill-
humour to some one; he only regretted that this same one
was not M. Dulaurier. For want of a better subject, however,
he coldly asked M. Réault if he would be kind enough, when
his fit was over, to explain to him the subject of it.

“Oh, my dear Sir, don’t be angry with me; really it 1s not
my fault. I should be vexed beyond measure to offend you ;
but really this is too droll! particularly if you could but have.
seen yourself, when you told me that you called these tulips.”

“ But you, Sir; what name do you give these flowers?”

“What name! my dear Sir ; I don’t give them any name;
they do not deserve one. Listen ; Monsieur Dulaurier, speak—
give your opinion; for I am anxious that M. Arnold should
know that it ig not I alone who consider his tulips rather

I

114 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

droll. Oh! la, la, la,—no more laughing—it makes one unwell
to laugh in such a manner.”

M. Dulaurier, who was more calm, explained to Arnold that
about fifty years ago the amateurs of tulips had only tulips
with a yellow ground, streaked with red and brown; that
every tulip with a white ground was then rejected from all
collections, At this period, as all imaginable follies had been
exhausted for tulips with a yellow ground, the amateurs
took it into their heads to begin again with an entirely new
series of tulips with a white ground. After long debates
among the revolutionists and the partisans of the ancient
tulips, the white grounds prevailed, and the yellow grounds
were expelled with disgrace from flower-beds, and publicly
treated in books and pamphlets as disgusting flowers. Such as
persisted in letting them bloom in their gardens, acquired the
names of flewrichons and curiolets. As regards tulips of a single
colour, they have never been admitted by the above-mentioned
amateurs—either the partisans of the yellow grounds, or those
of the white grounds; and as for your two tulips with the white
ground, they are absurd, the petals being pointed.

Then a conversation was commenced between M. Dulaurier
and M. Réault. “ How singular,” said the latter, “was the
taste of our fathers! here is d¢zarre noir, which our ancestors
considered cheap at ten crowns, and which I would not have
at any price, even in my poultry-yard, among my hens.”

“ But,” said M. Dulaurier, “is not this the tulipe de Maés-
tricht, which made such a noise in 1811 and 1812?”

“ Yes, it is quite pitiable! Say no more about it.”

At length the visit terminated, to the great joy of the un-
fortunate Arnold, who was able, when once alone, to give
himself up to his grief and his anger.

From that day everything went on from bad to worse.
Neighbour Durut kept a wound constantly open in his heart,
memorem tram. In the space of four months, he brought five
actions against Arnold, Under pretence that the party-wall
required repairs, he had it pulled down and rebuilt at their
joint expense. In the midst of the fine season, he sent the brick-
layers into Arnold’s garden, which they demolished. Arnold
made a basin to receive rain water. M. Durut found out that
the “Customs of Paris,” article 217, does not permit sewers

THE TULIPS, 115

or cesspools to be made within the distance of six feet from
the party-wall, and this basin was only five feet and a third
removed from it. This time Arnold’s man of business did not
agree with M. Durut. He answered, “that a basin was not
necessarily a cesspool, and that several legislators had made
that distinction ; among others, Goupi, who observes, ‘ that the
“ Customs of Paris,” by prescribing this distance of six feet, has
not had it in view to obviate the damage that the filtration of
waters might cause, since it does not require it for wells,
although the same danger of filtration is encountered with
regard to them; besides, at whatever distance may be the
wells and cesspools, he who constructs them is always re-
sponsible for the damage which may be caused by filtration.
The principal reason,’” says Goupi, as likewise said Arnold’s
man of business, “ ‘is only to remove from neighbours’ houses
the bad odour which certain watery ditches and cesspools ex-
hale.’” But, and here Degodets, another lawyer, is in accord
with Goupi, the disposition of article 217 of the “ Customs of
Paris” cannot extend to the draining wells and ditches receiv-
ing rain water, which does not exhale a bad odour. The “ Cus-
toms of Orleans,” article 245, equally establishes this distinc-
tion, as Pelhier does positively, in his treatise of the “ Contract
de Société,” article 5, upon the community of party-walls.
M. Durut replied ; the man of business replied to him. The
tribunals were appealed to, to judge the question: they
granted that the man of business was right in his distinction,
which was affirmed in appeal and in cassation. But Durut
was not the man to be beaten by trifles ; he commenced a fresh
suit. In his new conclusions he admitted the definition and
the distinction adopted by the tribunal; he demanded to
prove that Arnold’s basin merited the name of cesspool, and
consequently came within the application of article 217 of the
“ Customs of Paris,” and article 245 of the “Customs of Or-
leans.” Experienced persons were named to go to the spot and
enlighten the tribunal. Now, in the night which preceded
the examination, Durut had thrown over the wall so much
refuse, with impure water and filth, into the basin, that it was
metamorphosed into an infectious pool, and consequently so
declared to be by the examiners; which produced a condem-
nation with expenses against Arnold, obliging him to destroy

116 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

his basin. Another process compelled him to eat his pigeons,
which were devouring the house of his neighbour. At length
one day, in a fit of passion, he went so far as, I don’t know
how, to threaten to shoot M. Durut. The latter commenced
a criminal action, which Arnold had no other.means of stop-
ping, but by. purchasing, in a friendly way, and at a third more
than its value, the property of M. Durut. In a word, at the
end of two years, the twelve tulip roots cost Arnold the sum of
300,000 francs !

For my part, my friend, I cultivate flowers only for the
sake of seeing them, and not for the pride of showing them.
I have but about fifty tulips of all colours. I never reject any
that will do me the honour to bloom in my garden, not even
those according to the hearts of the great amateurs, and
I have no neighbour, which reminds me of two remarkable
aphorisms of some buffoon or other :

“ Never have any neighbours; if you wish to live at peace
with them.” ;

“Never give anything to your children, if you wish they
should entertain gratitude towards you equal to the benefit.”

There are many philosophers who have written large
books, without saying anything so reasonable.

LETTER XVI.

QUASI MARITIME.

WE are now on the bank of a rivulet, which crosses the
garden at its broadest part, and falls into a pool almost con-
cealed by willows and reeds. We passed along the banks of
this nameless river, which takes its rise in a hill covered with
furze, a little above the old wood house. The rivulet steals
along over a pebbly bed, and between verdant banks; plants
delighting in freshness and moisture ornamenting both sides
of its passage. The view is bounded by surrounding trees,
beneath which a verdant bank arises, now decked with daisies
and buttercups.

On one of the banks is a white poplar, a tree formerly con-
secrated to Hercules.

‘‘ Herculea bicolor, cum populus umbra.”

The upper part of its large leaves, as deeply cut as those
of a vine, is of a dark shining green, whilst the under part is

118 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

of a velvety white. The Romans made bucklers of the wood
of this tree, on account of its lightness, and covered them with
ox-hides. Of this tree Pliny says, populus apta scutis. In
certain northern countries, it is said that a white poplar, in
good soil, increases a shilling in value every year. They are
generally cut down at the age of twenty years, as they are
then supposed to have attained their full growth. This cir-
cumstance has given birth to a very interesting custom. When
a daughter is born in the family of a respectable farmer, the
father, as soon as the season will permit, plants a thousand
young Ypréaux,* which are to constitute the dowry of the
maiden, which grow as she grows, increasing in height and
value as her virtues and beauty increase.

In the stem of the poplar is concealed a nest, the exterior
of which is formed of moss and slender roots, and the interior
delicately lined with hair and feathers. In it four or five white
eggs, striped and spotted with brown, are carefully sat upon
by a water-wagtail. Whilst the male bird is in search of game,
we may see him walking along the bank of the rivulet, grace-
fully balancing his long tail, of ten black and two white
feathers, the latter forming the edge or border; the top of
his head and the under part of his neck are black; he wears a
kind of white half-mask; the rest of his body is clothed in
clouded grey and pearl grey. You may go close to him; if he
flies away, it is only to return almost immediately; but it is
more than probable he will only walk away, without disturb-
ing his lively and graceful carriage. His purpose is to catch
on the wing all sorts of flies, gnats, and tipule,t which have,
as I have no doubt we shall soon discover, excellent reasons
for flitting about over the surface of rivulets. The little
female so sedulously employed at home, only differs from her
mate in having a brown head, and in not wearing a plastron
above the neck.

Nearer the water are large tufts of Iris of different sorts,
shooting forth, from the bosom of their pointed leaves, stalks
loaded with blossoms. Some are yellow; others violet ; these
entirely white, or white with a blue fringe; those yellow and
brown ; others yellow and blue; and a few pale blue.

* A sort of broad-leafed elm, apparently peculiar to the neighbourhood of Ypres.
+ A kind of gnat.

NATURAL ARCHITECTURE. 119

The Iris delights only in the banks of waters. There is a
species of it which is one of the great bounties of God, one of
the greatest luxuries He has made for the poor.

I have seen the Colonnade of the Louvre, my good friend ;
I have seen the Palace of Versailles, and three or four other
palaces in other countries, to which chance and the weariness
of the places I quitted, rather than a wish to see those
I visited, have led me. I here declare I have seen nothing so
beautiful, nothing so rich as yonder little house, inhabited by
poor woodmen, which I can perceive at a distance, through
the trees and over the wall of my garden.

In the front are four magnificent columns, four large beech-
trees, whose bark is as smooth as marble; their living capital
is formed of branches and leaves, which yield a shelter from
the sun, and delight the eye with colours as rich and more
varied than those of the emerald. Birds have established
their nests in them, and there sing. Linnets are the ordinary
musicians of the poor; they sing to them upon a beautiful
stage, amidst splendid decorations, by the light of a magni-
ficent rising sun, a music always fresh, always young, which
appears to float down from heaven; and nothing sad is
mingled with their song. These charming actors sing because
the sun shines, because they are young, because they are
beautiful, because they love, because they are happy; whilst
those whom the rich pay so extravagantly, sing because they
are envious of each other, because they are avaricious, and
because they are paid.

We must confess that if columns of stone and marble
did not cost a great deal of money, they would be far from
having the beauty of these columns, which live and which
sing, where the capital changes its colour three or four
times in every year, and which let fall such melodious
sounds.

Architecture, in its greatest magnificence, invented the
Corinthian capital, which is nothing but an imperfect imita-
tion of five or six leaves of the acanthus. How is it we pay
so dearly for the imitation of that which costs nothing? It
is only from the principle I have before named: we only
love to possess things, to humiliate those who possess them
not. Itis this that creates the value of diamonds—it extends

J20 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

to our ideas of heaven itself, and sullies our hopes of hap-
piness—it is the secret of the most shameful feelings of
man.

From the foot of one of these beeches springs an ivy,
which embraces it like a serpent with its powerful folds, and
dominates over its head with its shining leaves and bunches
of little green and black fruit, which is such favourite food
with the thrush and the blackbird.

And I—did not I one day buy a little table supported by
a column of carved wood? That column represented the
trunk of a tree, around which turned an ivy: it was beauti-
fully done as wood-carving, but the perfection of the arts is
disgusting coarseness by the side of nature. Well, I paid ten
pounds for this !—ten pounds, painfully gained by writing in
obscurity, in my chamber,—useless, hate-breeding things,—
when I might, for nothing, have seen such beautiful ivies
ascend real sunlit trees, beneath the bright sky, with a heart
full of joy, kindness, and love !

Behind these beautiful columns rises, and yet rises but
little, a small house, covered with a thatch that extends on

“both sides considerably over the walls. In summer, a vine
gpreads its magnificent green, and in autumn, its purple
tapestry over the whole front of the house.

But here is developed a luxury, enough to make the rich
and the powerful burst with envy. A velvet, a thousand
times more fine, more brilliant, more wavy, more rich, than
that which is displayed with so much economy in the interior
of palaces, of which such care is taken, lest it be rubbed or
spoilt,—a green velvet entirely covers the thatch of the
house, and that is a true and a beautiful luxury. The owners
do not tremble on account of it; they are neither the slaves
nor the victims of it; they allow it to be exposed to the wind
and the rain—they cannot spoil it: when this shall no longer
be fresh, others will come. This velvet is moss.

Then along the crest.of the roof, from amidst their blade-
like leaves, spring bunches of violet-coloured iris, bathing
their gay blossoms in the air and the sun.

And none of these splendours wear out or become thread-
bare, as happens to factitious riches. Next year, the moss
will be thicker—next year the irises will have still more violet

THE FORGET-ME-NOT. 121

flowers—next year the columns before the house will be taller
and larger.

And what is the use of this velvet? Of no other use
but to preserve from the rain, which glides over its silk, the
poor straw of the poor inhabitants of that poor house! There
is a luxury! Oh, yes! God loves the poor! Unfortunately,
man is very stupid; he disdains gratuitous riches, in order to
wear out his life in the pursuit of expensive poverties.

Certainly, the man who would live alone in a desert iéle,
would not trouble himself about rich clothes or sumptuous
furniture. Then it is in order to exhibit them to others that
we procure for ourselves, often with so much pain, and some-
times with so much infamy, all that can be called luxury.
Well, and what effect does this magnificent exhibition pro-
duce upon others? No other but to inspire them with envy
and hatred, and set them on the watch for your vices and
your follies.

Let us return to the banks of our rivulet—traveller, and at
the same time sedentary that I am!

With its foot in the water, the forget-me-not presents to us
its spikes of little blue flowers. This pretty plant has received
pretty names from unknown godfathers and godmothers,—
from young godfathers, no doubt, from godfathers in love,
and from charming and beloved godmothers too. The Ger-
mans call it, Vergiss-mein-nicht; the French, Ne m’oubliez
pas; and the English, Forget-me-not.

I have related to you, my friend, a long time ago, that two
lovers, who were to be married the next day, were walking at
sunset on the banks of the Danube. The maiden perceived a
bunch of Vergiss-mein-nicht, and wished to have it, to keep
as a memorial of that beautiful and happy evening. The
lover, in endeavouring to obtain it, fell into the river, and
feeling his strength fail him—oppressed, stifled by the water—
he threw to the bank the bunch of flowers, which he had
pulled up in his efforts to save himself; he then sunk beneath
the waves for ever. This adieu has been translated into the
words which have from that time been the name of the
flower, Vergiss-mein-nicht, or Ne moubliez pas. ;

Cattle which graze where it grows, are exceedingly fond of it,

122 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

and eat it down closely; but this injury only serves to make
it bloom again in the autumn, which it would not otherwise
have done. The learned are worse than the cattle; they

it, and flatten it down in their herbals, and called it, Myosotis
scorpioides—Scorpion-shaped mouses ear! They have been
reproached for giving it this name by a brother savant, named
Charles Nodier, but who, as well as being learned, was a man
of wit and sense.

oT

LETTER XVIL.

THE METAMORPHOSED RIVULET.

Tue rivulet which passes through my garden, and issues
from the side of a hill covered with gorse, has been for a long
time a very happy rivulet. It crossed meadows, where all
sorts of charming wild-flowers bathed and admired themselves
in its tiny waves; then it entered my garden, where I had
expected it, and prepared verdant banks for its reception. I
planted upon its sides, and in its stream, all the plants which
in the whole world blossom in the bosom or on the banks of
pure waters. It crossed my garden, singing its melancholy
song; and then, all perfumed with my flowers, issued out,
crossed another meadow, and precipitated itself into the sea,
over the abrupt sides of a rock, which it covers with foam.

It was a happy rivulet; it had absolutely nothing to do
but what I have told you—to flow, to glide on, to be limpid,
to murmur, between flowers and perfumes,

124 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

It led just the life I have chosen, marked out for myself,
and which I follow,—when the world will have the kindness
to let me alone—when the wicked, the intriguing, the rogues
and the fools, do not force me to return to the combat—me,
the most pacific and the most irascible man in the world!

But heaven and earth are envious of happiness and delicious
idleness.

My dear brother Eugene, and the skilful engineer Sauvage,
the inventor of helices, were one day chattering on the banks
of this poor rivulet, and spoke very ill of it. “ Now is not
this,” said my brother, “a pretty do-nothing of a rivulet,
which goes merrily on, idling without shame, flowing in the
sunshine, or creeping among the grass, instead of working, and
paying for the ground it occupies, as an honest rivulet ought
todo. Could it not grind coffee and pepper?”

“ And sharpen tools?” answered Sauvage.

“ And saw wood?” said my brother.

And I trembled for the rivulet; and I interrupted the con-
versation by crying very loudly, that these envious beings,
these tyrants, would in the next place trample down my
Vergiss-mein-nicht! Alas! I was only able to protect it
against them. It was not long before a rascal came into the
country, whom I frequently saw prowling along its green
banks, on the side where it leaps into the sea. This man did
not appear to me to have the air of one who came there to
seek for rhymes, or awaken sweet remembrances, or even to
let his thoughts fall asleep to the murmur of the water. “My
friend,” said he to the rivulet, “you glide along, you affect a
quiet air, and you sing in a manner to create envy in your
hearer, whilst I work and toil beyond my strength. It
appears to me you could help me a bit; it is not a labour you
are acquainted with, but I will teach you; you shall soon be
in working condition. You must be very tired of leading such
an idle life; it will amuse you to make files and sharpen
knives.” Shortly afterwards a wheel, machinery, and mill-
stone, were brought to the rivulet. From that time it works;
it turns a great wheel, which turns a smaller one, which turns
the millstone. It sings still, but it is not that same softly
monotonous and happily melancholy song it used to sing.
There are cries and passion in the song of to-day; it bounds,

THE METAMORPHOSED RIVULET. 125

it foams, it labours—it sharpens knives. It still crosses the
meadow and my garden, then the other meadow; but at the
end of it the man is there, who waits for it, and makes it
work. I have only been able to do one thing for it: I have
dug a fresh bed for it in my garden, so that it may wind about
longer, and go out later; but it nevertheless finishes by
going to sharpen knives. Poor rivulet! thou didst not suf-
ficiently conceal thy happiness in the grass; thou hast mur-
mured thy sweet song too loudly!

LETTER XVIII.

THE ANTHROPOPHAGI.

You would be very vain, my dear friend, if you could, with-
out sinning outrageously against truth, entitle one of your
letters thus: “The Anthropophagi!” It exalts a traveller
much in his own esteem and in the admiration of his con-
temporaries, to have seen the spit prepared, upon which it
was intended he should be roasted!

Our vestments, under the pretence of honest modesty, only
conceal ill-made legs, meagre thighs, and other defects.
Women, in particular, make a singular abuse of clothing ; far
from employing it to conceal their shapes, they employ it to
exhibit ostentatiously much more of those shapes than they
really possess. Thanks to the falsehoods of our clothes, we
scarcely know where to stop; and we have become lovers of
clothes, to be enchanted by wool, and passionately enamoured
of silk. But it is an advantageous attestation to be able to

THE ANTHROPOPHAGI. 127

establish the fact, that such a nation of epicures has pronounced
you fat, plump, and tender—has thought you would make ex-
cellent food—and has decided in privy council that you should
not be boiled and seasoned with rice, like an old hen; not
cooked en ragott, and your flavour heightened with violent,
highly seasoned condiments, like insipid, tasteless meat, but
be honourably put upon the spit or the gridiron, and be served
up au cresson, or simply in your own gravy. ,

I am every day in fear, my dear friend, of receiving a letter
from some companion of your travels, which may say :—

* MonsIEuR,

The 12th of August, 1852, the King of the isle
of having given a grand dinner on the occasion of his
nuptials with the Princess , of the isle of , L have
the grief of announcing to you that our unfortunate friend
figured in it as the centre dish. If these details can bring
any relief to your sorrow, I may say that the savages found
him excellent, as we always found him, alas! before this fatal
catastrophe, dsc. &e.”

But there are now scarcely any anthropophagi ; men have
given over eating one another. They kill one another, it is
true, for a yes or a no, in the form of a duel; they kill one
another without knowing why, as military men, and under
the pretext of glory; they ruin one another, they imprison
one another, they deprive one another of bread, air, liberty,
&c. From these observations, and a thousand others that
could be made, it appears that if they no longer eat each
other, it is not from any feeling of charity or neighbourly
love, but simply because it is now acknowledged and esta-
blished that man is a food, more than mediocre, hard to digest,
and of a disagreeable flavour.

T have no great reason then, my friends, to fear that you
should be on the spit at the time I am writing these lines ; if
you were, I should grieve, both on your account and that of
these unhappy savages, to think that unless you have acquired
a little embonpoint in your peregrinations, they would make
but a bad dinner.

I am at this moment in the midst of a nation of real

128 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

anthropophagi, who, on account of their size, are not able to
eat up a man at a single repast, but who, nevertheless, feed
greedily upon his blood. I am in the midst of them, and
remain quietly; I examine them; I study their manners; I
sacrifice myself for the instruction of other men!

I speak of a kind of ferocious beast, which flies and pounces
down upon man with the velocity of lightning, seizes and
fastens upon his naked flesh, and plunges an instrument into
him of which this is the agreeable nature. From an étuz, or
case situated on his head, there issue five or six weapons, some
dentillated and barbed, others pointed or trenchant. When
he has sufficiently scarified our flesh with each of these blades,
which are all hollow, he proceeds to suck as much of our
blood as his intestines can contain, which he takes care, the
while, to free from all that could occupy room or cause incon-
venience.

This animal is known under the general name of gnat, and
it requires a very strong microscope to see and ascertain the -
forms of its weapons; but if we consider the injury it does
us, not relatively to the pain we suffer, but proportionally
to its size, relatively to the manner in which it proceeds, to
its voracity, which leads it to expose itself to death, without
an effort to shun it, when it has once tasted our blood, and
until it can contain no more, until it is swelled like a wine
skin, and not to be recognised; if we consider also the cruel
shape of its weapons, which, in addition, are all poisoned, as is
proved by the irritation and tumours which their wounds
cause—it must be confessed that we do not know in nature
any animal so ferocious and sanguinary.

Reclined upon the grass, and leaning over a part of the
rivulet which has overflowed its banks a little upon the turf,
and has left a strip of stagnant water, my attention is attracted
by some singular little fish; they have something of the
shape, and are about the size of a strong pin, of which, with
its head, two-thirds of its length have been cut off; or rather
they are little fish resembling the dolphins of fable, the dol-
phins of painters, the dolphins of Arion, but reduced to the
size of a large pin’s head. They are remarkably vivacious.
When in repose, they allow themselves to float on the surface
of the water, with their heads downwards, because the con-

THE ANTHROPOPHAGI. 129

duit through which they breathe is placed at the extremity of
the tail. If they are the least disturbed, they roll themselves
up, Swim with the greatest rapidity, dart down, and disappear.
They feed, most probably, upon the imperceptible insects
which they find in the water, or upon certain parts of earth
or slime.

But this is the most important moment of the life of our
little dolphins. You may see them change their position;
their head is no longer under the water; it floats on the sur-
face, it swells, and its brown skin splits and opens. Then
from that split issues a head, soon followed by a body; you
recognise the gnat, which has accomplished the phases of its
first existence, and which is about to enter into a new life.
The cast-off dress it has quitted—its ancient skin—becomes
for it a little boat which carries it upon the water; for this
insect, which but now lived in the water, and would have
died at the end of two or three seconds if you had taken it
out of it, has now nothing so much to fear as water ; it would
inevitably perish if it touched it. Then it is placed upright
upon its ancient skin, like a rower in his boat. The least
breath of air is for it, as you may imagine, a fearful tempest,
considering the mortal dangers the water would make it run,
and the shallowness of its boat. The boat floats here and
there at hazard, whilst it completes its endeavours to extricate
itself; then, if it achieves this result without being wetted, it
flies away, and carries on its pursuit of man, till the day at
which the care for its posterity shall bring it back to the edge
of some pool or other stagnant water. There, crouched close
upon the verve, it gives to the water little parcels of eggs,
which leave the dry ground, and float about upon the surface.
At the end of a few days, by an opening in the bottom of the
eggs, little dolphins escape, which find themselves thus born
in the water, where they are to live till the time of their
transformation.

It is that which just now drew that pretty water-wagtail
to the bank of the rivulet, that which made her determine
to place her nest at the root of the white poplar, where I dis-
covered it. Gnats form the principal food of swallows, and
it is probable that they take their migratory flight when there
are no more gnats to be found.

K

180 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

In the same strip of water there are some elongated worms,
of a beautiful red colour; they pass their lives in making
movements so rapid, that they might be pronounced figures
of eight. There will come a moment in which they will be
metamorphosed into tipule—a sort of innocent gnat, which
eats nobody, that I know of, but is confounded with gnats in
the same penalty and the same food by birds. These trans-
formations are very curious spectacles, and we have only to
stoop a little toenjoy them. During the whole summer, from
mid-day to four o'clock, we cannot stand over a pool of stag-
nant water without’ seeing, in a quarter of an hour, twenty or
thirty dolphins restore captive gnats to the sun and air,
absolutely just as the whale cast Jonah upon the shore.

Nowithstanding our just cause of complaint against gnats,
we must acknowledge that they are prettier insects than they
at first appear to be. They have in the fore-part of their heads
antennee, in rich tufts ; and their eyes, which in certain aspects
look like little emeralds, become, when seen in another hght,
very sparkling rubies.

I have been stung more than ten times to-day, whilst
studying the arms of these anthropophagi, upon which I could
now, if I did not pride myself above all things upon being
an ignoramus, and preserving the reputation of one, write
a special treatise de armis.

LETTER XIX.

THE CADDIS—ASPECTS OF DEATH—FLOWING WATER—DRESS—THE
LEAF-CUTTER BEE.

Ar the bottom of the rivulet are little morsels of reeds, little
sticks of a few lines in length, which have nothing left but
the bark. They are houses, in which the phryganes,* suffi-
ciently ugly greyish cocoons, feed upon aquatic herbs, and
await the moment of issuing from the water in the form of
little butterflies—your pardon, savants!—of little noctuelle,
which only fly by night. Previously to this transformation,
there comes a moment at which they fall asleep grubs, to
awake flies. They know that during the time in which they
take no food, they have enemies who have no notion of such
abstinence themselves, and to whom, during their sleep, they
could oppose no resistance. They know. how to spin, and
they employ themselves in closing up the two ends of their
mansion.

It has often been said, as an example of an invincible argu-

* Phryganea grandis, the Caddis-fly.—Ep.

182 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

ment, that a door must be either open or shut. Our logicians
forget that a door may be left ajar. If the phryganea were
to close up its dwelling tightly at both ends, it would no
longer be in the water; or at least the water, which would be
confined with it, being never renewed, would in a short time
lose the qualities necessary for supporting life. It spins a
little grating at the two extremities of its habitation, aad
then a cable, which it fastens to some blades of grass upon
the bank ; this dene, it sleeps in tranquillity, awaiting a more
happy and a more brilliant life: it falls asleep in the water,
to awake in the sunshine and the beautiful blue of the air.

Here, with its roots almost in the water, is a tussilage,
vulgarly called colt’s foot, doubtless on account of the form
and size of its leaves. Its leaves, which are round and as
large as the palm of the hand, will not appear before summer;
at present it only shows its blossoms. It is the earliest of
aquatic flowers; it is a marguerite of a brilliant yellow, the
rays of which are as fine and slender as hairs. Ancient
medicine, with Hippocrates at its head, for a long time at-
tributed to this flower a salutary influence upon the lungs ;
its name, tussilage, implies that it would remove cough. It
was by its means that coughs and catarrhal affections were
treated, till science, never stopping in its progress, discovered
that it produced no effect, either upon the lungs or their
diseases, and that it was good for nothing but to adorn the
banks of rivulets in the spring— quite a sufficient merit too.
Unfortunately, it was not till the end of about a thousand
years that science arrived at a conviction upon this point.
Nevertheless we still find, in almost all medical laboratories,
a large bottle with a red and gold label, upon which is written
Tussilago farfara. It is but one bottle the more, and forms
part of the decoration of the laboratory.

Most doctors—I say most, in order to except justly some
whom I love with all my heart—most doctors are like sorcerers,
who prefer telling you what is being done at that same
moment by the great Mogul in his court, to informing you
what it is o'clock by the watch they have in their pockets.

Physicians cure the plague, of which some deny the exist-
ence, and which is unknown in our climates—leprosy, which
no longer exists but in the Hast and in books; but they

ASPECTS OF DEATH. 183

oer cure a corn on your toe, and never a cold in the
ead.

But it appears here as if some gnome were launching arrows
which spring from the earth, but are held by their feathered
extremity. It is the Sagittarius, so common on the banks of
tranquil waters; the leaves are formed exactly like the iron
head of a lance, and are supported by a long, straight, and
stiff foot-stalk, which represents the shaft of the arrow.
From the bosom of its leaves springs a stalk which bears a
spike of white flowers, composed of three rounded petals, the
base of which is of reddish-violet colour. The top of the
flower is occupied by male blossoms, loaded with yellow
stamens, which, with the white and violet of the flower, form
a delightful harmony of colours. Underneath are the female
blossoms, which have no stamens. The stalks of this plant
contain a species of pith of a very agreeable flavour.

A kind of cress with little round shining leaves, grows
along the edge of the water, and even into the water; it is
ornamented with little flowers of a beautiful dark blue.

But here is the queen of the meadows. She does not
creep; not she! Amidst the other plants, she proudly raises
her head from a rich and tufted foliage, of deep green above,
and inclined to white beneath. This stalk bears triumphantly
a beautiful thyrsus of charming little white flowers; bloom-
ing at the bottom of the thyrsus, they present at the top
buds, whose form reminds us of the bud of the orange blossom ;
its flowers, whose odour is sweet and delicate, mixed with
wine, give it the aroma of Malmsey wine, which renders one
doubtful as to the following fact :—

It is known that a duke of Clarence, brother of a king of
England, when condemned to death, as an only favour, re-
quested to be drowned in a butt of Malmsey wine. There
are moments in a man’s life in which he desires death. It is
the dying only that is disagreeable; the aspect of death,
therefore, changes much, according to circumstances.

Death is not that great invariable skeleton which is gene-
rally presented to us; it has all sorts of forms and figures,
and in the number there are many that seem much less
disagreeable than others. ;

Contemplate it in war. It is accompanied by the noise of

134 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

trumpets and drums, surrounded by smoke and the stupifying
smell of powder. Glorious and noble, promising honours,
ribbons, rank, with the sweet rewards of love and admiration,
it invites you to follow it, and intoxicated man throws himself
willingly into its arms.

Contemplate it in a bed. The wretched being who awaits it
‘does not breathe the exciting odour of powder, but the debi-
‘litating odour of drugs and plasters. He dies in detail; he
dies weak, fearful, idiotical, clinging with all his soul to life,
and with his nails to the clothes and curtains of his bed, and
to the sheets which will serve for his shroud.

Who can assure us that the wine in which Clarence died
was true Malmsey wine? Certainly, the man who had chosen
this sort of death, must have felt a last and a bitter pang, if
he perceived, at the critical moment, that he had been de-
ceived in the quality-of the wine contained in the butt which
was to be his coffin.

Certain little round insects with hard wings, like those of
beetles, are amusing themselves on the water in a singular
fashion: they form circles with a rapidity that fatigues the
eye. This must be a movement that has its charms, since
they are not the only people who make a practice of it; but
it isa religious ceremony. The insect is called whirligig *—the
priests are styled dervishes.

Another, larger and of an elliptic shape, is an hydrophilus ;
it has six feet, the hinder ones of which are formed like oars,
and permit it to come to the surface of the water, from which
it takes flight, and to descend to the bottom, where it finds
its subsistence. It lays its eggs in a silken bag, which it
fastens to the under part of the leaf of an aquatic plant, which
it closes when they are laid. The larva, that is to say, the
insect, which bears a different form, and which will, at a later
period, become a hydrophilus, comes out of the water when
it is born, goes to bury itself in the earth, a little above the
water, in a hole, from which it will come out at a future time
a perfect hydrophilus.

When I was speaking about the cress, I forgot to name
a circumstance which, perhaps, you would never guess; it is
that, with botanists, the cress of the fountain, which grows in

* Gyrinus natator.—Ep,

FLOWING WATER. 135

the water, which they call Sisymbrium nasturtium, and the
yellow gillyflower, which grows on old walls, are, excepting in
some very trifling details; one and the same thing: the de-
scription they give of the two plants is almost identical.

There is an indefinable charm in the aspect and the noise
of waters. There are people who pretend to be serious, because
they go through their follies with a frowning air, and in
clothes of certain colours,—who pretend exclusively to be
grave, because their childishnesses only cause others to laugh.
These people consider it a sign of idiocy to look at and watch
flowing water. I here declare that it is an occupation that
has a singular attraction for me, and is one of those to which
I abandon myself with the greatest ardour. Flowing water is
at once a picture and a music, which causes to flow at the
same time from my brain, like a limpid and murmuring
rivulet, sweet thoughts, charming reveries, and melancholy
remembrances.

There are not so many watchers of flowing waters as is
generally imagined. Such a one passes an hour with his
elbow on the parapet of a bridge, and watches an angler,
looks at the horses which draw a barge, or both looks at and
listens to the pretty washing-maidens singing. But to recline,
buried in deep grass in bloom, under the blue-leafed willows,
follow with the eye a river or a rivulet, look at the reeds it
bends in its course, and the grass it bears away with it, the
green dragon-flies which alight upon the rosy blossoms of the
flowering reed, or on the white or violet flowers of the
sagittarius, or on the little white anemones, blooming over a
large carpet of verdure,—verdure like the green hair of a
naiad,—and to see nothing but that; to listen to the brushing
of their gauze wings, and the murmuring of the water against
the banks, and the noise of a breathing of wind among the
leaves of the willows, and hear nothing but that; to forget
everything else, to feel one’s heart filled with unspeakable
joy, to feel one’s soul expand and blossom in the sun, like the
little blue flowers of the forget-me-not and the rosy blossoms
of the flowering reed; to be sensible of no desire and of no
fear but that of seeing a large white cloud, which is rolling
up from the horizon, ascend in the heavens and conceal the
sun for a time ;—that is what I call looking at flowing water,

136 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

—that is not a pleasure, it is a happiness, which I reckon
among the greatest that it has been given to me to taste in
the course of my life.

I spoke to you just now of the washing-maidens, who sing
as they prosecute their classical occupation, without a thought,
I dare say, of Homer, on the banks of rivers. I heard one—
ay, and a pretty one too—sing the following song, which I
shall never forget :—

‘* Les hommes sont trompeurs,
La chose est bien certaine;
Sont-ils auprés de vous:
Mademoiselle, je vous aime!

*«Sont-ils auprés de vous,
Mademoiselle, je vous aime!
En sont-ils éloignés,

Ne disent plus de méme.

“(En sont-ils éloignés,

Ne disent plus de méme.
Rencontrent-ils leurs amis:
Connais-tu Mamzelle telle?

“ Rencontrent-ils leurs amis:
Connais-tu Mamzelle telle?
Elle croit, de bonne foi,

Que je suis amoureux d’elle.

“ Elle croit, de bonne foi,

Que je suis amoureux d’elle.
Pour lui fair’ voir que non,
J’ fais amour prés d’ chez elle.

“ Pour lui fair’ voir que non,
J’ fais l'amour prés d’ chez elle.
Cherchez un autre amant,
J’ai une autre maitresse.

** Cherchez un autre amant,
J'ai une autre maitresse.”

** —Je n’en chercherai pas,
J’en ai a Ja douzaine.

“« Je n’en chercherai pas,
J’en ai a la douzaine,

Et de ce que j’aimais,
Vous faisiez le treiziéme.”

As I was seated beneath a large ash, a musk-beetle* fell
from it; and, in spite of its odour, which, without being
extremely bad, is insupportable on account of its strength,
I held it some time in my hand to admire the brilliant
green colour, shot with gold, in which it is clothed. Many

* Cerambyax moschatus.—ED.

DRESS, 137

‘insects owe their magnificence to their wings alone,—the
musk-beetle is all over of the same colour and the same
splendour.

THE MUSK-BEETLE.

This reminds me of the adornments of which men are
often so proud, and which both sexes so laboriously employ
to please and seduce each other. I can easily understand
that an insect, which glitters in the sun with the richest
colours, should be proud of its dress,—I could pardon the
bird, which in the morning shakes itself in the earliest ray of
the dawn, and, on finding itself richly clothed, should be
a little vain of its plumage,—because the wings of the but-
terfly aud the feathers of the bird belong to them, and -are
parts of them; but is there anything that ought to render
them more humble than the toilette of a man or a woman?
Is it not, in the first place, 2 melancholy admission, that our --
body is a carcase which we can only embellish by concealing
it, an object for which we employ means the most violent
and extraordinary? That ring, now,—that ring of gold, set
off by a large pearl, worth, perhaps, a thousand crowns,—has
been dug from the bowels of the earth, and raked from the
abyss of the sea! and its only object is to conceal a very
small part of the hand, which appears to you less beautiful
than a little metal and the secretion of an oyster; for women
who are quite satisfied with their hands never wear rings.

And all the rest of your dress is composed of the cast-off

138 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

apparel of animals which browse in the meadows, or of
insects that crawl beneath your feet; there is scarcely one
from which you do not borrow a portion of its covering.
Your grandest and most splendid attire is composed of the
shreds you steal from one or another, from sheep and from
silk-worms.

Observe that woman now passing: yesterday she was mild
and good, to-day you see she is haughty and insolent. What
has created this change in her? Nothing, only she has upon
her head a feather plucked from the tail of an ostrich! How
proud that ostrich ought to be, which has so many more, and
all its own !

But it will be even worse to-morrow, when she will envelop
herself in a shawl made of the hair of certain goats from
Thibet—goats which I have seen, and which really do not
appear anything like so proud of this hair as the ladies are
who borrow it of them.

And that robe, the great value of which produces such
disdainful glances from other women, is nothing but the web
in which a large worm, called a silk-worm, enveloped itself—a
web which it abandoned with disdain as soon as it had become
a white and plain moth !

It is a singular thing to associate this humility, which leads
man to conceal his real figure, and adorn himself with the
superfluities of insects and animals, with the superiority which
he attributes to himself over all nature. It must be further
confessed, that a man who should unite in himself the facul-
ties of certain insects,—who could, like the hydrophilus, fly in
the air, and plunge to the depths of the waters,—would only
have to pass for a god among other men, by not opposing
himself too strongly to the natural servility which is the
portion of most men, even of those who talk most loudly
about liberty and independence. Read history: a tyrant has
never been overthrown, but for the benefit, more cr less
immediate, of another tyrant. To-day, when we pride our-
selves upon no longer saluting a king, we unharness the horses
of dancers, singers, and courtesans—harness ourselves in their
places—and take a pride in dragging their carriage in
triumph !

We were speaking of insects splendidly clothed. Follow with

:

LEAF-CUTTER BEE. 139

your eye that which has just lighted on a red poppy: it is
not richly dressed—yellow and brown are the colours of its
costume ; but it is in possession of another luxury well worth
the luxury of clothes. In the middle of a walk there is a
little hole, of the size of the quill of a pen; that is the
entrance to the house which that sort of bee makes itself in
the earth, by carrying the soil away from its little cavern,
grain by grain. It is not chance that leads it to the poppy;
it is about to cut a sheet of crimson tapestry, with which to
decorate its home. See, it*has cut with its teeth, from the
edge of one of the petals of the flower, a little piece, which
forms very regularly the half of an oval ; it seizes the piece, folds
it in its claws, and bears it away to its abode. The entrance
is narrow, and nearly three inches deep. The piece of red satin
is a little ragged, but it applies it to the partition, and
stretches it properly: it will require twenty pieces to cover
the chamber. But you will pardon this luxury when I tell
you that that apartment, so richly hung, is the cradle of the
child it will soon bring into the world. The tapestry is
fitted, and it sets out again. It is not sufficient that the
future inhabitant of the pretty cell should be well lodged; it
must have abundance of food provided, for its mother will
not be able to bring it any: she will be dead before the egg
from which it is to issue shall be hatched. It brings in its
feet the dust of the stamens of flowers, which it mingles with
honey, and of which it makes a little heap. Then, and not
until then, it lays a little egg near the heap, from which, at
a later period, will issue a worm destined to become a bee.
But this is not all: if the house were left open, some ichneu-
mon might come as an enemy, or ants might devour the
honey. The bee then takes down the hangings of the peri-
style of her house,—that is to say, the little quill-shaped con-
duit which leads to the apartment, and which, like the rest,
was covered with poppy-leaves; it then pushes this part of
the tapestry to the entrance of the chamber, after which it
fills the passage with earth so completely, that it is almost im-
possible to discover any trace of it. :
Let us return to the banks of my rivulet, from which this
little bee has lured us. Here is a shrub whose branches are
of a beautiful yellow; it is the willow, whose young branches

140 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

are known by the name of osiers. These flowers attract a
great number of bees.

A vast deal is said of willows by the ancients.

The Psalmist relates that the Israelite slaves suspended
their musical instruments from thé willows of Babylon.
Virgil describes Galatea hiding herself behind the willows:

‘*Malo me Galatea petit, lasciva puella,
Et fugit ad salices et se cupit ante videri.”

He speaks in a hundred places of the bitter willows upon
which the goats browse, and of the willows of a blue green,
which bees are fond of.

The satined white stem of the birch shoots up without
knots to a great height, and gives to the wind, upon branches
of extreme delicacy, its light foliage which trembles at the
least breath. It was the birch that had the honour of sup-
plying our ancient universities with rods. The Finlanders
substitute the leaves of birch for those of the tea-plant; the
Swedes extract a syrup from the sap, of which they make a
spirituous liquor. In London, they make champagne of it.
The most virtuous uses to which it is applied, are brooms and
wooden shoes.

Pliny speaks of the birch and of the rods:

“ Betula, terribilis magistratuum virgis,””

The dwarf-elder spreads in the sun, at about three feet from
the ground, its rich umbels of white flowers, each umbel as
large as my two hands; its black berries are full of a violet-
coloured juice, with which, according to Virgil, the god Pan
had his face smeared, in compliance with a whimsical custom
of the ancient Romans, who painted their gods on solemn
occasions.

And here my rivulet disappears under the grass, under the
yellow-blossomed Iris, under a crowd of aquatic plants and
trees, which love coolness and moisture. It is necessary to
make the tour of a group of trees, if we wish to meet with it
again at the spot where it throws itself into a sort of large
pool, surrounded by willows, reeds, and Iris.

Nia

sow

LETTER XX.

FLOWERS, AND THEIR MEMORIES.

A ToucHING sentiment has consecrated certain plants and
certain trees to those who have departed this life: the cypress,
which elevates its black foliage like a pyramid; the weeping
willow, which envelopes a tomb with its pendent branches;
the honeysuckle, which grows in cemeteries more beautifully
and vigorously than elsewhere, and which spreads a sweet
odour, that seems to be the soul of the dead exhaling and
ascepding to heaven; the periwinkle, with its dark green
foliage and blossoms of lapis blue, so fresh and so charm-

142 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

ing, and which the peasantry call the violet of the dead. But
there are other flowers which associate themselves with certain
joys, and certain dead griefs likewise ; for forgetfulness is the
death of things which no longer live but in the heart.

These flowers return every year, at a fixed period, like
anniversaries, to repeat to me many recitals of the past, of
perished trust and dead hope, of which nothing more remains
than that which remains of the beloved dead—a tender sad-
ness, and a melancholy which softens the heart.

These ideas come back to me on seeing these forget-me-
nots, these pretty little blue flowers, creeping almost into the
water.

Perhaps to all the world but me this large lime-tree is a
magnificent tent of transparent green; you see birds hop
about in its branches, and butterflies, which love silence and
shade, flirt among the leaves like nymphs and fauns, and you
inhale the sweet odour of its flowers. But for me, it seems
that the wind which agitates these leaves, repeats to me all
the things I have said and heard at the foot of another lime-
tree, in far bygone times; the shade of the leaves of the tree,
and the rays of the sun which they break, form for me images
which I can only see there; that odour intoxicates me,
troubles my reason, and plunges me into ecstasies and visions.
The Pythoness of old saw the future at the moment of inspi-
ration; J behold the past again, but not as past; I tread over
again every one of the steps I have made in life, every-
thing lives again for me, with the colours of the vestments,
the words that were spoken and the sound of the voice. I do
not forget the least circumstance of a single instant; by re-
calling a word, I see again a thousand details which I did not
know I had remarked; I behold the folds of her robe and
the reflection of her hair; I see how the sun and the shade
played upon her countenance, and what flowers blossomed in
the grass, and what odours were exhaled in the air, and what
distant noise was heard; I see, I breathe, I hear all this!

If my eyes fall upon one of those ravenelles, of those gilly-
flowers which blossom on the walls, if I breathe its balsamic
perfume, I become the prey of an enchantment. I am twenty
years old; I find myself no longer in this garden; I ascend
a flight of stone steps, green with moss, in the crevices of

FLOWERS, AND THEIR, MEMORIES. 143

which blossom gillyflowers, and my heart beats as if I were
about to find her in the garden. That convolvulus, those
beautiful violets, white, rose-coloured, streaked bells, which
climb up trees and shrubs, tell me on what day it was we
sowed some of its seeds together, and at what hour of the
day, and what was the form at that instant of the white
clouds in the blue heavens, and how, on rising up, as we had
stooped to put the seeds in the ground, our hair touched; and
my hair again seems to communicate an electric shock to my
heart. And, afterwards, how both arose early to see owr con-
volvulus, whose flowers close and fade as soon as they are
touched by the sun. I still know which of the plants bloomed
first ; it was a large bell of a beautiful dark blue, passing to
violet by insensible gradations as the eye approached the
bottom of the flower, which was white. There were some
white ones, divided by a rose-coloured, faint blue, or violet
cross ; others of a pale rose, with a deeper-coloured cross ;
some striped with white, rose, and violet.

And the large Passe-Roses, with their noble and majestic
port, like that of Italian poplars. There were lime-trees in the
garden, a tuft of yellow blossoms always filled with bees,
black and orange drones, and large black flies with violet
wings. It appears to me when I here see the yellow Passe-
Roses, and black flies with violet wings, and bees, and brown
and orange drones, it appears to me that these things, like those
of another time, draw other circumstances after them, like the
beads of a rosary.

Blossom, blossom! graceful monuments which I have raised
to my beloved dead, to all that I have believed, to all that
I have loved, to all that I have hoped, to all that which like
thee has blossomed in my heart, to all that has faded, but for
ever, whilst every summer ye return with your beauty, your
youth, and your perfume!

\/
NS Far =a
3

LETTER XXI.

MUSIC—DRAGON-FLIES—THE WATER-LILY AND THE VALLISNERIA,

Tur alders, willows of different sorts, and poplars of three
or four kinds, separate us from a little road, which leads to a
pool, surrounded by reeds and rushes. There, through the
cool, limpid water, we can plainly discern the shining pebbles,
the sand, and the fish.

There is a vast distance between the reed, one of the first
musical instruments of the ancients, and the piano, the flute,
the bassoon, the harp, and the violin; and yet it is to be
observed that the miracles of music are to be referred to the

MUSIC. 145

period at which great musicians piped on straws or reeds, or
struck three chords stretched over the shell of a tortoise.

“Tile ego qui quondam gracili modulatus avena.”
‘Orpheus viduos sonor4, solabatur testudine amores.”

Music then was able to appease the fury of wild beasts, to
persuade stones to collect themselves into a wall, and cleave
solidly to one another, and, when breathed through a flute, to
lull Argus himself to sleep.

Now-a-days, when so many instruments have been invented
and perfected,—now-a-days, when not only the musicians of
past ages are despised, but even, and particularly, those of
yesterday,—now-a-days, so far from building cities, appeasing
lions, or saddling dolphins, men are with great difficulty
brought together to listen to music at all. At the opera now,
to induce people to be present, whilst some instruments are
blown through, and others beaten upon, it is found necessary
to exhibit to them objects of every description to attract the
eye, because they know that many men come rather to see
dancers than to hear music. All sorts of means must be
had recourse to, all kinds of falsehoods invented, to persuade
people that all the world goes there: without that delusion,
no one would go at all.

Are you aware how many degradations the poor fellows
who give concerts are reduced to, in order to persuade people
to give them a few shillings, under the pretence of hearing
pieces which they hear sixty times over every winter? Do
you know what sad baits they must lay, what humiliations
they must endure, what follies they must submit to ?

Midas preferred the flute of Marsyas to the lyre of Apollo.
The flute of Marsyas was composed of seven oaten straws, or
reeds; the lyre of Apollo was a tortoise-shell, over which
three strings were stretched. Apollo was angry, and he was
less in the wrong than angry people generally are. In fact,
the two instruments must have been equally tiresome to
listen to—perfectly insupportable; there was no choice to
make, and the sentence of superiority of the oaten straws
over the tortoise-shell, pronounced by King Midas, must have

arisen from malice.
L

146 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Apollo acted then exactly as many pianists would do. if
they dared ;—he skinned his rival, and crowned his judge
with ass’s ears.

King Midas concealed his ears as well as he was able, but
he was obliged to confide the secret to his barber, who, being
unable to keep it, dug a hole in the earth, and when the
secret was choking him, he went and relieved his throat by
putting his head into the hole, and saying: “ Midas—King
Midas has ass’s ears.” Some reeds grew in this hole, and when
they were agitated by the wind, instead of simply murmur-
ing, as others do, and as honest reeds ought to do, they said:
“ Midas—King Midas has ass’s ears.”

The reed (calamus) was the first pen invented. Of reeds,
arrows and canes were made :—

“TLethalis arundo.”—Vire.
“ Equitare in arundine longa.”—Hor,

A sort of grub, of a greenish grey colour, crawls out of the
mud, leaves the water at the bottom of which it has hitherto
lived, and fastens itself to a small reed; it then sticks into
the bark of the reed two little very sharp claws which it has
on each foot. After a few minutes of immobility, you may
perceive its eyes become brilliant, and its back split and
open; then a head appears through the opening; after this
head come the body and wings of a libellule, or demoiselle,
The wings are folded and shapeless; the body is soft, and all
ina heap. It waits till the air without, and life within, may
put all in proper condition; at the end of half-an-hour, it
shakes itself, and flies away, light, slender, and richly adorned
with the colours of the emerald and the turquoise, and at
least as brilliant as either.

I now see a crowd of them sporting in the air, or lighted
upon the reeds; some of them dart away, and disappear on
the wing, but return a few minutes afterwards, They live on
prey, and devour the insects of the air, as they ate those of
the water, when in their first shape.

Among all insects, in these, perhaps, there is the least
resemblance between the males and females. Contrary to
what is observed in all other insects, the male is at first much
larger than the female, and their vestments are quite different.

DRAGON-FLIES. 147

I can see some which are big; they are striped with yellow
and green-tinted black. Their males are generally of a slate-
colour; some few males, however, are yellow as well as the
females. Some are of a dark and shining blue, with black
spots at the extremities of the wings; their females are of a
beautiful golden green.

Their manner of making love is singular for insects, al-
though by no means uncommon with men. It is by per-
severance, and the annoyance they cause by an almost hostile
assiduity, that the males succeed in seducing the beauty that
has won their hearts, generally from the middle of September
till the middle of October. We shall not be long before we
see an example, for there is a green and gold female just
alighted on a rose-flowered reed. She glitters coquettishly in
the sun: a blue male perceives her; he rushes towards her,
seizes her by the throat, and carries her off through the air,
and will not let her go till she has consented to crown
his flame.

The waters and their banks have their trees, their flowers,
and their butterflies; the last of which are these libellules,
There is another kind of libellule, or demoiselle, which, to
you or me, singularly resembles that we have just been
looking at, but between which naturalists discover great
differences. We shall not meet with them here: they have
not lived under water, as the others have done; on the con-
trary, it was in the sand, and beneath the most ardent sun,
that they went through their first state. It is more than
probable we may fall in with them in the course of our
journey.

Upon the surface of the water are spread some large round
and shining leaves, of a sombre green colour; upon these
leaves bloom beautiful double white roses. It is the water-lily
of our ponds. As long as there is any cold to be dreaded, it
keeps its leaves rolled up under the water; but as soon as
fine weather seems certain, it elongates the stalks of its leaves,
and they rise and spread themselves upon the surface of the
water; the flowers soon spring from the water as buds, and
then blow: at night they close their petals, and resume the
form of buds. When the flower is fecundated, it no longer
requires either air or sun; it again descends beneath the

148 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

surface, and does not rise again. It is there the fruit is
formed and ripened, and the seed it contains will be sown in
the earth at the bottom of the pool.

In another corner is the yellow-blossomed water-lily, whose
flower is simple, but whose habits are exactly the same as
the other.

There is another plant which lives equally in the waters,
but which is not to be found in our gardens; it is the vallis-
neria, It has not, as the water-lily, the male and female
united in the same corolla; they are upon two different
flowers, as we have already seen in the case with some other
plants; but here the separation appears more cruel and more
invincible. The female flowers are placed upon a long spiral
footstalk, by means of which they bloom on the surface, like
those of the water-lily; whilst the male flowers are retained

VALLISNERIA.

at the bottom, and at a great depth, by a very short stalk,
But at the proper season, the male flower detaches itself,
ascends in a state of freedom to the surface, lavishes his
caresses, and is carried away by the current. The female
flower then returns under water, to mature and sow its seed.
Here the openogeton dystachion, a white flower, with black
stamens, exhales a sweet odour of vanilla from its corolla,
which resembles a shell; whilst the menyanthus, which lives

PLANTS AND THEIR SEEDS. 149

near it, appears to be made of white feathers; and the ponte-
deria cordata lifts its large leaves and blue flowers high out
of the water.

Let us leave for a moment the edge of my pool, to go and
seek in another corner of the garden the cyclamen, which has
for its seed, cases analogous to those of the water-lily and the
vallisneria, Its root is a large shapeless tubercle, from which
first issue the leaves, which are of the consistency and some-
what of the shape of those of certain ivies, but are agreeably
streaked with white and clear green. These leaves form a
circle in several rows, leaving in the middle of them a round
space where the earth is bare; from this space, at a later
period, rise buds of flowers upon peduncules, rolled spirally
in the form of a corkscrew, which unbend gradually, and
bear, at an elevation of some inches, white or purplish flowers,
the centre of which is inclined towards the ground, and the
under extremity of the petals pointing upwards. When the
flower is withered, when the petals are dry, there remains
nothing but an ovary enlarged by fecundation, and a little
capsule of reddish green, which contains the seed. The
cyclamen has not the same confidence in the air that other
plants have; it contracts its spiral again, and brings back its
capsule under the ground, where its seeds will ripen and be
ready sown.

In a very different manner we have seen the scorsonerias
and the dandelions give to the winds their seeds crowned with,
an aigrette in the form of a feather, Most plants allow their
seeds to fall at their feet. The balsam launches its seed to
a distance. You know the balsam, with its beautiful flowers,
red, white, flesh-colour, violet, streaked with white and violet,
or white and red; when its seeds are ripe, it splits the capsule
which contains them, and launches them to a distance of
several feet; they thus frequently escape the hands of the
gardener who wishes to preserve them.

LETTER XXII.

MEMORIES OF THE DEAD.

WE now arrive at a group of old elms surrounded by ivy,
which, meeting at their tops, form a lofty vaulted canopy,
and “forbid the sun to enter.” Under this thick shade, how-
ever, syringas and honeysuckles flourish; syringas, whose
white blossoms partake of the odour of those of the orange;
the honeysuckle has taken possession of such of the trees as
have been forgotten by the ivy, and springs up with asto-
nishingly rapid growth, sending forth in all directions flowers
exhaling one’ of the sweetest perfumes. The honeysuckle is
a plant that seems to devote itself to the tomb, the most
magnificent of them being found in cemeteries. We all know
the effect produced upon the imagination, if not upon the
mind, by the burning of incense in churches, whilst the organ
fills the vault of the temple with its powerful voice; but
there is something more religious, more powerful, more solemn,
than the harmonious voices of the choristers, or the swelling

MEMORIES OF THE DEAD. 151

peal of the organ :—it is the silence of the tombs. There is
a perfume more exciting, more religious even than that of
incense; it is that of the honeysuckles which grow over
tombs upon which grass has sprung up thick and tufted with
them, as quickly as forgetfulness has taken possession of the
hearts of the survivors.

Tn an evening, when the sun has set,—when, alone in a
cemetery, we begin to shiver at the sound of our own steps,—
when we breathe this odour of the honeysuckle, it appears
that whilst the body is transformed, and become the flowers
which cover the tomb, the blue periwinkle (the violet of the
dead) and the honeysuckle, it seems as if the immortal soul
was escaping, exhaling in celestial perfume, and ascending
above the clouds.

Many poets have spoken of the worms which devour the
dead. This is a horrible image, particularly horrible for those
who have consigned to the earth the remains of beloved
objects. This worm of the tomb has been invented by these
poets, and exists nowhere but in their imaginations; the bodies
of those we have loved are not exposed to this insult, this
profanation. Learned men—that is to say, really learned
and scientific men—will tell you that it is not true that cor-
ruption engenders worms; certain flies must have laid eggs
from which such worms could issue, and these flies have
not the power of penetrating into the earth below a certain
depth.

Tite is much changed since the day on which we have
deposited in the earth the body of a fondly-loved person.
How many things disturb you of which you had not even
dreamed! It is an image that does not remain with you at
all times, but which arises before you all at once, at the most
unexpected moments, and which comes to freeze you in the
midst of pleasure or of festivity, which checks and dissipates
a smile which was about to play upon your lips. Nothing
more is required to evoke it, and make it appear, than a word
which was familiar to the dead, than a sound, than a voice,
than an air sung at a distance, and of which the wind brings
you a faint note or two ;—nothing more is required than the
sight or the odour of a flower, instantly to revive before you
that sad yet cherished image, and, as with a freshly sharpened

152 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

weapon, inflict upon your heart anew the pangs of the adieux
and the eternal separation.

From that day, there is a portion of ourselves in the tomb ;
from that day, we only give ourselves up to the world and its
distractions by escaping from ourselves, at the risk of being
at every instant reseized, and brought back to the cemetery.
In short, we have buried in their tomb all we once loved
with them ; flowers cultivated with them, airs sung together,
griefs endured together, pleasures enjoyed together, —all
things which recal the dead, and speak to you of them.

T had in a solitary corner of my garden three hyacinths,
which my father had planted, and which death did not allow
him to see bloom. Every year, the period of their flowering
was for me a solemnity, a funereal and religious festival ; it
was a melancholy remembrance, which revived and reblos-
somed every year, and exhaled certain thoughts with its per-
fume. The roots are dead now, and nothing lives of this dear
association but in my own heart.

But what a dear, yet sad, privilege man possesses above all
created beings, in being thus able, by memory and thought,
to follow those whom he has loved to the tomb, and there
shut himself up living with the dead! What a melancholy
privilege! And yet where is there one among us who would
lose it? Who is he who would willingly forget all?

THE LINNET.

LETTER XXIII.

THE GOLDEN-CRESTED WREN—AMATEURS OF FLOWERS—THE PEONY.

THERE is a little bird flitting about under the great elms,
which is most likely to place its nest in some angle of a wall,
where we shall easily find it: that is a wren, the regulus cris-
tatus; not the same as the one that dwells in a corner of my
old house. The other is called troglodytes parvulus, or wren.

This one, which, like the other, could escape through the
wires of a cage without rumpling its feathers, is of an olive
cast ; but the male’ bears on his head a little tuft of a brilliant
gold: the tuft on the head of the female is of a citron colour.
Their nest is lined with moss, spiders’ webs, and the down
which covers the seeds of certain plants. The hen lays six
eggs in it, white, tinged with rose-colour, and about as large
as peas.

But what sweet and enchanting melody appears to flow
from the sharply pointed leaves of that bushy holly! A little
linnet, with its brown head, is there sitting upon its five
reddish eggs, spotted with chestnut, in a nest of grass and
hair, which she has placed upon one of the lowest branches.
Upon a bough, a little more elevated, sits her mate, whose
head is black, singing, to divert her during the tediousness of
incubation. He only breaks off in his song to go and seek

154 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

insects, which he brings to her upon the nest. I will not go
near it: the linnet has not so much confidence in man as the
wren has; it would abandon its nest and its eggs, if it saw
me many times prowling about near the holly.

Here and there flit butterflies, shaded with fawn-colour,
and a yellow like withered leaves; these are sylphs and fawns,
which seldom leave the shade.

In the hollows of oaks, the great stag-beetle, the rhinoceros,
and other beetles, await the hour of evening to leave their
solitude, and buzz about the world.

A large black butterfly, with a border of a beautiful yellow
at the outward edge of its wings, rises to the very tops of the
trees. That is the morto.

Here is another, which attracts attention by its size, and
by its magnificent colour of carmine, striped with black. In
order to see it nearer, you pursue it, and attempt to catch it;
but it escapes, and you lose sight of it. You believe it has
flown to a distance, as the splendour of its costume would
betray it if it were near; but you are deceived—there it is,
close to you, on the trunk of a birch. It is only its under
wings that are so splendid; when it is pursued, it conceals
them under the upper ones, which are grey, and are easily
confounded with the bark of the trees upon which it loves to
settle.

In the grass, and under the thickest shade, primroses, some
pale violets, and the lily of the valley, blossom. The flower of
the last has the shape and beauty of a pearl, but of a per-
fumed pearl.

Many women prefer lilies of the valley to pearls, but all
would prefer having pearls given to them; very few of them
are influenced by avarice in this preference. Women are,
T repeat, like the gods, who were most flattered when fat
heifers were sacrificed to them, or when offerings were made
to them of massive gold: they did not eat the heifers—they
had no need of the gold; but these more valuable presents
manifested, on the part of those who offered them, a greater
and proportionate veneration.

The cuckoo-fruit blossoms likewise in the shade, with its
green horn, followed by a spike of scarlet fruit; and the wood
anemone is a pretty white flower, tinged with violet. This is

AMATEURS OF FLOWERS. 155

the original of an anemone which we shall find in another
part of the garden; there, its foliage forms a beautiful rich
green turf, from which spring simple rose-shaped anemones,
red, scarlet, purple, blue, violet, white-—or streaked with all
these various colours. A bed of these is one of the richest
and most magnificent sights imaginable. The anemone is
one of the plants called florists’ flowers.

There are people, sober in their pleasures, who concentrate
their cares upon a single flower. There are amateurs of tulips;
for them there is no other flower in the world but tulips—
other flowers are weeds; and still further, among tulips, there
is only the tulip with the white ground, and among tulips
with the white ground, there is only the tulip with the
rounded petals. The year begins for them on the 15th of
May, and finishes on the 28th of the same month. There are
amateurs of roses, there are amateurs of auriculas, there are
amateurs of pinks, there are amateurs of dahlias, there are
amateurs of camellias, there are amateurs of ranunculuses,
there are amateurs of anemones: these are the only flowers—
others are called bouquets; and you should see with what
a tone and manner they pronounce the word bouquet! So
with sportsmen, there are some animals that are game, and
others that are not. Of all this race, the amateurs of tulips
are the most ferocious; not that the others, however, are
remarkably mild, or that I advise any one to approach them
without due precaution. It sometimes happens that the ama-
teurs of anemones cultivate ranunculuses simultaneously, but
they expose themselves to being treated as fleurichons, or
dabblers, by the more severe amateurs.

I knew a tulip-fancier, who, at the season for planting his
tulips, made every year two composts: one of maiden earth,
sand, and leaf mould; the other of clay, pigeons’ dung, and
animal mould. In the first, which is favourable to tulips,
he planted his own roots; in the other, which combined all
the contrary conditions, he placed such as he had received
as presents, or in exchange. If he thinks his cares insuffi-
cient, he waters them with soap-suds. Then, at the period
of their blooming, after having made you admire his own
plants, he leads you to the others, and tells you, in a delight-
fully self-sufficient tone—*“ These are plants which distin-

156 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

guished amateurs have been kind enough to offer me in
exchange for mine !”

To return to anemones,—they were brought into France
from the East Indies, more than two centuries ago, by a
Monsieur Bachelier, who was ten years before he would give
a single one to anybody. A magistrate went to see him in
his robes, and purposely making their folds drag over the
anemones in seed, contrived to carry away a few of them,
which adhered to the wool of his robe.

Never speak to an amateur of anemones, of anything else
but his anemones; if you say to him: “I have a beautiful
pink,” he will ask you what sort of an anemone that is?
But do not imagine that the amateurs of flowers love flowers
better than the learned do: the learned do not acknowledge
the cultivated anemone, they say that it is a monster, or they
dry it, paste it on paper, and write barbarous words under it.
Amateurs content themselves with requiring difficult con-
ditions of anemones; thus there is a sort of green calyx,
which ought to be placed just at one-third from the flower,
and two-thirds from the earth, and without this the anemone
may display the richest colours in vain—it will be dismissed
from the bed, and declared nothing but bouguet/ I spare you
a dozen more or less singular conditions which are required
of these poor flowers.

Here is a peony, a sort of gigantic rose, of the most beauti-
ful red. There are no amateurs of peonies, unless it be the
tree-peony, because that is perhaps less beautiful, more diffi-
cult to cultivate, but more scarce. The ordinary peony, red,
rose-coloured or white, is held in no esteem.

But it is socommon! Thanks, O Lord, for all that thou
has created common! thanks for the blue heavens, the sun,
the stars, murmuring waters, and the shade of embowering
oaks,—thanks for the corn-flowers of the fields and the gilly-
flowers of the walls,—thanks for the songs of the linnet and
the hymns of the nightingale,—thanks for the perfumes of the
air and the sighing of the winds among the trees,—thanks
for the magnificent clouds gilded by the sun at its setting and
rising,—thanks for love, the most common sentiment of all,—
thanks for all the beautiful things thy praretone bounty has
made common !

THE PEONY. 157

The peony was formerly, however, much celebrated: it
drove away tempests, broke enchantments, defeated witch-
craft, and now and then cured epilepsy. Its name, poonia,
came from Poon, a celebrated physician, who employed it to
cure Pluto, when wounded by Hercules. The root of the
peony, therefore, was not taken lightly; it was at a certain
hour of the night, and during a certain phase of the moon;
and still further, it was necessary to take care not to be
observed by the woodpecker, whilst digging it; whoever was
observed by the woodpecker became blind.

The peony is no longer anything but a beautiful and
splendid flower, despised by amateurs, and seldom seen but in
poor gardens,

LETTER XXIV.

THE POOR TRAVELLERS—THE CASTLE OF CHILLON.

You must not imagine, my friend, that I also have never
travelled ; there has been a time when I wrote, in a few words,
every evening, the result of my impressions of the day. Here
are some lines of this Journal.

“Litte—I went to the midnight mass; some old women
were praying and preparing a supper called a reveillon or
medianoche; from time to time they drew from under their
petticoats a small chafing-dish, upon which were cooking two
or three herrings ; they turned the herrings, put the chafing-
dish back in its place, and resumed their prayers.

“In Picardy I was treated with tarts made of leeks; which
would be horrible, if it were possible to eat them.

“ Lausanne.—I have been angling here in the Lake of
Geneva; but I have caught no fish; a circumstance that has
happened to me in the various rivers, lakes, and streams, in
which I have made a similar experiment. But*here I am in
Switzerland, though.

THE POOR TRAVELLERS. 159

“When I used to say: ‘There is a beautiful tree, a limpid
stream, a fine sheet of snow, or a lovely greensward, I was
silenced with: ‘Bah, you have not been in Switzerland!
—‘ No.’— Then never say anything about greensward, snow,
limpid waters, trees, or anything else in the world.’

“One day I set out for Switzerland, not so much for the
sake of seeing Switzerland, as to be able to say I had been
there, and to be allowed to speak when I pleased, about trees,
grass, water, and snow.

“T set out, then, but my dislike for travelling accompanied
ime, and exposed me to singular accidents. I had money and
time for three weeks, and I discovered, one evening, that I
had been fishing eight days for mullets in the little lake of
Mantua, believing myself to be in Switzerland ; it was very
beautiful, though. I loved that half-circular mountaia,
crowned with snow; below the snow, firs with their black
foliage ; below the firs, fine poplars edged the water, and cast
over it the reflection of their lofty tops.

“One day, as I was looking at the travellers who were
stopped at the douane, I found out that I was still in France,
and, therefore, immediately passed the frontier. I arrived at
Geneva, but whilst travelling thither, I experienced a regret
and a remorse, of which the following was the subject :—

“Whilst I was on board the boat which conveyed me by the
Saéne from Chalons to Lyons, my attention was very much
taken up by a woman accompanied by two children; the first
was about twelve years of age, she held the second in her arms.
There was in the appearance of this woman a mixture of dis-
tinction and misfortune which affected me to the highest
degree. Her costume was not a travelling costume, but a
heterogeneous composition of divers pieces of divers toilettes.
All was faded, and the more sad from its being plainly to be
seen that it had once been rich and elegant. She had a green
bonnet, but faded, with torn flowers ; a tartan mantle of red
and black check; a torn glove on one hand, the other, uncovered,
was white and handsome, her fingers slender, her nails very
nice, but not one ring, not even a wedding-ring—it was the
left hand that was uncovered. I have been poor, and I have
preserved a wonderful tact for discerning poverty in others,
with a glance, through the noble falsehoods of pride, through.

160 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

the touching mancuvres of shame. The elder of the two
children was dressed with all attention to cleanliness; but hig
clothes, which had become short and tight, and his hair, that was
too long and dry, showed that his mother took all the care
possible of him that did not require money. I cannot tell
what it was that saddened me when near this woman ; her
countenance was handsome, calm, and dignified ; but I sur-
prised a look gently raised towards heaven, and then falling
back upon her two children, a sort of mute and furtive
prayer. A slight, but cold and disagreeable mist was falling.
All the women descended successively into the cabins ; some
men only remained upon deck ; she was seated between her
two children. She folded the plaid over the younger one.
I would have given anything in the world to have detained
the last woman that descended to the cabin ; for I had seen
what it was kept the poor mother on deck. Between her
wrist and her glove I had seen the end of a yellow paper,
which was the ticket given her in exchange for the price of
her passage: mine was red, and designated the first place,
she, therefore, had only taken second places ; upon deck this
was of no consequence, but if she wanted shelter, she must
go down into a cabin in which were assembled all the travellers
of the second class, workmen and meanly dressed women. I
put up a prayer from the bottom of my heart that the rain
might cease. A few minutes afterwards, a ray of sunshine
dissipated the clouds ; I believed that I had been heard, and
I thanked God as earnestly as I had prayed.

“ As we were leaving Trevoux on the left, all the travellers
remarked a terraced garden on the Sadne, shaded by a row
of beautiful trees; these were the trees of Judea, whose
blossoms, closely clinging to the branches, looked like a thick
rose-coloured bower. A ray of the sun illuminated this
smiling decoration. The boy directed his mother’s attention
to it. This drew a smile for her child from the bottom of
her heart—but the smile faded away, and froze upon her lips.
I could not remove my eyes from these three beings, and it
appeared to me that a malignant fairy took delight in expos-
ing to me, and making me guess, one by one, all the poverties
they concealed. Some one asked what o’clock it was; the
boy felt in his pocket, and my heart was oppressed with hope

THE POOR TRAVELLERS. 161

and expectation ; I would have given all the money I had to
see him pull out a watch. In that moment of uncertainty, a
thousand things passed in my mind. Perhaps I am deceived ;
she does not wear rings, but many women do not wear them.
Perhaps she does not like jewels. I know an extremely rich
lady who never will admit one in her dress. Alas! the boy
only pulled out a pocket handkerchief.

“A man then answered the person who had asked what
o'clock it was. He was a short man, rather thick-built than
fat. He appeared to be about fifty years old, and wore his
own grey hair. He was dressed in a surtout, with a waistcoat
and trowsers of black cloth. It was plain that this man
attached no idea to any colour, and had no partiality for one
more than another ; but that he was rich, and black, he had
been told, looked proper on all occasions. His boots were
large, the straps of his trowsers were not blacked ; his head
was wrapped in a large shirt collar, standing on end with
starch ; he had cotton in his ears; his ears had been pierced,
but he wore no earrings. He displayed a large diamond in
his shirt, and another on his finger; his two hands were
almost constantly in the pockets of his trowsers; everything
pronounced him a low-minded man become rich. If he
answered the man who asked what the hour was, it was
only because it gavé him a reasonable occasion to pull out
a large gold watch, with an immense bunch of seals; the
watch being pulled out, he made it strike close to his ear to
show it was a repeater.

“The boy drew near and looked at the watch, whilst he
looked at the child, and perceived, as quickly as I had done,
his short and tight clothes. ‘Well! said he in a harsh tone,
‘you will know me again, shan’t you? you stare at me
enough.’

“Two other men laughed at this coarse pleasantry. The
child became as red as fire. His mother called him with
a soft but sad voice; first she scolded him a little, and then
she kissed him. She preferred telling him that he was wrong
to telling him he was poor.

“T walked to the side as if to look at something, and with
a shove of the elbow turned the parvenu watch-owner round
on his centre. He grumbled a little; I looked him full in

M

162 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

the face, and he crossed over to the other side of the boat.
I longed to chat with that woman, but I feared to offend her
by addressing her; perhaps she might fancy I was more bold
with her than with others. The boy came and leant upon
the side of the boat; I spoke to him, but I found myself
absolutely timid with this child of twelve years old; I could
almost have thanked him for having the kindness to answer
me. I believed I beheld in this poverty the most respectable
thing I had ever contemplated in my life. I should very
much have liked to ‘know whether the mother saw me talking
with interest with her child, but I did not dare to look
towards her. I swear that there was not the least personal
thought in all this, for I had at that time in both my heart
and my head as much love for another as they could reason-
ably contain; but I had perceived how this woman’s feelings
had been wounded by the rudeness of that wretched fellow.
I hoped to efface this impression by a contrary one. I took
pleasure in answering the questions of the boy, who was
more bold with me than I was with him; and I likewise
took pleasure in imagining the series of thoughts my attention
to the child might create in the bosom of the mother. In
the first place, she would perceive that her boy was not
destined to be repulsed by everybody because he was poor ;
then she might think that his questions and language in-
terested a man, and she might say to herself, ‘He must be
intelligent for that gentleman to take such notice of him—
he will become a clever man—some day he will attain to
honours.’ She beckoned him to her with a sign; she drew
from a kind of flat basket, concealed under her mantle,
a piece of bread and two apples, which she gave him. There
are whimsical things to be met with, that perhaps very few
persons would comprehend. I had never seen this woman,
and yet it appeared to me that there existed a mysterious
tie between us. I heard within me a voice which said to
her, ‘Thou art unhappy, I will console thee; thou art poor,
I will work for thee.’ As I have proved, it was not love,
but it was a warm, pious charity, full of respectful tender-
ness,—perhaps it was a kind of love; however that might
be, if she had deigned to speak to me, I know my heart
would have melted with joy.

THE POOR TRAVELLERS. 163

“ At length we arrived. The day was declining; the tra-
vellers got together their luggage; she had nothing but a
band-box, which she kept close by her side. I conjured up
a thousand romances. What can she be going to do at
Lyons? Will she be more rich or more happy there? Now
the porters called to us from the quays, recommending hotels
to us: this tumult, these voices, all awakened me as from
a dream. I began to fancy there was a kind of folly in the
sentiments that had taken such strong hold of me. It is
strange how soon we become reasonable; that is to say, less
great, less noble, less generous, as we draw near to the cities
of men, I determined, however, to do one thing.

“T divided my money into two parts. I put in one as
much as would carry me back home again, without con-
tinuing my journey, and in the other what remained. My
intention was to give it to the boy, in the midst of the con-
fusion of leaving the boat, to avoid all possibility of refusal
or thanks, to pass the night at an hotel, and return home on
the morrow. But I went to look for my little portmanteau
when the boat was moored at the quay, and when I returned
could find neither mother nor children. I sought for them
in the crowd; but I have reproached myself with thinking,
that if my search had been as earnest as were my subsequent
regrets, I should have found them. This noise, this crowd,
these voices, all appeared to dissipate a sort of intoxication ;
it was necessary to take care of my portmanteau, and look
for an hotel.

“ By what a fine thread are held the few good or great
thoughts that a man has in the course of his life, if it is to
be broken by such petty shocks, such petty things, and such
petty interests !

“T continued my route, dissatisfied with all I met with
or saw, and what was still worse, dissatisfied with myself.

“T have retained another impression from this journey,
still more unpleasant, perhaps, from being more hateful As
I followed, in fact, the shore of the lake of Geneva, I came to
the castle of Chillon, between Clarens and Villeneuve, which
is at the extremity of the lake. I was shown a subterranean
vault, fifteen feet below the surface of the water, into which
only a small quantity of light entered by an aperture that

164 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

has been much enlarged since the place ceased to be a prison.
There I saw iron rings attached to the pillars; and, horrible
to contemplate! deeply imprinted in the rock the steps of
a prisoner who passed many years in the dungeon. I touched
one of the rings, and as it fell back from my hand against
the stone pillar it returned a sound so melancholy that it
resounded in my heart. I could hear the lake growling over
my head; I could scarcely breathe, and I hastened to re-
ascend in order to gain a little fresh air, and remove some
of the fearfully oppressive weight from my mind; but all
the rest of the day I was a prey to a sort of delirium—TI ex-
perienced all the sensations of despair and rage. It appeared
as if. my being was severed in two, and that half of it re-
mained in that awful dungeon.

“T regretted bitterly the childishness which led me to
write my name with the point of a knife upon one of the
pillars, amidst a hundred other names, in order that the
painters who had induced me to visit Switzerland might find
a trace of my passage, and a proof that I had been there.
T experienced a pain from the recollection-that my name was
in this horrible place; a false shame restrained me, or else I
should have returned and have effaced it. Even now, when
this impression has lost much of its strength, I should feel
much better satisfied if my name were not there.

«“T remained a few days at Lausanne, when, one morning,
perceiving that I was at the end of my time, and likewise
of my money, I returned home.”

LETTER XXV.

AN AMATEUR FINDS FAULT WITH AN AURICULA.

One of the pet flowers of amateurs is the Auricula.
Happy the flowers which have escaped savants and amateurs ;
they have not received ridiculous names; they are not
tormented, distorted, or subjected to a thousand whimsical
exigencies ; they blossom in peace.

The learned require that the auricula should be yellow; if

-it presents itself clothed in any other colour, it is pronounced
a monster, as double roses are.

Amateurs grant it permission to wear what colours it
pleases; but this is only an appearance of liberty. I once
saw an amateur in a state of fury. Some auriculas had been
sent to him from I don’t know what country: he had culti-
vated them with care; he had tormented them after the
methods most approved of by amateurs; he had deprived
them of water, and more particularly of sun and earth, by
placing them in a pot, and as I went into his house he was

166 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

tearing them up, one by one, and trampling them under his
feet. I understood, from his broken exclamations, that the
auriculas had avenged themselves for the ill treatment they
had received, by not fulfilling the conditions he required and
had hoped for.

I, however, ventured a few questions, to assure myself of
the ‘fact, and at the same time to learn what horrible offence
could have been committed by these poor flowers, which
appeared to me to be decked with the richest colours, and to
be in perfection. He continued his execution, pronouncing
upon every one his motives of judgment and condemnation,
before he crushed it under his feet,

I will place you in a condition to do as I did, and to derive
instruction; that is to say, to learn what are the duties of
the auricula towards its cultivator, and how it transgresses
them.

He took up one of a beautiful velvety blue. Its stalk is
too short, said he, and he crushed it. To this succeeded
another of a rich velvet brown, with a white circle which
is called the eye; its stalk is too long—crushed. A velvet
orange; the flower is not exactly round—crushed. A deep
purple velvet; the bouquet has only eight flowers, it ought
to have twelve—crushed. A velvet olive; the eye slimy
(that is to say, it is slightly tinged with the olive colour)
—crushed. A velvet yellow; the eye does not occupy a
third of the circumference of the flower; that is the least
it ought possibly to do; I have a friend who requires half—
Iam more indulgent, but I cannot admit this—crushed. A
velvet pale violet; the eye is not exactly round—crushed.
A deep violet velvet; eh! what do you do here? your clow
exceeds your patilettes, a pretty thing that !

Here I stopped the judge and executioner to request an
explanation. Auricula fanciers call the pistils the clow, and
the stamens the paillettes. The stamens ought to extend
beyond the pistils, and appear alone; it is a very serious
thing when the contrary happens to be the case. Whatever
xoay be the colour or the splendour of the flower, a true
amateur would scorn to keep such a one in his collection.

A hundred charming flowers were thus sacrificed before
my eyes, I in vain endeavoured to save them by begging

AURICULAS. 167

.that he would make me a present of them; my entreaty was
rejected.

“Not at all, not at all; I will give you some others.”
“But these please me very much.” “Nonsense; you are
joking!” “ Not at all, I assure you.” “TI cannot consent that
such flowers should come from me; if it were known that I
had given them I should subject either my collection or my
friendship to animadversion.” He was inflexible.

Do not imagine that I invent or exaggerate; seek for an
amateur of auriculas, and read to him this passage of my
letters. I can assure you beforehand that he will not smile,
that he will see nothing ridiculous in it, that he will say his
brother amateur was right, perhaps even a little too indul-
gent. In addition to the florist’s lesson, this is a chapter to
add to the rights of man. You now know what are the
duties of auriculas, and I hope you will see how to make
them perform them. ;

LETTER XXVI.

AN OLD WALL.

I po not dislike walls; it is sometimes a good and con-
soling reflection to be in a well-secured enclosure, alone with
perfumes, flowers, trees, the heavens, the air, the sun, stars,
remembrances and reveries, and to know that nobody can
come and disturb you. I like walls, but I don’t like white
walls; I like nothing but old walls. I have one here, along
which the course of my journey brings me, and which pleases
me exceedingly. It is just as old as it ought to be; if it
were a little older it would be given up to the mercies of the
bricklayers, who would introduce all sorts of new bricks or
white stones. As it is, it is grey and black, and is covered with
twenty species of mosses and lichens. In the crevices of its
top extends an absolute crown of yellow wallflowers and ferns.
At its foot vegetate pellitory and nettles, in all their beautiful
green; little crevices serve as an asylum for the lizards which
run over the wall. Among the nettles live many caterpillars,
which there spin brilliant webs and come forth butterflies.

Let us examine the nettles. The flowers of the nettle
have the male and female blossom separate. The stamens of
the males, in the season, perform an evolution which throws
out a little shower of dust upon the female flowers. The
hairs which cover nettles have at their base a little gland,
in which is formed, by a portion of its sap, a caustic juice;

THE ANT-LION. 169

it is in the same manner that vipers bite, although peasants
persist in saying that they sting.

There are many persons who eat young nettles cooked
like spinach, as we are taught by a verse of Horace, and
another of Persius. It was well worth the trouble to become
masters of the world!

One of the inhabitants of the nettle is a thorny caterpillar,
of a velvety black, marked with three white points. When
its time is arrived, it hangs itself by the feet to the leaf of
a nettle. Ata later period it becomes a magnificent butterfly,
black and red-brown, with an eye upon each wing; in which
blue, violet, red, white and yellow, emulate the splendour of
the eyes in the feathers of the tail of a peacock; whence this
butterfly is called the peacock butterfly.

The atalunta, with which we have already met as a cater-
pillar, lived upon the nettle. The butterfly called the tor-
toiseshell has been previously a green and brown striped
caterpillar upon the nettle, and then a striped chrysalis.
The painted-lady is also a guest of the nettle.

There is a time at which the old wall changes its appear-
ance. Then it is green and rose-coloured. Bengal rose-trees
hang like a tapestry over it up to the very top, so as to con-
ceal it entirely. The roses are as numerous as the leaves;
that palisade of ten paces in length does not exhibit less
than from a thousand to twelve hundred roses in bloom at
once, <A painter would not dare to put so many on his rose
trees; the arts stand in need of an appearance of truth—
truth easily does without it. Here is a wall of pink or rose-
coloured roses; at another corner extends a turf or bed of
red roses, A hundred Bengal roses, with purple flowers, have
been palisaded upon the ground, and cover it with leaves and
flowers. But let us go back to the foot of the old wall.

The soil is there sandy and hot, the grass is thin,—there
are no flowers to be seen: it is not, however, a desert; here,
in the sand, is a little tunnel of two inches in width and
nine in depth, dug spirally,—it is a trap made by a sports-
man; but see, here he comes to finish his snare. The ant-
lion lives on prey; it is a sort of yellowish worm, which
appears grey on account of the labours to which it gives
itself up, and which cover it with sand and dust; its head is

170 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

large and flattened, and terminated by two horns, which have
in some degree the form of those of the great stag-beetle.*

The prey which supplies its food is nimble; it consists of
flies, ants, woodlice, and spiders, and as it is only able to take
a few steps at a time, and that backwards, it does not think
of running down its game, but employs stratagem. There it
is, working a spiral pit which begins at the surface, and is
to attain a depth of several lines: at each step which it
makes backward it stops, and with one of its feet loads its
flattened head: the head being loaded like a shovel, it gives
it a shake, and throws out of the hole the few grains of earth
it carried. This is a long and fatiguing operation; never-
theless, a quarter of an hour suffices for the performance of
it. There is the trap completed ; the sportsman places himself
at the bottom, burying himself in the sand, leaving out only
his eyes, which are twelve in number, and two horns, which
he stretches as far from each other as possible.

Think how ancient travellers have been obliged to lie, in
order to make people believe they had seen Cyclops, that is
to say, people who have but one eye; what a distance they
were obliged to go to, to venture to say that they had seen
men who ordinarily were called one-eyed in the country in
which they lived. Well, for my part, without going from
home, I have fallen in with a hunter with twelve eyes!

The ant-lion does not stir,—it might be believed to be
dead or asleep; its horns do not betray the least motion.
Ah! there is some game! An ant, going rather too close to
the hole, made a grain of sand slip in, and fell with it into
the trap to the depth of halfa line, It climbs up again, but
the precipice is steep, and the grains of sand give way beneath
its feet; it loses ground,—it is at least six grains of sand
lower than it was. One effort, however, has recovered it; it
gets up again. Then the ant-lion, charging its head with
sand, launches with violence a shower of dust at the ant,
which makes it lose its equilibrium, and slip down; but it
clings to the side, and endeavours to reascend. A second
shower of sand falls upon it, and makes it lose the little
ground it had regained. Then the hunter precipitates its
blows, and soon the unfortunate ant, brought down at last by

* See right-hand figure of the cut on p. 168,

THE ANT-LION. ‘171

the moveable soil which rolls away under its feet, and by the
projectiles which are launched at it without intermission,
ends by falling to the bottom of the tunnel, between the
expanded horns of its enemy; the two horns close and pierce
it, whilst seizing it, through and through; and then the
hunter becomes motionless: its two horns are trunks through
which it sucks its prey. Ina short time nothing remains of
the ant but the skin and the head. The ant-lion does not eat
the heads of its prey,—the head is not to its taste; it places
the relics upon the catapulta, which serves him for a head,
and throws them out of the hole. Then it covers itself up in
the sand again, and resumes the position it was in before the
arrival of the ant.

The place is well chosen! Here comes a wood-louse, which
the heat of the sun incommodes, and which abandons the
wall to find elsewhere some cool and moist crack in which it
may conceal itself. There it is upon the very edge of the
trap: it slips,—the ant-lion plays off its artillery; the wood-
louse gets up again. In vain the hunter redoubles its blows ;
‘the wood-louse escapes.

A gnat, in its turn, contrives to fall into the snare; but it
expands its wings and escapes, in spite of the shower of sand
which its enemy launches at it. The wood-louse, in escaping,
made great chasms in the tunnel ; and this, no doubt, together
with the ill-success of the last two hunts, determines the ant-
lion to go and lay his ambushes elsewhere. He reascends his
pit, and goes away, always travelling backwards, to seek
a spot more favourable to his views.

But stop, you stupid creature!—take heed! It has no
longer time: it has fallen heavily into the hole, at the bottom
of which another hunter—another ant-lion—is in ambuscade.
The latter seizes it, still stupified with its fall, fixes it between
its two horns, sucks it, and makes an excellent repast of it.

Is it excess of hunger, or anger at seeing another hunter
thus fall into its ambush and spoil it, that urges it to this act
of ferocity? or do ant-lions see nothing in their own species
but a variety of game and a tempting food ?

The ant-lion is not condemned to keep thus upon the earth
always; some evening in June, after having enjoyed a good
dinner, it will bury itself deeper in the sand than usual, with-

172 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

out leaving its horns out. There it shuts itself up in a ball,
made of grains of earth stuck upon a web or cocoon of silk,
the inside of which is whiter and finer than the most beau-
tiful satin. It soon becomes a sort of dragon-fly, which cuts
with its teeth the cocoon which incloses it. This fly, which has
at first the appearance of those dragon-flies that we have met
with, and whose larva lives in,the mud of water, differs from
them in several points. In the first place, it has not the
same degree of magnificence in its dress; it is grey, with
a little yellow border on each wing: besides, its broader wings
are also longer than those of the dragon-flies of the meadows,
and, when at rest, are placed over its body, which they
entirely cover, in the form of a roof, whilst the other keeps
them spread.* I only speak of the differences which present
themselves to the eye of an ignorant person; the learned see
many others that exist, and more still that do not exist.

There is another insect which, as well as the ant-lion, lays
traps in the sand, in which to catch the game upon which it
lives ; that is the tiger-beetle, a pretty beetle, dressed in green
velvet, spotted with white, which, when touched, emits the
smell both of the rose and vf musk. Its flight is a leap of six
feet, for which it makes use of its wings. Before its trans-
formation, in its first form, the tiger-beetle lives likewise upon
insects, but it is not constructed so as to enable it to pursue
them: it is therefore obliged to catch in traps a prey which,
at a later period, it will know how to seize, by pouncing upon
it like a carnivorous bird. It digs, in a sandy soil, a narrow
hole, sometimes a foot deep: it reascends to the earth by the
same means that chimney-sweepers employ. When there, it
bends its head, and makes a bridge of it, upon which the
abyss of two lines in width which it has dug may be passed.
When an insect passes over this bridge, the bridge becomes
a trap, sinks beneath its steps, and precipitates it to the
bottom of the hole, where it is devoured.

Many poets and philosophers have reproached man severely
with being the only animal that is the enemy of its own
species. Poets and philosophers are wrong: all animals de-
stroy each other, and eat each other.

I can with more ‘justice reproach man on another account,

* See left-hand figure of the cut cu p. 238,

THE TIGER-BEETLE. 173

which is, that his is the only species in which the individual
is his own enemy. Man deprives himself of sleep, feeds him-
self with aliments that abridge life. Women lace themselves
so tightly in their corsets as to embarrass the play of the
organs, and even displace their ribs. Men, not content with
two or three real wants which nature has imposed upon them,
create for themselves fresh ones every day, and exhaust all
their genius in inventing new means of rendering themselves
poor and miserable,

TIGER BEETLE,

LETTER XXVII.

THE CHILDISH THEFT—RETRIBUTION,.

Onn day, a child came into my garden; he surrounded
a space of about a foot square with sticks; then he gathered
some roses, and planted them, by sticking the stalks in the
ground. He did the same by a very fine.pink.

When I returned, I felt a sensation of impatience, and if
the child had been there, it is probable that I should have
scolded him severely; but he was gone, happily for him,
because I should have frightened him, and happily for myself,
because I should have certainly said many foolish things.

Not seeing him, I reflected a little, and remembered two
things. The first is, that I do exactly what this child has
done. Before I had a garden of my own, I walked freely in
the woods, on the banks of rivers, on the shores of the sea.
One day I bought myself a large plot of ground, which I sur-
rounded with stones in the form of a wall; and I planted in

THE CHILD’S GARDEN. 175

it trees and flowers brought from all sorts of soils. The child
had liberty to walk in all my garden, to see and inhale all
the flowers; he preferred enclosing a little square patch, and
to stick in it two or three of these same flowers, exactly as
I had done, only it cost him nothing but the time in which
he did it, and I have spent much money. Then, when his
garden was made, he left it, went to amuse himself with
something else, and forgot it; whilst I, with this plot of
ground, have purchased a thousand cares.

Formerly, if the wind in its fury blew down a tree, that
was a spectacle for me; to-day, it breaks one of my trees; and
that is a fear beforehand, a regret and a loss afterwards. I
like old ruined walls falling into dust, and creating retreats
for the lizards; now-a-days, I feel a great inclination to have
my wall repaired, some of the stones being detached.

The second thing I recollected was, that I formerly did,
when I was a child, exactly the same thing in the garden of
another person, that this-child did in mine.

My brother and I were then quite little fellows, and we
were sent in the morning to a sort of school, not, I suppose,
that we might learn anything—not that we might be at
school—but that we might not beat home; where, probably,
we made more noise than was agreeable.

The master of the school, or of the academy, I don’t
know which title he claimed for himself, was like others;
he was an honest restaurateur, who made up for the butter
he did not put into the soup of his pupils by instruction
which he was supposed to impart to them. The plan of
these houses, in which it is always announced that the heart
and the mind of youth is formed, is always invariably esta-
blished on this problem: to find a means of selling soup in
the most advantageous way possible. The problem is resolved
in the manner of the possessors of cafés, who propose one
nearly analogous: viz. to find the means of selling for fifteen
or twenty sous that which people would have better at home,
and without inconvenience, for four or five sous. The cafés
have the journals; the schoolmasters. those other public-
house keepers, have Latin.

This worthy, who was named M. Roncin, was the largest
man I ever saw; this was his only means of obtaining con-

176 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

sideration. Madame Roncin presided in the kitchen, with
the help of a female servant. The other cookery, the Latin,
was carried on by two or three poor fellows, ill fed and ill
paid. They must have cost the establishment much less
than the butter would have cost that ought to have been added
to the soup, if a cook of another kind had been in question.

To tell the truth, it was the servant that was the real
mistress of the house. M. Roncin was a sort of cipher; and
Madame Roncin, who directed everything, never decided
upon anything without consulting with Marianne before the
stove.

We being among the number of the smallest, were shut
up during six hours of the day in what was called the
French class. We passed the time in the best way we could ;
we made birds and boats with paper,—we played odd or
even with marbles. When the master caught us, he confis-
cated our marbles, threw away our birds and boats, and
placed us on our knees in a corner of the room; then he
made us learn and repeat by heart something which began
in this manner: “Grammar is the art of speaking and writing
correctly,” &c., of which we comprehended nothing, and he
very little. He was a poor, old, thin man, who went through
it all with the most serious countenance imaginable.

There were nearly two hours‘of the day consecrated to
what was called recreation. During these two hours they
let us loose in a large court, in which were three or four
old trees that had stood out against both time and the
school-boys. What joy, and what cries, and what a tumult!
How we used to run and jump—how happy we used to be!
It happened one day that one of us, I don’t know which,
took it into his head to make a garden: he dug up with his
knife, in a corner, a square about the size of a table, he
traced walks of four inches in width, put sand on his walks,
and planted some small branches torn from the large trees
in the flower beds, and also a stalk cut from a gillyflower,
which had blossomed of itself in the wall. Gardens became
the fashion. Those who, like us, were day boys, that is to
say, only came in the morning and went away at night,
brought every day branches of cut flowers and seeds of all
sorts. The flowers were faded by the end of an hour, and

A PARALLEL TO ST. AUGUSTINE. 177

the seeds were forgotten and replaced by others a fortnight
before they could have germinated.

My brother and I went in the morning, with a little basket,
in which were put the provisions for the day—slices of bread-
and-butter and some fruit, destined for a meal while the
other boys were at dinner. We were humiliated by the
neighbourhood of a garden that quite eclipsed ours. The
possessor of this garden had, as we had done in ours, sown
some peas. His were much handsomer than ours. Perhaps
he had taken them up less frequently to see if they had
germinated.

One day we were inspired with the means of putting an
end to our envy, and at the same time of awakening it in our
comrades. My father had a neighbour ; each possessed the half
of a large garden, which was divided only by a walk. This
neighbour had some magnificent hyacinths, and was very
proud of them. We took it into our heads to transfer these
hyacinths to our school-garden. In the evening I stole quietly
from the house, and went straight to the bed of hyacinths ;
I trembled a little, but I seized one by the stalk. I pulled
it in order to break it, but the root followed the stalk. I
did not want the root—there was nothing pretty in that,
and I saw no use in it. Nevertheless, I deferred separating
it till I could safely throw it away; but I had not the time.
J took a second hyacinth, then a third; I concealed them
in the cellar. I went into the house again, and my brother,
in his turn, attacked the hyacinth bed. Nisus and Euryalus
did not commit greater havoc among the Rutulians. When
morning came, never had we been up xo early, or so ready
to go to school. We laid eight or ten roots at the bottom
of our basket, and three or four, the flower stalks of which
we had gathered without the root; and then we placed our
bread-and-butter at the top.

These are but bad recollections, you will say, my friend ;
and yet I can assure you, that neither my brother nor I
acquired from ‘this boy’s trick any propensity for stealing.
The same thing happened to St. Augustine, who, when a
child, was a thief, as we were, and relates the circumstance
in his Confessions with a sort of witty, half-roguish con-
trition.

N

178 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

“There was,” says he, “a pear-tree near our vine loaded
with fruit; one night, after having, as usual, rambled about
the streets, we went, a troop of young rogues, and I, to
gather these pears; which we did, and if we tasted one it
was simply for the pleasure of doing what we were forbidden
to do.”

I had not, as St. Augustine had, the consolation of being
punished for my crime by the crime itself. If his pears were
not sweet, I must confess that the hyacinths were beautiful.
My punishment arrived late; it did not arrive until yes-
terday, but it did arrive.

The hyacinths were beautiful, and we enjoyed beforehand
the admiration and envy they would create at playtime.
We went straight to school, under the care of the gardener,
without stopping as usual to gape into the shop windows.
When arrived, as we knew the hyacinths would stand a chance
of being stolen, we would not place our basket in the corner
where the baskets were usually deposited; we kept ours,
and concealed it under the form between our legs. It ap-
peared to us that this interminable class would never be over,
or the moment arrive at which we could go and plant our
hyacinths. All at once the door was opened, and Madame
Roncin entered. She called us both in one of her blandest
tones: “Iam told you have brought some beautiful flowers
for your garden. Let me see them.”

Then we were like La Fontaine’s raven; we took our
basket and gave it up to the admiration of Madame Roncin.
In the first place, Madame took out the slices of bread-and-
butter and placed them on the table of old father Poquet;
then she took out the hyacinths, one by one, and ranged them
near the bread-and-butter. At this moment I raised my
eyes and saw, close against the windows of the school-room
door, two faces! two formidable faces! that of the owner of
the hyacinths, and that of the gardener, whom my father had
sent to fetch us home to expiate our fault. I will not inflict
upon you the detail of the reproaches we received, or of the
punishment reserved for us till our return to school the next
day. We were ordered to carry our basket to the kitchen,
where Madame Roncin and her servant were at breakfast.
Both saluted us with the title of little thieves. At first we

RETRIBUTION, 179

cried a little; but my brother whispered, “I say, Stephen,
did you see anything?” “Yes;.didn’t you?” And that
which we had seen was, that on one of the stoves were two
of the finest hyacinths in pots, which Madame Roncin had
contrived, by some means, to appropriate to herself.

I soon forgot both the hyacinths and our offence, but
I could not help, yesterday, remembering both the one and
the other. My beautiful roses, that I had looked forward to
during ten months! my own diamonds! my dear flowers!
I went every morning, from the day of their blooming, to
salute them, the first thing on entering my garden; I ex-
amined them to see if anything had injured them, to see if
any insect were gnawing the buds. I gazed at them, I
breathed their perfume, and I felt myself rich and almost
insolent. And this confounded child inhumanly tore ther
from their boughs, and stuck them in his garden, where they
died in a few hours! And my pink! a beautiful Flemish
pink, white with violet bands; a pink which I had, only the
evening before, obstinately refused to a lady who requested it
of me! Then, and not till then, was I aware of all the grief
I had caused our poor neighbour, the man of the hyacinths.

It appeared to me that I underwent one of those ven-
geances that Dido announces to the perjured Aineas :—

Exoriare aliquis nostris ex ossibus ultor.”

That child was not then born who now forces from me such
just reflections.

In fact, it is our children who will repay us the pains and
anxieties that we have cost our parents. At the same time,
let us not require from them the tenderness we feel for them ;
it is not to us that they owe it or will pay it, it is to the
children they will themselves have, and of whom they will
complain unjustly, then, as we complain of them, and as our
fathers complained of us.

“We only remember the respect and gratitude we owe to
our parents to require it of our children.”

LETTER XXVIII.

THE PIPE AND THE SNUFF-BOX.

THERE exists a family of venomous plants, among which
are the Henbane, Datura stramonium, and Tobacco. Tobacco
is, perhaps, less venomous than the Datura, but it is more so
than the Henbane, which is a violent poison.

Here is a tobacco-plant, which is as fine a plant as we
could wish to see; it is six feet high, and from the bosom of
large leaves of a beautiful green, throws out bunches of pink
flowers, of a graceful, elegant form.

For a length of time tobacco flourished solitary and un-
known in some corners of America, Savages, whom the
smoke of tobacco intoxicated, on great occasions gave us
tobacco in exchange for brandy. It was by such a friendly
exchange of poisons that the relations between the two worlds
commenced.

The first who thought proper to introduce the powder of
tobacco into their noses were laughed at; afterwards they

TOBACCO. - 181

were subjected to a slight persecution. James I. king of
England, wrote a book, called “ Miso-capnos,” against those
who took snuff. A few years afterward Pope Urban VIII.
excommunicated those who used tobacco or snuff in churches.
The Empress Elizabeth thought fit to add to the penalty of
excommunication against such as crammed their noses with
this black powder during divine service ; she authorized the
beadles to confiscate the snuff-boxes to their own profit.
Amurath TV. forbade the use of snuff wader the penalty of
having the nose cut off.

A useful plant.could not have resisted such attacks.

Suppose, before this discovery or invention. a man had
been found who would have said,—“ Let us seek for a means
of bringing into the coffers of the state a voluntary impost of
several millions of francs per annum ; this can be done by
selling people a thing which everybody may use,—a thing
which, when once enjoyed, they will not do without. There
is in America an essentially venomous plant; if you distil
an empyreumatic oil from its leaves, a single drop would
suffice to make an animal expire in horrible convulsions. Let
us offer this plant for sale, chopped up into pieces or reduced
to powder: we will sell it very dear: we will direct people to
cram this powder up their noses.”

“What! would you force them to do so by law?”

“Not at all; I told you it was to be a voluntary tax. As
for that which was chopped up, we would tell them to inhale
it, and swallow a little of the smoke.”

“ But they will die!”

“Oh no, they will not: they will become rather pale ;
they will have pains in the stomach, vertigoes, sometimes
cholics, vomitings of blood, and occasionally pains in the .
chest,—that’s all. Besides, look you, it has been said that
use is second nature; and then not enough has been said:
man is like this knife, which has successively had three new
blades and two new handles; the natural man no longer
exists, he is nothing but a bundle of habits. Besides, people
will do as Mithridates, king of Pontus, did; he accustomed
himself to take poison till it lost all effect upon him.

“ The first time the people smoke tobacco, they will have
pains of the heart, nausea, vertigoes, cholics, and cold sweats ;

182 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

but all that will go off a little; and, with time, they will be-
come so accustomed to it as only to experience these accidents
now and then, only when they smoke bad or too strong to-
bacco, or when the stomach shall be out of order, or in five
or six other cases.

“Those who take it in powder will sneeze, will feel slightly
unwell at first, will lose their fine sense of smell, and will
establish in their noses a sort of perpetual vesicatory.”

“ Ah! then I suppose it smells very nice?”

“No! on the contrary, it smells very disagreeably. My
plan is, that we sell this very dear, and reserve the monopoly
of it.”

“ My good friend,” the man senseless enough to hold such
language would have been answered, “nobody will dispute
the privilege with you of selling a thing of which there will
be no buyers. You would have a much better chance if you
would open a shop, and write over it—

KICKS ARE SOLD HERE!

Or,—
HORSEWHIPPINGS SOLD HERE, WHOLESALE AND RETAIL.

You would find more customers than for your venomous
herb.”

Well, you see it was the second speaker who would have
been in the wrong; the tobacco speculation has perfectly
succeeded. The kings of France did not write satires against
tobacco, they did not cut off people’s noses, they did not con-
fiscate snuff-boxes. Far from that; they sold tobacco, they
established a tax upon noses, and made presents to poets of
snuff-boxes, with their portraits on the lids and diamonds all
around them. This little trade brings them in I don’t know
how many millions every year.

Fragon, the physician of Louis XTV., was to maintain a
thesis against snuff in the schools; being ill, his place was
supplied by a brother medicus, who read the thesis—taking
enormous quantities of snuff all the while!

The poet Santeuil died almost suddenly, after having drunk
a glass of wine, into which some snuff had been put.

Potatoes had much more difficulty in establishing them-
selves than tobacco had, and still have adversaries.

TOBACCO, 183

“My good friend,” you will here say, “you are a strange
preacher! I would almost venture to bet, that you have
smoked to-day in that long cherry pipe ornamented with
such a large amber mouth-piece, and which is hung so osten-
tatiously on the wall of your study.”

I must confess I smoke, my friend. I acquired the habit
among fishermen and sailors, and practised it for another
reason. I formerly frequently fell in with people who wearied
and annoyed me. I was willing to be with them while they
were talking, but I had a great objection to talking too ;
I had absolutely nothing to say to them; I found it polite
and convenient to make them smoke and smoke myself ;—
they spoke less, and I did not speak at all. Now, although
I do smoke sometimes, I am likewise sometimes whole months
without taking down my pipe: I never smoke in my garden ;
I am not willing to mingle the odour of tobacco with the
perfume of my flowers.

What charming travellers are all these flowers assembled
together from all parts of the world! Tobacco comes from
America ; the Queen Marguerite comes from China; the helio-
trope, from Peru; the day lily, from Portugal; the rose-
laurel, from Greece; the azaleas are originally from India ;
the tulip is from Asia.

I could write a capital history of the voyages I have failed
to make. I was very nearly going to Greece, to see the wild
uncultivated rose-laurels blow, with their roots in the waters
of the Eurotas. I learnt that quite as good were to be seen
in the south of France, so I did not go.

There are things which we do all at once, or else never do
at all. The excess of the thing gives you an excess of reso-
lution; and in making the tour of the world, to have de-
scended your own staircase is to have performed a quarter of
the undertaking.

(| ON)
hans
cen 5

‘

LETTER XXIX.

QUASI APLARIAN.

A stneuLaR dictionary might be made, by taking, one after
the other, every word in the language, and describing for
what infamies, basenesses, crimes, and follies it has furnished
man with a pretext. The most sacred and the most respected
words, without doubt, would produce the longest articles.

The name of the Almighty would make many volumes:
that of liberty, likewise, would not be very concise.

There is not a word, however insignificant it may appear
at first sight, which, if it has succeeded, thanks to its want of

THE MISANTHROPICAL DICTIONARY. 185

sound, in not being the cause of a great crime or a great
folly, may not have been used in promulgating some absur-
dity or other; savants and grammarians are at hand to fill
up the voids.

By searching thoroughly, we shall find that every letter
even, has isolately served as a subject of some impertinences
at least; every one knows the history of the two school-
masters, whose ears a king caused to be cut off, because they
refused to adopt two letters added to the alphabet by this
prince, who was as cruel as they were silly. We know that
there have been two hundred volumes written, several coun-
cils held, long persecutions made and undergone, with deaths
and tortures, for a diphthong added to or cut off from the
Credo. We likewise know the disputes and hatreds raised
regarding the real pronunciation of the letter K.

The letter A, which commences all dictionaries, is it not, in
French, the third person of the verb avoir, to have; is not
avoir the root of avarice? How many volumes would it
require to describe the baseness and crimes committed for
avoir, to have ?

By following up the words, one by one, you will not be
long before you arrive at the word abeille (bee). A large
volume might be made of nothing but the silly things men
have said on the subject of bees. It was thinking of bees
that brought to my mind the idea of this dictionary, which
may be entitled, The Misanthropical Dictionary, or the
History, in an alphabetical order, of the follies and wicked-
nesses of Man.

There is however one thing to be observed; many of the
silly things said about bees have not been said by the
moderns, because the ancients abused their position to say
them first. The moderns have only been able to repeat them
and teach them in their colleges, as they do to the present
day. You have, my friend, passed ten years,—as I did, as
everybody has,—in learning Latin. During five or six, Virgil
was your principal subject of thought and study; and you
always esteemed him with an admiration without bounds and
without restriction during six years, that is to say, according
to the usages of colleges, during six professors. Never did
one professor think it worth his while to remark, that the

186 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Bucolics are thickly sprinkled with base and ridiculous adula-
tions; that the Georgics are stained with false ideas and
erroneous opinions. That was not the question! Ideas,
sentiments, words, were the things necessary to be learnt.

There called on me the other day a man apparently as
happy as possible. You know, my friend, what respect I have
for all kinds of happiness; you have seen me step out of my
way, for fear of disturbing a bird that was picking up a grain
of corn, or a peasant that was sleeping under a tree. [I lis-
tened: to the account of the happiness of this man. He is
having a good education as it is called given to his son; not
an education that may teach him to be satisfied with a little,
to be firm and courageous, to be strong and independent.
No; he has him taught Latin. “I make many sacrifices,”
said he to me, “but I am largely recompensed; my boy
is surprising for his age. I wish you would see him.”
I did not dare to refuse, and he sent the little fellow to
me.

On his entrance he saluted me with an ease and confidence
that I have never been able to acquire in all my life, except
when I find myself face to face with people who are -hostile
to me, because then my timid:ty dies for fear of degenerating
into cowardice.

I found him thin and pale; he has neither the petulance
nor the peach-like bloom of boyhood; nothing is in blossom
with him, neither his mind nor his cheeks: he is but thirteen
years old; and I at first really thought him surprising for
his age.

I was in the garden: I continued to walk about with him.
As we passed through a spot where the grass is divided by
a rivulet of little more than two feet wide, he left me, to go
to a small bridge to pass over it; I was almost ashamed of
having jumped over it. As we came near to the violet turf,
upon which is a hive,—“ Ah! ah!” said he,

“ Aerii mellis ccelestia dona.”

“Yes,” replied I, “it is a hive. Are you acquainted with
bees? It is a very interestingsstudy.”
“ Oh, certainly, Iam acquainted with them,” answered he;

“Mores et studia, et populos, et prelia dicam.”

VIRGIL’S BEES. 187

“True. Well, I am not so far advanced as you; there are
many things upon this subject which I am still anxious to
learn, without too confidently hoping to succeed.”

“ Have you not read Virgil ?”

“Yes, my young friend; but a long time ago.”

“Well! it was from Virgil I learnt to be acquainted with
bees; and we are at this very time translating the fourth
book of the Georgics.”

“Tmpart to me a portion of that which you know, if you
please ; perhaps it will throw a light upon some points which
I find doubtful.”

“ Willingly, Sir. The bees are governed by a king. Many
pretenders generally dispute their suffrages; but the one who’
is the true sovereign is easily recognised by certain signs.
The one is handsome and majestic,* covered with a golden
cuirass;t the other, who is but a usurper and a tyrant, is
horrible to behold. He is cowardly and idle, and has a great
belly ; in a word, he merits death. He is killed by the par-
tisans of the true king.”

I listened attentively to these very false notions, recited
with admirable confidence by the young savant.

“T remember having read that, in the Georgics of Virgil ;
but I am sorry I have not the book here, I would have had re-
course to it for a circumstance which embarrasses me: I have
lost a part of my bees, and I think I recollect that Virgil
points out a sure way of recalling them.”

“ Nothing is more simple, Sir. You take a young bull,t—
a bull of two years old,—you kill it, and leave the carcase
enclosed in a hut to corrupt. In the following spring, as soon
as the meadows are enamelled with their earliest flowers, you
will find that from this corruption worms will be born, which
will very shortly become bees.”

* “ Alter erit maculis auro squalentibus ardens,

Hic melior insignis et zre,
Et nitidis elarus squammis.”—Vire.

‘Tile horridus alter,
Desidiam latamque trahens inglorius alvum.”—Vrre.

t ‘‘ Tum vitulus bina curvans jam cornua fronte
Quzritur.”
“ Plagisque perempto
Tunsa per integram solvuntur viscera pellem,” &c.—Vine. Georg. 1ib. iv.

188 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

“ Indeed ! well, that’s very convenient !”

“This is not the way, besides, that bees are naturally
born.”

“ I can very well believe so.”

“ They are not subjected to the pains of giving birth.” *

“ So much the better for them.”

“They find their young upon flowers and odoriferous
shrubs.” f

“ Which, for instance?”

“ Tt is upon the Cerintha, in particular, that the kings are
born.”

“ What is the Cerintha?”

“« A substantive of the first declension.”

“ Ts it nothing but that?”

“ It is probably a tree or a plant.”

“ Has it never been pointed out to you?”

“ No. How do you think it possible that plants should be
shown to usin class?”

“ Well, then, I will show it to you. The name of Cerintha,
or Cerinthe, is composed of two Greek words, and means
wax-flower. It is yonder pretty plant, with thick sea-green
foliage, covered with little spikes of yellow flowers; it is called
in French Melinet, that is to say, honey-flowers.”

“ Sir, I am exceedingly obliged to you.”

“ You have reason to be so, my young friend, for it is the
only truth that has been taught you with respect to bees.”

“ What, Sir, all that I have just told you?—” ~

“ All that you have just now said, or rather recited, is a
tissue of lies, so much the more ridiculous from being far less
wonderful than the truth itself.”

At this moment the father entered. I informed him of
the error into which his son had been led, and said to him:
“ Your son is intelligent, but he is ill-directed. It is all very
well to be able to speak well and fluently; but style is but
a vestment, there should be a body beneath it. At the same
time that children are taught to read the harmonious verses
of Virgil, the false ideas which those verses so magnificently

* ‘Non foetus nixibus edunt.”

+ “ Verum ipsz foliis natos et suavibus herbi
Ore legunt.”

FAULTS OF EDUCATION. 189

embellish, ought to be corrected. You ought, on your part,
to make your son read some good work upon bees; it would
interest him greatly, and prevent his taking the fourth book
of Virgil’s Georgics as a true history.”

“Sir,” replied the father, “I cannot think of interrupting
his studies !”

Fine studies these; to learn words, always words, nothing
but words; to talk of things, without being acquainted with
things; to repeat nonsense correctly! Such is the employ-
ment of our youth!

LETTER XXX.

BEES.

WHILST we are upon this subject, my friend, I will relate
to you such of the established absurdities concerning bees as
recur to my memory.

Aristotle advances that the bee adopts one flower, and
never collects its honey but from flowers of the same kind.

The same Aristotle :—That when it is windy, the bee keeps
itself steady in its flight, by carrying grains of sand between
its feet. ;

The same Aristotle :—That bees without a king only make
wax and not honey. That they drive from the hive the most
greedy, the most idle, é&c. dc. ;

Pliny adds, probably after a more profound study of the
penal code of the bees, that in cases of relapse or obstinacy
in the above-mentioned vices, they are punished in divers
ways, and even with death in certain circumstances.

Both of these celebrated writers have made long eulogiumas,
copied a hundred times over by the moderns, upon their
justice, their bravery, their modesty, their loyalty, their poli-
tical science, and their skill in government.

They were not content with Virgil’s bull. It was advised

THE QUEEN BEE. 191

that a lion should take the place of the rotten bull, because
then the bees are stronger and more courageous, Even
in 1735, the fathers of Trevoux took up warmly against
Réaumur the defence of two Jesuits, who persisted in teach-
ing that insects came from putrefaction. After having said
that bees found their young ready-made upon flowers and
leaves, they changed about a little, and asserted that young
bees were born from the corruption of honey.

It was pretended that the queen of the bees* (obstinately
called the king) had no sting. Many devices were made from
this belief. Louis XIL, on entering into Genoa, appeared in
a white dress, sown over with golden bees, with these words
as his device: —Rex non utitur aculeo (the king has no sting).
Pope Urban VIII. placed bees in his coat of arms, with this
Latin verse under them :-—

* Gallis mella dabunt, Hispanis spicula figent.”
(The honey for France, the sting for Spain.)

A Spaniard replied :—
“ Spicula si figent, emorientur apes.”
(When the bee stings, it dies.)

The Pope caused the following distich to be circulated: —

“‘ Cunctis mella dabunt, nulli sua spicula figent,
Spicula nam princeps figere nescit apum.”

(They will have honey for all, and wounds for nobody, for
the king of the bees has no sting.)

It was well worth while, before Pliny, for the philosopher
Aristomachus to pass fifty-eight years in studying bees; and
for another philosopher, Hyliscus, to retire into a desert, for
the sole purpose of contemplating bee-hives!

It has been said, and it is still believed in many places,
that bees do not sting wool, and that with woollen gloves
they may be handled with impunity; which is all very true,
when the woollen gloves are thicker than the sting of the bee
is long: under similar conditions you may make use of what
stuff you please. It has been asserted that bees hatch their
eggs as hens do.

Even to the present day in the country, if any one dies
in a house, crape is placed upon the hives, without which

* See the upper figure of the cut in p. 190.

192 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

the bees would be angry at a want of respect, which would
lead them to believe they were considered as strangers, and
not as part of the family. And you may have repeated to
you, as long as you are willing to listen, instances in which
such and such a one has lost all his bees, from failing in this
act of politeness towards the bees, who refused to live with
such ill-bred people, and flew away. Still further; you must,
on no account, swear when you are near bees. If you buy
a swarm, you must not haggle about the price; bees hate
meanness, and will not stay with you if youdo. They have
an antipathy to thieves; I believe it is a question, however,
whether this extends beyond the plunderers of honey. These
virtuous flies love virtuous men, know how to distinguish
them, and entertain a strong hatred for vice and the vicious,
It is not safe to go near them with any crime upon your con-
science,

It is very evident, that if these flies were more numerous
and larger, they would suffice for making virtue reign upon
earth, and would very advantageously fill the places of
judges, policemen, and gaolers.

All these simple tales, I repeat, are particularly contemp-
tible, in this respect ; they have only been imagined in order
to attribute to bees something marvellous, which is really far
beneath the truth.

We will content ourselves, in the journey we are about to
make round my hive, with the things we shall see with our
two eyes.

What a concourse at the opening of the hive! Never was
the public square of a great city witness of such agitation!
Some bees are issuing in great haste, and flying away to a
distance in search of provisions, whilst others are returning
loaded with them. We must, in the first place, ascertain
what the bees thus go to seek in the neighbouring country:
the first thing is a sort of resin, called propolis, which they
find upon certain trees—firs, yews, birches, &.; next, pollen,
or the fecundating powder of flowers, of which they make
bee-bread ; and then they plunder the nectaries of flowers for
a juice which becomes honey.

Here is one bringing materials: after having rolled itself
in the pollen of flowers, it has, with its hind feet made spoon-

WORKER BEES. 193

fashion, and armed with hairs as rough as those of a brush,
gathered together in little pellets the grains of pollen which
have remained about the hairs with which its body is covered.
There are five or six bees whose baskets are well laden. Some
have collected their burden from a single flower ; and it is
easy to ascertain from what flower, however far it may grow
from the hive. The powder this one bears is white; the bee
has been wallowing, if we may use such a word, in a mallow,
whilst his companion, covered-with brown powder, has been
plundering the tulips. That yellow pollen comes from the
blossom of a melon, &c. &c. Some of those who arrive enter
the door; others deliver up their provisions to other bees who
receive them at the door, and as soon as they have got rid of
their burden they resume their flight. They are not at all less.
busy inside of the hive than without: these make with wax
hexagonal cells, in which others come and disgorge honey.
Other cells are kept empty: these are the nests destined for
the young bees.

The hive is peopled by three sorts of bees: first one
female, that is the queen; males, called drones, to the number.
of nearly two thousand; and eight or ten thousand workers,
without sex, which consequently donot multiply, having besides
plenty to do, and no time to spare foramusement. The queen,,
with her harem of drones, suffices for the reproduction of the
race—she lays at least six thousand eggs in a year! Of these
eggs, some will produce females like herself; others, males;
and the remainder, in still greater numbers, workers without
sex. Whilst the queen is engaged in the duties of providing
another generation, all the workers are busy with the cradles
and the food of the numerous family which she will soon
bring into the world.

There arrives a period when the workers have a great
operation to perform. The queen has no more time to waste
in love, she has other imperative tasks in view; the males
have completed their destiny, and being from that time use-
less and an incumbrance, the workers make a general massacre
of them, and cast their carcases out of the colony. The-
queen begins to lay: followed by a train of working bees, she
commences her progress over the cells. When, after examin-
ing the interior of one of these cells, she finds it to her mind,

Oo

194 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

she deposits an egg in it, and resumes her march. During
all this time, the workers which surround her lick her, clean
her, and offer her honey with their little trunks. All the
cells are not of the same size; some, of similar form to the
ordinary cells destined to contain provisions, and to serve as
nests for the eggs which are to produce common bees, are
larger by a ninth than these; they will be the cradles of the
males. Others of a different form, of a rounded and oblong
figure, are destined to contain the eggs which will become
females like the queen.

Bees employ admirable economy in the use of their wax.
Several learned geometricians have endeavoured to prove
what should be the form of cells that would require the least
possible wax, and, as the result of their problem, have arrived
at the conclusion that it is exactly that which is adopted by
the bees. Well, but when the object is to build a royal cell,
they renounce this economy altogether: a single one of
these cells requires as much wax as a hundred and fifty ordi-
nary cells. According to the time of year, the queen chooses,
for depositing her eggs, one of these three sorts of cells. Such
of the cells as contain the provision of honey are hermeti-
cally sealed with lids of wax; those in which the eggs are
placed are left uncovered: these eggs are of a bluish white.
Two days afterwards, from this egg issues a worm; several
times in the course of the day a working bee brings it food.
A bee often passes over several cells without stopping; the
reason of which is that it finds the worms sufficiently pro-
visioned. In proportion with the growth of the worms, their
food, a kind of pap which they give them, becomes more sub-
stantial and is otherwise composed. A paste quite different:
in taste is given to the worms which are to become fruitful
queens. At the end of six days the worms are about to
be transformed, and no more food is brought to them; the
workers fasten them into their cells by placing lids of wax
over them. The worm thus shut up lines its dwelling with
a hanging of extremely fine silk, and then undergoes two
transformations. At the second, it is a perfect bee.

The bee opens the lid with its teeth, and comes out of the
cell. During this time other bees clean out the cell that has
just been abandoned, taking away the cast-off vestments of the

BIRTH OF A BEE—SWARMING. 195

worm, and carrying them out of the hive; with equal care
they remove the little particles of wax which may have fallen
into the cell when the lid was pierced. Other bees tear away
all that remains of this lid. In a word, they restore the
cells to a condition to receive a fresh egg, or to become a
magazine for honey. The young bee enters at once upon its
functions; two hours after its birth, you could not recognise
it but by its colour, which is rather grey, whilst the others
become reddish as they grow old. As soon as its wings are
smooth and shining, it goes out, flies away, and does not
return till laden, But not only one bee at a time is thus
born, more than a hundred issue from their cells, on the
same day; so that, at the end of a few weeks, the hive is
over-peopled.

One morning, you observe a kind of revolution. The
activity which reigned round the hive has suddenly disap-
peared. A few bees only come out and return, lightly laden.
A colony is about to separate itself from the parent hive, and
go and seek other penates. About ten o’clock in the morning,
when the sun shines brightly, a great buzzing is heard in the
hive ; some bees fly out in a tumultuous state—they precede
the old queen. She soon appears; she is much longer and
larger than the working bees; her wings scarcely extend over
half the length of her body; her hind-feet are not hollowed
into the shape of a spoon; she has no necessity for travelling
far, and brings home no burdens. She is not destined to
work. Her particular part is to be, literally, the mother of
her people. -

At no great distance, the first bees that come out go and
heap themselves up in large clusters around the branch of
some tree; the queen comes amongst them: then all the bees,
before spread about in the air, come and cling around her.
Most of these are young workers, who follow the fortunes of
their royal mother; some old ones, however, of a restless
character, come out with the colony and abandon the metro-
polis. There they remain assembled for more than a quarter
of an hour, and sometimes much longer; then they resume
their flight in search of a more convenient establishment.
It is during these moments of hesitation and immobility, that
the swarm is easily swept entire into a hive in which, finding

196 A -TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN

themselves comfortably installed, they remain willingly, and,
on the morrow commence their labours. If, by chance, a
part only of the swarm has been taken, and the queen is not
among the captives, none of the bees will work; there will be
neither wax nor honey made in the hive. The motive which
gives such ardour to the workers, is the certainty of having
among them a fruitful mother, whose young family it is their
duty to feed and briag up.

In general, the drones have remained, if not all, almost all,
in the old hive. The other queens are massacred, and their
bodies dragged out. It sometimes happens that at the
moment of the coming out of the swarm, two young mothers
at once pretend to the sovereignty of the new colony. In
fact, sometimes twenty of them are born in a single hive. If
two queens come out at the same time, the swarm divides,
but unequally; each of the two queens establishes herself
and her partisans upon a different branch.

Our young laureate told us, according to Virgil, what was
formerly thought of these two kings. If one were the model
of all the virtues, the other was but a brazen-faced scoundrel.
The first was covered with gold; the second, shabbily drest,
and had a great belly.

Another more modern author who has written upon bees,
in French, expresses himself in analogous terms. He calls
the false king the tyrant.

“ His dismal colour, his great belly, his rough legs, and his
languid gestures, are signs of envy, avarice, ambition, glut-
tony, cowardice, idleness,” &c. &c.

Certainly, never was monarch s0 ill-treated; the tyrants of
tragedy are, beyond contradiction, the most patient and the
moost meek of men. Every character in the piece spouts hig
two hundred verses of invectives against them without inter-
ruption ; and if one of the tyrants stops them by crying out,
“Hola! my guards!” it is not till the other has exhausted
his vocabulary, without cutting off one hemistich or misplacing
one rhyme. This poor tyrant of the bees is not much better
dealt with. It is a fortunate thing for him that the writer
did not know that Beelzebub means king of the flies; he
certainly would not have spared him that name. But this is
not all: “The tyrant comes out of the hive, and gets away

CHOICE OF A MONARCH. 197

from the legitimate king like a traitor; a part of the people
revolt, and go and branch with him, where they would be lost,
were it not that, perceiving their error, they themselves efface
it by going to range themselves round the true king. The
tyrant, finding himself abandoned, goes and joins the general
swarm. But these virtuous insects, who pique themselves
upon all that concerns the honour of their king, conspire the
ruin of this turbulent fellow; they rush upon him, tear him
to pieces, trample him under foot, so that on the morrow he
is found dead, strangled under the hive, with some of his
accomplices.”

It is evident that when two young mothers leave the old
hive at the same time, the bees must make a choice ; but it is
difficult to ascertain what determines that choice. I cannot
think it can be precisely the gold which poets have discovered
on her person, and which humble prose must translate into
a russet brown. There is nothing to prove that bees attach
the same value to gold that we do.

The cock of La Fontaine preferred the smallest grain of
millet to a pearl which he had found. I do not know why
La Fontaine seems to blame him by the introduction of the
second apologue.

I do not perceive that yellow birds enjoy greater considera-
tion among other birds. The golden-crested regulus,-so called
by men because it has on its head a tuft of orange-coloured
feathers, does not appear to have succeeded in getting its
royalty acknowledged among the other inhabitants of the air.
But nevertheless the poets and others have only been deceived
in the explanation they have given of the preference of the
‘swarm for one of the two young queens. It is true, that in
general the young bees, in this case, decide in favour of the
redder of the two mother bees. It is true that the one that
is first abandoned, and then put to death, is of a darker
colour ; but there is no necessity for attributing these two so
different fates to the various virtues of the first, or the
hideous vices of the second, nor even to her having a great
belly. I mentioned, not far back, that young bees are brown,
and that they become red as they grow old. I have likewise
told you, that at their birth their bellies were larger than
they would be afterwards, The preference of the bees is

198 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

simply for that one of the two queens which is the elder, and
who, consequently, has become in a state to prove a mother
before her departure from the hive, because she alone promises
them with certainty that which is the sole cause of their
labours, the sole motives of their zeal. The crimes of the
queen are simply her youth and her maiden condition.

‘Ignoscenda quidem, scirent si ignoscere.”

If she is killed, if all those born at the same time are mas-
sacred in the old hive, it is because bees are not progressive,
and have not yet imagined a constitutional government and
the balance of power, which, if it were not achieved, would
only arrive in its highest point of perfection in immobility.

The government of the bees, I must admit, has with reason
been represented as a model of the best monarchy that can
possibly exist; but it was very wrong to give them laws and
a code, judges, advocates, and gend’armes.

What constitutes the excellence of this government is, that
the bees have none of these, and that they don’t want them,
because every one has its part to play, and never dreams of
playing another; because workers never think of becoming
drones, and drones never intrigue to be above queens.

Whilst human societies are constantly full of pertur-
bations and misery, they form a concert, in which each instru-
ment wishes to make itself heard above the rest, and in which
no one will confine himself to his own part, which must pro-
duce, and does in fact produce, a glorious charivart.

we 2

LETTER XXX.

VIRGIL AGAIN—THE HYACINTH—THE LARKSPUR.

Ir is unfortunate that I have not my young savant here.
There are, in one of the Eclogues of Virgil—the third, if 1
am not mistaken—some enigmas which two shepherds propose
to each other:
; “ Dic quibus in terris...
Tres pateat cceli spatium non amplius ulnas.”
To which the other replies, without guessing the enigma:
“ Dic quibus in terris inscripti nomina regum
Nascuntur flores.”
“Say, in what country do flowers grow with the names of
kings written upon them.”

The commentators of Virgil, and the professors after them,

200 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

take upon themselves to explain these two enigmas, The
answer to the first, they say, is a well, in the bottom of which
we may behold the reflection of the heavens.

“Tres non amplius ulnas.”

This is quite as likely to be a loophole or a chimney,
particularly when we remember how the chimneys of the
ancients were built; but the commentators and professors
have decided that it isa well. As regards the second, these
said commentators and professors are not all of one mind.
Some say that it is the hyacinth. But let them speak for
themselves :

“ Ajax, the son of Telamon and Hesione, after Achilles, the
most valiant captain of the Greeks, being one day engaged
in combat with the renowned Hector, night alone separated
them, when they exchanged presents, which proved unfortu-
nate to both; for Hector, when dead, was dragged round Troy
by Achilles, by the baldrick which Ajax had given him, and
Ajax killed himself with the sword presented to him by
Hector ; because, when disputing with Ulysses the arms of the
deceased Achilles, the Prince of Ithaca obtained them by the
decision of the Greeks; and the policy and good counsels of
Ulysses were preferred to the courage of the other, which
threw Ajax into such a fury, that he vented it by killing all
the cattle he met with, imagining them to be the Greek
princes and Ulysses. But perceiving his error, he plunged
his sword into his own body, the blood of which gave birth
to this flower, previously stained with that of Hyacinthus,
and which still bears ai, the first two letters of his name,
imprinted on its leaves.”

But Ovid says, that the hyacinth sprang from the blood of
a young man beloved by Apollo, whom the god killed by
accident, whilst playing with him at quoits; and that the
flower bare the epitaph of the young man, 14; that is to say,
Hyacinthus, or a, which is Alas/

I declare that, with the best will possible—that is to say,
T am quite ready to admit that 1a means “hyacinthus,” or a7
means “alas! ”—TI havenever been able to find these two letters
upon any hyacinth in my life. I must likewise add, that I
have been equally unsuccessful in my endeavours to find

THE MYSTIC AIA. 201

AIA; indeed, I was less likely to make out that inscription,
as there is one letter more, and I never could find any at all.
That, then, is not the flower upon which the names of kings
are written; and besides, if there were 14, or AI, or even
ALA, it would not be Ajax; since the flower, before him, be-
longed to Hyacinthus, and really I don’t think there is room
for both on one flower.

Other commentators say, that it was not into a hyacinth
that the blood of Ajax was changed; but into a Larkspur,
Delphinium, a flower upon which, say they, we may read the
letters ata, and which the botanists consequently term Del-
phinium Ajacis.

Now, errors cannot be too soon corrected, or, violated
truth too promptly reestablished. It is evident, there are no
letters upon the hyacinth. Let us examine then the flowers of
the delphinium. I declare again that, being disposed to trans-
late ala in any way, by the son of Telamon, if agreeable to the
commentators, I have sought anxiously and closely in the
flowers of the larkspur of several varieties, and I have never
been able to trace a single one of the three letters named,
read, and announced by the learned.

I remember with admiration, that one day a professor
dressed in a black robe, from his lofty desk, and with one of
those knitted brows upon which Pedant is more plainly
written than Ajax upon the delphinium, explained to us
these idle stories with his most grave and majestic air; and
that I was severely punished for being caught making little
ducks of paper under which I placed flies, and so set them
going, which was treated as a childish and futile amusement,
in comparison with the important matters which were being
taught to the class; that is to say, the enigma of the Well and
the Larkspur. Now, I to this day maintain that my little ducks
were much more ingenious playthings than the professor’s ;
and that, as regards futilities, those that amuse have an
immense advantage over the others, with whatever seriousness
and pretension they may be put forth.

T can easily pardon the larkspurs this deficiency, out of gra-
titude for the magnificent shade of blue which some varieties
of these flowers display.

The larkspur with simple flowers, but still better that

202 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

with double blossoms, is of the most beautiful blue that
can be beheld, and the more beautiful, because we cannot
imagine it without seeing it.

To the delphiniums has likewise been attributed the quality
of closing wounds: it is doubtless to the same delphinium
that was formerly Ajax, that this virtue must be assigned.
The others have it not in any way ;—but, for my part,
T should never think of requiring anything else of a flower
which is of such a beautiful blue.

LETTER XXXII.

FALSE GODS.

Wuen I admire certain flowers produced by bulbs, and
when I reflect upon the things which men of all times and all
countries have worshipped and still do worship, I really have
not the courage to think the Egyptians very unreasonable in
their adoration of flowers.

Here is a god I have just had sent to me; it is a
piece of chipped wood—it is an Indian god. I cannot think
it gains much in comparison with a hyacinth or a tulip.

But without speaking of wooden gods or stone gods, with-
out speaking of amulets worn to avert destinies, and a thou-
sand similar childish superstitions, don’t we see all the world
worshipping money? And let it not be objected, that it is
not money that is worshipped, but the pleasures of which it
is the representative; all that can be procured in exchange
for it. I answer, that there is nobody who is not acquainted

204 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

with some rich, insolent, ugly, stupid, avaricious man, to
whom everybody listens when it pleases him to utter a
stupidity ; who is warmly welcomed in every house which
he honours with his presence, whose opinion is never contra-
dicted, except with the greatest caution, and all sorts of
excuses. Why, there is not even the pretence of avarice or
cupidity in the homages rendered to this man ;—he has been
tried, and every one knows nothing is to be hoped for from
him—he never gives away anything. No, it is his money, to
which he is a kind of saddle-bag, that they admire, that
they adore, and to which all these homages, or rather these
basenesses are offered up.

We worship glory, particularly military glory, which con-
sists in killing without hating, without a motive, the greatest
possible number of men born under another sky, and that
under such singular conditions, that if to-morrow this country
yields, after having been sufficiently ravaged, it becomes
a crime punishable by law, by honour, and by universal con-
tempt, to kill a single one of its inhabitants whom it was
so glorious to massacre yesterday.

Places! You see people rich enough to live in abundance,
in quiet and even in enjoyment, eagerly seeking a sort of
domesticity, a certain rank, called place ; and believe them-
selves happy and indebted to heaven in fervent thanks,
if they are sufficiently favoured to succeed in obtaining one
of these places, which requires of them a compulsory costume,
a forced residence, necessary occupations, indispensable cares,
subjection at all hours, and an incessant responsibility in
exchange for sweet: liberty!

Besides these you have titles! The man who has obtained
a legal right to place three or four certain letters before
his name, instantly becomes a sort of idol which is adored,
and which ardently adores itself.

And red ; the love of red, the adoration of red, the red
so much beloved by savages and children; that gaudy colour
—what will a man not do to have the right of wearing in his
coat a piece of red ribbon; particularly if, after having for
some time tied it in a simple knot, the heads of the state
authorize him to wear it in the form of a rosette! He feels
himself another man; he is a god, and believes in himself!

POETIC FABLES. 205

Oh! my beautiful hyacinth roots, my beautiful tulip
bulbs, my beautiful tuberose and jonquil roots!—my beauti-
ful squill and pancratium bulb!—my beautiful crocus and
saffron bulbs! oh, my beautiful bulbs of tiger-lilies, gladiolus
and amaryllis !—my beautiful bulbs of soft or brilliant’colours,
pure or harmonious—my beautiful bulbs of sweet and intoxi-
cating perfumes! My beautiful bulbs; what amends do you
make me for the want of all this, and how much greater gods
are you than all these idols! Have pity on them.

The flower of the narcissus was formerly, say the ancient
poets, a young man, the son of the river Cephisus, who pined
away to death from love of his own attractions. Now, I
never found the least charm in these fables which force man
into everything. I love women under trees, but I don’t like
them in trees, like the hamadryades. All these metamor-
phoses of men and women into trees and flowers, are in
my eyes cold and insipid fancies. Trees and flowers have
their own particular existence, their own particular charms;
one of which—frequently not the least—is to fly to the midst
of them and forget men.

Lucian complains of these fables. “ When,” says he, “TI.
heard in my youth, that on the banks of the Eridanus grew
trees from which amber flowed, and that this amber was the
tears of the sisters of Phaéton, who had been changed into
poplars, and still wept his misfortune, I had a great desire to’
see all this; but, as I was afterwards sailing on this river,
seeing none of these trees on the shore, I asked the sailors
when we should come to those places which are so famous.
among the poets, and they began to laugh at my ignorance,
and were astonished that such falsehoods should be promul-
gated; they were acquainted with neither Phaéton nor his
sisters, and told me that if there were in this country any
trees that produced a resin as precious as amber, they would
not amuse themselves in hauling ropes or tugging at oars. This
rendered me ashamed of having been imposed upon by the
poets—and I regretted these things as if I had lost them.

“T also expected to hear the swans of this river sing,
having learnt that the King of Liguria, a friend of Phaéton,
and changed into a swan at his death, had preserved a melo-
dious voice; but this proved to be not less false than the rest.

206 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

And when I inquired of the same people, they told me that
swans were sometimes met with upon the Eridanus; but
that their song, or rather cry, was not more agreeable than
that of other aquatic birds.” But, let us return to the Nar-
cissus. Every one is agreed, we must understand him who
was formerly son of the river Cephisus, to be Narcissus of the
poets. This narcissus is white, with a little exterior yellow
and red crown or circle, producing a charming effect.
Virgil says the narcissus is red :—
“Pro purpureo Narcisso.”

But Ovid, who describes the metamorphosis, says it is yellow
surrounded with white leaves, which is not dissimilar to the
narcissus we are acquainted with.

“ Croceum florem
Foliis medium cingentibus albis.”

Crowns of narcissus were twined in honour of the infernal
gods, and placed upon the heads of the dead.

A. long time before this narcissus, the yellow narcissus
blooms in the still shadeless woods, at about the same time
with the earliest violets, or rather a little before them.

A sort of fly, very much resembling a drone, burrows in
the earth, at a certain period of the year, at the foot of a tuft
of narcissus ; when, by a subterranean gallery, it has reached
the bulb, it deposits an egg in it by means of its wimble ;
after which it comes out again from the gallery, and resumes
its flight. From this egg will issue a worm, which will feed
upon the bulb till it shall become a fly similar to that which
has just laid it. '

I don’t know whether the Egyptians were acquainted with
this fly, or if they held in sufficient horror so impious an in-
sect, which at the same time eats a god and makes a retreat
and an asylum of him.

LETTER XXXIIT.

THE MANTIS—THE ORCHIS—THE GALL INSECT—COCHINEAL—
VALUE OF SCARLET,

WE have seen an insect, which we took for a little parcel of
dried leaves; it is the mantis, or the leaf insect, which resembles
a branch with two green leaves. There is a little plant which
springs up in the grass to a height of five or six inches;
its stalk is surmounted by a lilac flower. But what insect is
that, with its head buried in the nectary of the flower, and
which appears to be feasting with such perseverance that it is
quite motionless?

Don’t be afraid of frightening it, it won't fly away; it
won't go away, unless it be in a month, in which it fades; for
that insect is a flower; for it is but the under part of these
three lilac petals which surmount it. The form, the colour,
everything is perfectly imitated, it is the same mixture of
yellow and brown. You would not dare to touch it, for fear
of being stung by it.

This flower, which is almost a fly—this insect, which
blooms and comes from a seed instead of issuing from an egg
—this flower, which we may fancy we hear buzz, and upon
which bees will not light, believing it to be coonpiod by a fly;
this fly is called Bee Orchis,

208 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

We find upon the branch of a peach-tree a sort of tube-
rosity which appears to be a gall of the tree produced by the
puncture of some insect. It is an insect perfectly alive. At
first it was like a flat roundish spot which progressed over
the leaves. The branches would then have been too difficult
of digestion for it: it fell with the leaves in the autumn.
Then it had a long voyage to make, for till that period its
journeys over the leaves had been confined during five months
to a surface about the size of a sixpence.

Now that it has acquired strength, and is as large asa grain
of millet seed, it must quit the dry and fallen leaf, and ascend
the tree till it meets with a branch of the preceding year’s
growth. It has five months to perform this journey in; it
may be done, but it must not stop to amuse itself on the
road. ;

The journey once completed, it will repose after it for the
rest of its life; it will fasten itself to a young branch, and
not only will it never leave it again, but still further, it will
never quit the point of the branch upon which it has esta-
blished itself. It grows—that is its mission, that is its duty.
When it has become as large as a pea, there comes a most
singular little fly, of a deep red, with two wings twice as
long as its body; these wings are of an opaque white,
ornamented on the outward side by a rich carmine band.
These little flies are the males of the animated tubero-
sities,

Among these insects may be seen that which the Romans
required of women, carried to the highest degree :—

‘‘Lanam fecit, domum servavit.”
“She spun her wool, and kept her house.”

Whilst the male, small, rakish, richly clothed in purple,
flies about at hazard, the female, scarcely living, taken for a
gall of the tree, for a swelling of aleaf or of a branch, re-
mains motionless, and waits for her husband, The male, who is
singularly small in comparison with the gall-insect, walks
over her, surveys her all over, for she is for him a sufficiently
large track; he examines her from north to south, from east
to west, and it is not till he is fatigued with running about
over his beloved object that he risks the avowal of his flame,

LANAM FECIT; DOMUM SERVAVIT. 209

after which, flying once or twice round his beloved, he de-
parts. The wife, from that moment, thinks of nothing but
the numerous family she has to bring into the world— about
two thousand children. She begins to lay, and her eggs all
come enveloped in a sort of cotton : Lanam fecit—She has spun
her wool.

Then the gall-insect changes its form; its belly flattens,
and becomes so thin that it joins the back; which forms
a hollow space under it, in which are its eggs. Its back
hardens, the belly and the back are quite confounded, the
gall-insect withers, dies, and becomes a dwelling-place for its
young ones. This is better than the domum servavit ; she does
not remain in the house, she becomes the house itself.

At the end of twelve days the young insects, as well those
which are to become round spots as those that will be little
brown flies, feel a desire to quit home and their mother,
which are for them one and the same thing. The little gall-
insects, which the eye cannot then distinguish without the
assistance of a microscope, wish to come out from that chamber
which has been their mother; nature has foreseen this want,
and has left a window in this mother by which the young
insects escape, and go to fix themselves upon leaves, as we
found them at the commencement of our account.

Many savants for a long time took these insects for galls,
that is to say, for excrescences formed by the puncture in
which certain insects lay their eggs in the thickness of certain
leaves and certain branches.

Some insects seem to partake the error of the savants.
Ichneumons lay their eggs in the body of that insect, and
the young ichneumons come out later, but not as the proper
young ones do; they bore holes through this motionless
mother, and are born by violence.

The scarlet-grain of Poland, kermes and cochineal, which
are used for dyeing red, are insects of this kind.

I burn, my friend, to know what account you will oppose
to this, you who have travelled so far; I defy you even to
venture a falsehood so extraordinary as this truth which I
have just exhibited to you. I in vain recal to my mind all
the voyages I have read; I find in them always the same
custom as we see here. The women place rings in their noses

P

210 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

instead of their ears as ours do; they adorn their heads with
the feathers of the parroquet instead of those of the ostrich.
They are rather naked below, which appears indecent to
European ladies, who only expose the upper half of their
persons.

The men are proud of one or two cloves which they are
allowed to wear on account of their great actions. We laugh
heartily at this, we Europeans do. Cloves!—to have their
arms and their legs broken for two or three cloves !—Really,
savages are droll creatures! Well now, we, when we expose
ourselves to fire and sword, we know what we are about, we
who are white, we who are enlightened and civilized. Well!
let them offer us cloves, would they be well received? No,
no, we are allowed to wear in a button-hole of our coat a
little bit of red riband; at a later period, perhaps, we may
tie it in a rosette, but everybody does not attain that honour,

Still further, my friend, there is a great difference which
T have observed between the men of the different countries
of which I have read accounts in voyages. In France, for
instance, most men are ready to do anything for gold, for
louis. With these round pieces you can buy anything, even
that which ought not to be bought or sold. In England this
is not so; see what it is to travel! everything is to be bought
with guineas and sovereigns. In Spain, on the contrary, it is
with reals; in Italy, with ducats; in certain isles of America,
the same things are sold to you, but in return for certain
shells, whilst on the coast of Africa it is for gold-dust. It is
true that it is in all cases for money, and that the provisions
that are sold are the same, since money, in whatever shape
is every thing, without exception.

LETTER XXXIV.

THE LITTLE CAUSES OF GREAT EVENTS—THE FRAXINELLA—THE NIGELLA—
PINKS.

I pon’t know whether you have observed, as I have, the
useful power which small things derive from their littleness
itself; perhaps you have not on so many occasions been over-
come by them as I have.

In order to become acquainted with his strength, a man
should have to contend with something almost impossible to
be conquered.

Little things do everything and undo everything ; they pass
across everything and over everything ; no one is on his guard
against them, and they always end by hitting you.

212 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

People who write history strive in vain to find great causes
for events, and to prove the premeditation of the tiles which
fall upon the head of the world. There is a crowd of small
habits against which we struggle at an immense disadvantage,
and over which I have never seen a victory obtained. The
Cardinal de Retz, great-grand-uncle of the Coadjutor, kept
during three years his horses, his hounds, and his hunting
appointments at Noisy, near Versailles, saying every day, I
will go there to-morrow. And he never went there.

There is a deep pool very near us, in which it is said there
are eels; do you remember that during a month we said
every evening, Well, we will go to-morrow, and lay some
lines in that pool? We passed before it four times a-day, and
yet you know that you went away without carrying our pur-
pose into effect, and I have never thought of it since.

It is fifteen years ago since I failed in making a curious
experiment, of which you, perhaps, have heard: it was with
the Fraxinella.

The fraxinella is a beautiful plant which I met with in a
corner of my garden ; from the centre of a tufted and shining
foliage, it throws out a large spike of flowers, rose-coloured or
white, according to the variety.

I have frequently heard it said that from the vesicles which
cover it there escapes a sort of gas or volatile oil, that this
gas produces a kind of inflammable atmosphere, which takes
fire if a taper be brought near it in hot weather, and forms
around the plant a luminous glory not at all injurious to it.

I have frequently determined to satisfy myself with my
own eyes of the truth of this assertion, but have hitherto let
all opportunities slip; I-will try to think of it this evening.

The Nigella of Damascus is a flower of a beautiful pale
blue, which blooms all enveloped in a green foliage, cut as
finely as hairs, which has procured it the name of Venus's
hairs; it is a charming plant, and multiplies itself to a great
extent in gardens where it is once introduced. The Orientals
make great use of its seeds for all sorts of seasoning.

When the regular period arrives, the bride, surrounded by
more than a dozen bridegrooms, would appear to you to be a
little embarrassed between those beautiful curtains of blue
silk and green gauze; she is taller than they are ; it scarcely

THE NIGELLA. 213

seems possible for their caresses to reach her. Melancholy
grandeur! annoying elevation!

The blossoms of the rue are in nearly the same position;
but they have only one difficulty to triumph over; the sta-
mens, the lovers, are only bent down to a distance from the
~ object of their love; they have the power of raising them-
selves up towards her, and afterwards drop again. ‘The little
nymph who dwells in the Nigella has less dignity. Besides,
she might always wait, and see her lovers fade away and die,
without their having been able to evince anything more than
a respectful attention: it is not their position, but their
stature, which prevents their reaching her.

This nymph is like other nymphs; she flies, but she is
desirous of being seen to fly, and has no great objection to be
pursued.

She would wait patiently if they could come, but she
knows that this haughty indifference’ would be taken as
earnest.

At court, princesses invite the men to dance, whilst the
latter invite other ladies. Queens and princesses who indulge
in lovers are obliged to descend the few steps from the throne
which love would not dare to mount.

Now this is exactly what the nymph of the nigella does.

. Her eager lovers in vain attempt to reach her; they only
arrive within two-thirds of the five points which. terminate
her. At first she appears to take no notice of their efforts:
she knows that the moment is not come. The anthers, those
little masses which bear the pollen, change from green, as
they were, to a pale yellow. We have reason to suppose she
then finds them more handsome or more touching, for at that
moment she lowers her five arms towards her lovers.

Then her rich blue vestment fades and falls, and her lovers
disappear at the same time. Left alone amidst its green hair,
the ovary grows, swells, and becomes a sort of capsule, of a
brownish-green, in which are contained the seeds which are to
reproduce the plant.

At the top of a high stalk, which springs from a foliage like-
wise very much cut, a long spike of flowers, in the form of a
helmet, balances itself. It is the Aconite, which sprang,
they say, from the foam of Cerberus. This was a poison

214 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

much used by the ancients: arrows were poisoned with it,
and wives and husbands, tired of each other’s company, intro-
duced it into little delicate tempting dishes of all sorts.

It appears, however, that it was but a vulgar poison, and
was seldom or never used by persons of rank ;—something
like what arsenic is now ;—arsenic, which, for years past, has
been a substitute for divorce. When the object was to make
the Emperor Claudius exchange his earthly crown for an
apotheosis, he was poisoned with mushrooms, which caused
them to be called at Rome, a dish for the gods.

We were just now speaking of that disagreeably smelling
plant, rwe; it is recalled to my mind by speaking of poison.
Rue was for a long time considered a very powerful antidote,
and it is asserted that the famous counter-poison of Mithri-
dates, King of Pontus, was composed of nothing but twenty
leaves of rue pounded with two dried walnuts, two figs, and a
little salt.

Rue entered into the composition of the famous vinegar of
the four thieves. It is said that four thieves, at the time of
the Plague of Marseilles, invented this anti-pestilential vine-
gar, by means of which they entered infected houses without
danger, and took away all property worth the conveyance.
Perhaps the four thieves did nothing in this case but invent
a story which enabled them to sell their vinegar at a high

rice.
A vinegar for the plague was likewise made of pinks, but
whatever may be the efficacy attributed to it, I fancy it would
be better to leave the pink out of the composition than to
leave out the vinegar.

The pink is one of the flowers deemed worthy to be called
flowers by the amateurs. I have read in an old book a mag-
nificent eulogy of the pink: it was there I found the receipt
for pink vinegar against the plague.

In this book, the pink is praised for not having thorns like
the rose. “ The water distilled from pinks,” adds the author,
“is an excellent remedy against epilepsy; but if a conserve
be composed of it, it is the life and delight of the human
race.” The author gives receipts in his book for making
pinks bloom blue or green, a thing which is not seen now,
and is not practicable.

THE PINK. 215

He makes a magnificent picture of the manner in which he
cultivates his pinks ; he does not put them into earthen pots;
he does not support their branches with osier twigs or strips
of deal; he puts them into ivory boxes, and fastens their
stalks to black wands by means of silver rings.

The amateurs whose collections I have seen are far from
surrounding their pinks with similar luxury. Upon each of
the little osier sticks that serve as tutors to the pinks, they
place old broken pipes and lobsters’ claws. I assure you that
at the first glance a collection of pinks is not a pretty sight.
These old pipes and lobsters’ claws are not placed there solely
for ornament ; perhaps even no idea of elegance or adornment
formed part of the reason for using them. The great enemy
of pinks is the forjficula auricularia, better known by the’
name of earwig. The pipes and the claws are the traps, the
harbours offered to it, and in which it is surprised without
any suspicion of danger.

LETTER XXXV.

THE ENRICHED WOODMAN.

For some short time past, a circumstance that appeared
strange has attracted my attention. I dare say you remember
my speaking to you of a house covered with thatch, of the
thatch covered with moss, of the ridge of the roof crowned
with iris, which was to be seen from a certain point in my
garden. Well, for several days I perceived the house was
shut up, and I asked my servant, “Does not the woodman
live up yonder now ?”

“No, Sir, he has been gone nearly two months. He is
become rich; he has inherited a property of 600 livres a
year; and he is gone to live in town.”

He is become rich!

That is to say, that with his 600 livres a-year, he is gone to
live in a little apartment in the city, without air and without
sun, where he can neither see the heavens, nor the trees, nor
the verdure, where he will breathe unwholesome air, where

THE ENRICHED WOODMAN. 217

his prospect will be confined to a paper of a dirty yellow,
embellished with chocolate arabesques.

He is become rich!

He is become rich! that is to say, he is not allowed to keep
his dog which he has had so long, because it annoyed the
other lodgers of the house.

He lodges in a sort of square box; he has people on the
right hand and on the left, above him and below him.

He has left his beautiful cottage and his beautiful trees,
and his sun, and his grass carpet so green, and the song of the
birds and the odour of the oaks. He is become rich!

He is become rich !—Poor man!

LETTER XXXVI.

FENNEL—THE ENCROACHING VISITOR.

FENNEL grows to the height of six feet, with branches of
bright green, and leaves so minute and numerous as to make
it resemble an ostrich feather.

Pliny pretends that serpents are particularly partial to
this plant, and that they have good reasons for being so. It
restores them to youth, and recovers their dimmed sight,
which is for them a matter of great importance, if we are to
believe, as certain naturalists assert, that the serpent fascinates
various reptiles and even birds with its look, and forces them
to come to it by an invincible magnetic power.

Physicians, for a long time, applied the roots of fennel
pounded with honey to the bites of mad dogs, At the end
of three or four hundred years it was discovered that this had
never cured anybody.

As handsome in its appearance and yielding a much more
agreeable odour, the Angelica grows on the banks of rivulets.
The Angelica serves as an asylum and as food for the cater-
pillar of the beautiful butterfly, called Machaon.

THE ARRIVAL. 219

The sun has disappeared behind the high trees some minutes
since, so that I should not have recognised the fennel and the
Angelica if I had not been pretty well acquainted with them.
The weather is hot and close: this is a capital opportunity
for testing the phenomenon of the fraxinella.

“ Varai, bring me a taper.”

“Monsieur, there is somebody knocking at the garden-gate.”

“Give me the taper then, and go and open it.”

“ Monsieur, I have lit the taper twice, and twice the wind
has extinguished it. Only hear how they are knocking !”

In fact, somebody did knock—almost enough to break
the gate down.

“ Varai, go and open it, pray.” A man presents himself,
whom at first I did not recognise.

“ Well, Stephen, my good fellow, what a while it is since I
have seen thee! I am going to —— , and I could not
pass so near thy hermitage without passing a few days with
thee.”

Only at this moment I recognised Edmond. You know,
my dear friend, or else you do not know, what Edmond I
mean. Perhaps, like me, it would be necessary for you to
have him before your gyes to remember that he exists. He
had never taken the liberty to tutoyer me in his life* I
remember that he once borrowed a few livres of me, of which
he never said anything since. Nevertheless, he gave his
valise to my servant, and said, “Thingummy! What's your
name? Pay the coachman, and give him something to
drink, Ah! by-the-bye, Stephen, I can’t think why thou
dost not get the road put to rights that leads hither, that is,
if thou canst call it a road ; it’s enough to break one’s back.
Fortunately, I have not my horses here. I have left them
at the top of the hill. Hast thou dined ?”

I had been for some time endeavouring to recover from the
stupor into which this arrival or rather this invasion had
plunged me, and I racked my invention for a sentence in
which there should be neither a thow nora you, not being

* We scarcely need remind our readers that the French reserve thee and thou for
Telatives, intimate friends, or persons they highly value. It is so completely a
national custom, that in translating this scene it is impossible to find a substitute,
‘or an equivalent for it.—Trans.

220 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

willing that the said Edmond should force me to tutoyer him,
and being equally unwilling to offend him by not thee and
thouing him after he had made use of that mode of speaking
towards me, which would have appeared to me equivalent to
withholding your hand from a person who stretches out his
to you, an insult that can only be caused by a deep resent-
ment. I thought I had discovered a sentence.

“Yes, but I have not supped.”

“Ah! thou suppest, dost thou? Well, come, that is not
too savage; I shall find thee better than thou art reputed to
be. Iam dying with hunger.”

T made a signal to Varai to get supper ready, and we went
into the dining room. The cloth was soon laid. Edmond
poured himself out two glasses of wine successively. “What
wine is this Bordeaux !—Dost thou like Bordeaux !—Hast
thou no Burgundy ?”

Shall I confess, my friend, that I felt myself blush whilst
humbly stammering that I had but one sort of wine? And I
must tell you all, I was very near making an excuse, by
saying that my wine-merchants had disappointed me, or some
other such subterfuge as is employed by people in my
situation.

“Why didst thou have thy dinitg-room of this dark-
coloured wood? I have a charming one; it is all in white
stucco.”

“That must be very handsome.”

“Tt is magnificent. Upon a mahogany sideboard are Bo-
hemian crystals of the greatest richness.”

At this moment I heard in the garden a noise like that
made by a wild deer followed by her fawn, when roused
from a thicket.

“ What can that be in the garden ?”

“ Ab! cried Edmond, I'll lay a wager it is Phanor.”

“ What is Phanor ?”

“ A superb pointer, an English dog.”

“ But he is ruining my garden!”

I rose in haste, Edmond followed me after finishing what
was in his plate, saying, partly to himself, “It’s very astonish-
ing! he generally keeps to the walks.” When we gained the
garden, we could hear a wild chase across the masses of

TRAINING THE DOG. 221

flowers ; a cat appeared first, followed by a great dog, which
Edmond called to in vain; the cat dashed into another clump
of flowers, and Phanor followed closely at her heels.

“Ah! I’m not astonished at it now; he can’t bear cats.
Phanor! Phanor! here, Sir!”

The cat jumped over a wall. Phanor sat, eagerly looking
after her, at the bottom of it. At length he obeyed the voice
of his master; but as he found he had a good chance of being
beaten, he slunk back, and ran away.

“In the name of heaven, Edmond, lay hold of your dog,
he will break my best rose-trees.”

“ Phanor! come here!”

“ But if you show him your cane, he will not come.”

“Ay, but he must be made to come. Phanor, here!
Phanor, here!”

“ Don’t threaten him—call him.”

“TI must correct him here on the spot. Come here,
Phanor !”

“Well, but correct him when you have got hold of
him.”

“No, no; he must come in obedience to the cane. Oh, I
never let dogs have their own way. Phanor! Phanor, here!”

The dog took a few steps towards his master, but on seeing
the cane, again set off. Edmond, in a rage, threw his cane at
the dog, which missed him, but knocked off the head of a
lily in bloom. Edmond now pursued the dog exactly as
the dog pursued the cat some minutes before ; both trampling
as if in emulation of each other, upon my most beautiful
plants. At length, Varai seized the dog in his passage and
held him fast. Edmond rushed towards a tree and tore off a
large branch.

“Oh, my Toussaint cherry-tree, which ripens its cherries in
October!”

He beat his dog with the finest branch of my cherry-tree.

“ Ah, master Phanor! I'll teach you to destroy gardens!”

The evil was done and was irreparable; I demanded grace
for Phanor, if it were only for the sake of not hearing him
cry. Besides, the branch of the cherry-tree was broken on
Phanor’s back, and I did not know what tree Edmond would
apply to next for a weapon. “Come, come, Edmond, don’t

222 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

beat him any more, the evil is done; besides, it may not be
80 serious as you imagine.”

“Oh ! it’s not for the few nonsensical bunches of flowers he
may have destroyed, my dear Stephen; it is because he dis-
obeyed me that I correct him.”

“Well, then, I beg you, Edmond, do not flog him any
more !”

“Let him alone, let him alone; I want to see if he will
obey me now.”

“T ask it as a favour, that you will not make the experi-
ment.”

“Phanor, here! Thou shalt see that he will obey now.
Here, Phanor! Why, here! Phanor!—here! here! here !”

Phanor takes to flight once more, Edmond pursues him
afresh, and the chase becomes as warm as ever through my
shrubs and flowers.

Varai picked up the gentleman’s cane, and held it ready
to give to him when he wanted to beat his dog, for fear he
should borrow another from one of my trees. But Varai
was more ingenious than I was; he opened the garden-gate,
and Phanor, as he passed near it, closely pursued by his
master, perceived the chance, made a bolt, and disappeared.
Edmond and IJ returned to the dining-room.

“Tt is astounding,” said he, “a dog who obeys at the least
sign! Well, come, we must make the best of it; let us resume
our supper. Thou shalt see how I will make up for lost time.
But, shouldst thou not send some one to look for Phanor? I
am afraid he will be lost in this country of wolves, where he
has never been before.”

“ Edmond, Varai is the only servant I have, and if he goes
to look for Phanor, we shall have no supper. We will think
of him presently.”

“Ah! but I hope he won’t be lost though !”

We resumed our repast. After Varai had, as usual, handed
me some wine and water, he offered some to Edmond. “No,
thank you! no, thank you, my man of colour, I never drink

water.
««¢ All the wicked are drinkers of water,
As is well proved by the deluge.’

Give me a little of that omelette. Hum! this is an

EDMOND MAKES HIMSELF COMFORTABLE. 223

omelette aux herbes! Now, dost thou know how J like an
omelette? The one that is good, really good, is an omelette
aux truffes! that’s what I call an omelette! The table ser-
vice is not bad: I made myself a present the other day of a
pretty service in vermeil; one cannot have anything but
vermeil, now porters eat out of silver.”

All the supper-time this was the nature of his talk; and,
to my great joy, as soon as the meal was over, he complained
of being fatigued, and requested to be conducted to his
chamber. Varai was soon back; Mr. Edmond wanted another
candle, being accustomed to leave one burning ; he could not
endure darkness. Then Edmond wanted his bed warmed;
then he must have some eau sucrée, in case of feeling thirsty
in the night; then another blanket and an additional pillow ;
and the chimney must be stopped up, to keep out the air.
At length he got into bed, and I quickly sought mine, for fear
Varai should ask me any questions about this gentleman, as
that would only have increased my ill-humour.

He is come to pass a few days. What does he mean by a
few days? Why did not I at once think of telling him I was
under an engagement to set out to-morrow on a journey ?
Now it is too late.

The dog came back, was tied up, and passed the night in
howling in such a horrible and melancholy manner as would
affect the strongest nerves.

In the morning, when Varai informed him that breakfast
was ready, Edmond coolly replied, “he could not get up so
early as that:” breakfast was put off an hour. When he came
down, I asked him if he had heard his dog ?

“Oh! yes,” said he; “poor Phanor! it’s only because he
does not know the house; he will behave better in two or
three days. Tell me, now, blackey, what have you given him
to eat ?”

“T got him some dog biscuit of a neighbour.”

“Oh, that will never do; he must have some soup, and
that made thick, mind. Poor Phanor! he is not accustomed
to dog-biscuit—that’s all very well for nigger dogs.”

We went into the garden; Varai brought us pipes. He
condescended to take notice of a large cherry-tree pipe with
its amber mouthpiece, ‘of the size of an egg, and said, “ Ay!

224 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

I have one with a mouthpiece twice as large as that. Thy
garden is pretty, Stephen: it is not large, but it ¢s pretty.
Well, well, well, and so thou amusest thyself thus, eh? in
cultivating flowers in this way, eh? Poor fellow! I have an
uncle, now, just in the same way; he has a handsome garden,
water, woods; I must bring Master Phanor into order before
we go there: my uncle would not laugh if he played the same
game in'‘his garden that he played on his arrival here last
night.”

Whilst saying this, he plucked a rose and put it into his
button-hole.

“What are you about there ?”

“What am I about? why, I have gathered a middling
sort of rose to wear in my button-hole.”

“A middling rose! it is the last that tree will bear this
year, the most beautiful of white roses, Madame Hardy. I
hoped to see that for five or six days longer 3 I shall not see
another for a year to come.”

“ Why, thou art worse than my uncle! Don’t gather thy
roses! Well, I won’t touch another. What dost thou do
here? How can we amuse ourselves ?”

“We do not amuse ourselves here.”

“ Ah! well, never mind; I can read, I can walk. I sup-
pose thou dost not keep thy horse?”

“ No.”

“ That’s a pity.”

Such is my present melancholy condition, my dear friend—
when it will be over I cannot tell. I seek every justifiable
means of getting rid of this intruder, but he does not even
tell me when he means to go.

Two shots in the garden caused me to hasten to see what is
going on,

LETTER XXXVII.

THE ENCROACHING VISITOR.

Noruine less than my friend Edmond practising in the
garden, and who had just killed a beautiful blackbird. This
blackbird was, when alive, the leader of my band: I felt more
sorrow than I will venture to tell you when I saw him lying
on the ground, with his glossy black feathers stained with
blood. All the cares I had taken for several years that the
birds should find in my garden a sure and tranquil asylum
were rendered abortive by this firing of the gun,—the more so
from its appearing a kind of perfidy, a meditated murder.
In every part of the neighbourhood, the trees are cut down,
birds are taken in snares and traps, or shot with guns. Here
alone I have preserved large trees and thick bushes; here I
have multiplied service and holly-trees with their coral
berries, hawthorns with their garnet fruit, elders and privets,
which bear umbels of black berries, the burning-bush with

Q

226 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

spikes of fire-coloured berries, ivies whose fruits become black
with frost, laurustines with dark-blue fruits, azerolias or small
medlars covered with little red apples,—in order that they
might find food in abundance during the whole winter. In
certain parts of my rivulet, I have even lessened the depth
that they may bathe without danger.

And how richly have all these cares been repaid! In
winter, the redbreasts come and live in my greenhouse, and
familiarly hop about in other parts of my dwelling. In
summer, the linnets make their nests in the bushes, and the
wrens in the angles of the walls. All allow themselves to be
approached and to be seen; all seem to fly around me without
flying away, and all fill my garden with enchanting music.

Instead of being seated, crammed into a theatre without
fresh air, to hear for the hundredth time the same tenor, with
the same apricot-coloured tunic and the same chocolate boots,
sing the same air, accompanied by the same cries of admira-
tion of people who wish to make part of the spectacle, I had
three operas a day.

In the morning, at the break of day, the chaffinch warbled
upon the highest branches of the trees, whilst the flowers
open their corollas, whilst the rising sun tinted the heavens
with rose and saffron.

Amidst the ardour of noontide heat, the male linnet, con-
cealed beneath the shade of the linden-tree, raised his melo-
dious voice, whilst his mate sat upon her eggs in her little
nest of hair and grass.

But in the evening, when everything slept—when the stars
sparkled in the heavens, when the moonbeams played through
the trees, when the evening-primroses with their yellow cups
exhaled a sweet perfume, when the glowworms twinkled in
the grass, the nightingale raised its full and solemn voice,
and sang throughout the night its religious and loving
hymns!

And this Edmond comes with his gun to alarm, perhaps to
send away all my musicians, to falsify my long and careful
hospitality, which is now nothing more or less than treachery,
since without it perhaps, without the confidence it had
inspired, my poor blackbird would not have allowed any one
to come near enough to him to make him so easy a victim.

THE ENCROACHING VISITOR. 227

What would I not have given to make all my birds, all my
melodious guests, understand that it was not I who had made
that report, it was not I that had committed that murder!
to make them understand that they might come back, that
I am not a traitor, that they will find peace and shade here
again, that they may come in the winter without mistrust to
feast upon the berries of my trees.

How is this all to be repaired ?

That chaffinch, which yesterday came to my very window,
will never come again; he will depart from me and from
my house; next year he will not again build his nest in that
great elm, in which he has been accustomed to build it every

ear,

‘i I got as quickly to Edmond as I could, and entreated him
to suspend his sport, and he laughed at me. I was obliged
to say that I insisted upon having no guns fired in my garden.
Edmond replied that I abused the circumstance of its being
my garden. It appeared to me that the abuse was on his part.
Nevertheless, his reproach hurt me. I left him in the garden,
and shut myself up in my study. I then questioned myself
whether he really was in the wrong; if hospitality did not
impose duties, difficult, it is true, but sacred, and if I had
fulfilled them? I inquired of myself what are the duties of
hospitality. After serious examination, I did myself this
justice, that, with the exception of washing his feet, as the
ancient Hebrews did, I had performed, with respect to him,
and in the most scrupulous manner, all the laws of hospitality.
But still that reproach wounded me; he is in the wrong, but
he believes that I abuse the circumstance of its being my
garden; I have a great mind to go and ask his pardon!

LETTER XXXVIII.

WONDERS OF TRAVEL—SCIENTIFIC NOMENCLATURE.

TuerE are many things which really astonish me in the
accounts which have been given to me by a traveller who has
been in China. Among them, in the Chinese language, the
same word yé, which at Canton means ¢wo, at Pekin signifies
no more than one.

You may think how much I was surprised to learn that
there are men who shave their heads, preserving only a little
bunch of hair, whilst I see here the streets full of people,
who only shave their chins, leaving tufts of beard above or
below the mouth, or upon their cheeks; in the same manner
that I was astonished to hear that Indian women pierce their
noses in order to suspend jewels from them, whilst our women
have a practice, from superior civilization, no doubt, of
piercing their ears for the same purpose.

He told me that the emperor was dressed in yellow, which
appeared very singular to me who have been accustomed t¢
see the king dressed in blue, green, or red.

WONDERS OF TRAVEL. 229

Chinese mothers torture the feet of their children to pre-
vent their growing; this punishment our women inflict upon
themselves, with the only difference, that they arrive at results
a little less monstrous. Few people are aware what tortures a
French woman suffers, or with what courage she endures
them, to lessen the size of her foot a line andahalf! The
Roman who burnt his hand over a brazier would have
blenched if he had been put to a similar trial.

The literary men, the savants, let the nail of their little finger
grow, which we have discontinued to do, but which was done in
France at the time of Louis XIV., and was esteemed highly
fashionable, as Moliére tells us :—

“Bist-ce par longle long qu’il porte au petit doigt?”

But these are not all the wonders which he tells me he had
seen in China. 1 will repeat some of them to you, though I
know not whether you may not at the present moment be in
the midst of the said wonders. ‘

It appears that in China marriages have for their objects
interest and money ; that merchants try to sell things at more
than their value; and that misers, idlers, ambitious men,
and thieves are not uncommon.

‘Our traveller likewise observed that the emperor, as a
mark of distinction, sometimes gives to those he wisies to
favour a sort of yellow waistcoat, or a peacock’s feather,
whilst among us the favour of the master is manifested by a
bit of red riband, or the privilege of writing before his name
the two letters, p.u. He pretends that, in some provinces,
corrupt governors sell honours and employments. He speaks
of prevaricating and greedy ministers, of rich men, full of
haughtiness and vanity.

He asserts that there is at Pekin a gazette in which are
published exaggerated accounts, and even sometimes false
assertions. ;

If I am not mistaken, the traveller told me, that among
the Chinese, it is not uncommon to see some who fail in their
promises, and others who disguise the truth.

Some, he says, are gamblers, some débauchees.

Among the women, there are more ugly than pretty;
among the men, more fools than wits.

230 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

They eat beef, mutton, and rice.

Among the trees and plants which he has seen, he named
linden-trees, rose-laurels, camellias, peonies, mallows, and a
agnolia whose blossoms precede the leaves. As regards this
last point, I don’t feel a very anxious desire to go to China to
see this magnolia, since it came to France to see me long ago,
and I have three in my garden; but, it must be allowed that
in China I should hear it called you lan, whilst here, I call it
the precocious magnolia, and the learned designate it, precox,

Now, see if all this is worth the trouble of going to the
antipodes for !

Our savants, since I have met with some, appear to me to
be a more singular people than the Chinese; for they do not
employ Latin and Greek so much for the purpose of under-
standing each other, as to prevent their being understood
by other people, or at least the second object seems to be
generally attended with more success than the first.

For a long time J. have timidly meditated on putting to the
learned a single and modest question, and every time I have
been about to risk it, respect and veneration have stopped and
intimidated me.

This is my question :—

Wherein would it be more criminal to give to Frenth
words a Latin and Greek termination, than a French termina-
tion to Greek and Latin words? What difference does there
exist between these two operations ?

If I obtain from the savants the only possible reasonable
answer to these two questions, that is, that one is not more
criminal than the other, and that the two operations are
perfectly identical, I will ask accessorily why the learned do
not calla cabriolet cabrioletus, un mouton (a sheep) moutonus,
and un hétre (a beech) hetrus?

Why, instead of saying that a plant is polysperme, do they
not say that it is many-seeded ? Why is a certain tree desig-
nated by them under the surname of microphylle, instead of
little-leaf ?

If I am told that little-leaf, many-seeded, cabrioletti, &c.,
&c., are frightful barbarisms, I will tell them that poly-
sperme and microphylle are Greek words to which a French
termination has been given, as well as to plusieras semengas a

SCIENTIFIC NOMENCLATURE. 231

Latin termination ; declaring to them that it is impossible for
me to perceive the difference which exists between these two
processes, both equally barbarous and equally ridiculous.

I can perfectly comprehend that works of science are
better written in a common and generally-taught language,
like Latin or Greek, in order that they may not be confined
to one country, but when they write them in the vulgar
tongue, I cannot see why they should take the trouble to
borrow from foreign languages words which exist in that
which they employ.

Thus, why call the lupin with narrow leaves lupin micro-
phylle, since microphylle, a Greek barbarism and a French
barbarism, says nothing but—with narrow leaves? Why
call a sort of Acacia inerme, instead of calling it thornless,
which has the same sense, and has only the fault of being more
clear? Why do you say that the paquerette (Easter daisy)
is humifuse, instead of saying it is spread upon the earth?
Why do you say that the elm has its leaves scabres instead of
saying that its leaves are rough, é&c.?

‘Why this useless and ridiculous mixture of these three
unfortunate languages? Adopt one of them, speak it, write
it, and only borrow from the others the words in which the
one you have adopted is deficient.

Do not make for science the horrible thorns with which you
surround the most beautiful and most graceful things.

LETTER XXXI1X.

WILD FLOWERS IN GARDENS—THE SHOWER.

THERE are some beautiful viliagers to whom I have given
an asylum in my garden.

The molena, with its large leaves, covered with a white
down, raises its long stalk, terminated in a spike of yellow
flowers, by the road-side; it nourishes five or six lepidoptera
‘vulgo, butterflies) besides beetles.

There are many plants which seem thus to quit the fields
to come and place themselves by the road-sides; curious and
coquettish as they are, they are seldom met with anywhere
else.

Near the molena, the viperina blows in the sun; its stalks
variegated with green and brown, are loaded with little spikes
which form one large one by their position. These little spikes
have at the same time blue flowers at their base, and rose-
coloured buds at their extremity.

In the same manner, in the road sides, the foxglove throws

THE FOX-GLOVE—SCABIOUS. 233

up its beautiful stem of rose-coloured flowers, tiger-spotted
and white within, and hanging from one side to the height of
four or five feet; but it is only on roads which are on the skirts
of woods, in whose coolness and shade the plant delights.

Beautiful as it is, the digitalis is a dangerous plant; it
exercises a singular influence over man ; it impedes the circu-
lation of the blood; no animal touches it.

I have assembled in my garden several of these nymphs of
the fields and woods, and every year they blossom larger and
grow more handsome.

One plant, which in the garden is generally of so dark a
purple that it appears black pricked with white points, is
called the scabious, or the widow’s flower. In its wild state,
it is of a pretty lilac, which would scarcely permit us to
say it was in half-mourning.

Women, in fact, have thought proper to admit, asa mourn-
ing colour, one of the most fresh and charming of colours ; lilac
is the mourning of far-advanced grief—it is the transition
from grey to rose-colour.

The invention of lilac for mourning is an invention analo-
gous to that of teal, wild-duck, and moor-hen as fasting food
for Lent; it is one of the numerous accommodations made
daily with heaven as with ordinary evils.

The scabious enjoyed formerly a very enviable position in
the world; it radically cured several more than disagreeable
maladies, among which, not the least so, was the itch.

The devil, it is said, furious that this precious plant should
thus thwart the operations of some of his ministers, took
delight in biting off the extremity of its roots, in the hope of
destroying it; and to convince the incredulous, this root is
still shown with its extremity cut or broken off, at least in
one of the varieties of the scabious. But it may be well
imagined that the scabious, which cured others so well, had
not much trouble in curing itself.

It appears that now-a-days the scabious is strangely fallen ;
that it no longer cures anything, and that it only serves as
an asylum for three or four insects; at least we find these
judgments pronounced against it in books of both ancient
and modern medicine.

Since morning, the heavens have been concealed by thick

234 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

clouds, the air is heavy, and respiration is difficult. The
birds have ceased to sing, the bees will not go beyond the
garden walls; the flowers, half-faded, seem to languish on
their stalks; swallows fly about, skimming the earth. A flash
of lightning gleams from a black cloud, and is followed by
a heavy, distant sound. The flashes soon become more frequent,
the peals of thunder nearer: then the clouds burst, and the
rain falls in torrents !

And then the freshened air deliciously dilates the lungs;
the honeysuckles spread abroad their sweetish perfumes; the
earth itself throws up a delightful odour; the rain has ceased,
and the sun is bestowing the fires of diamonds upon the
drops suspended from the leaves of the trees. Pardon me,
beautiful drops of rain, for comparing you to diamonds!

The birds sing, the flowers resume their splendour, and
lift up their heads. Everything is revived, fresh, smiling,

happy!

LETTER XL.

AFTER THE SHOWER.

THE rain of yesterday evening still moistens the earth;
I could introduce you to two or three nations such as I think
you will not meet with in the course of your distant travels,
I mean, snails, earthworms, toads, &c.; but there are parti-
culars connected with their nature and habits, with which
I do not like to trust my pen, and therefore I must pass you
over to naturalists with less modesty, and at the same time
less imagination.

Among the perfumes which abound after the rain, no one
can forget that which the bean exhales from its white blos-
soms spotted with black. They say in the country that it is
not safe to pass by a field of beans in blossom, and that the

236 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

odour affects the brain. There is an old Latin verse which
Says 80 :—

“Cum faba florescit, stultorum copia crescit.”

It would not be uninstructive to try to recollect what fits
of folly I have been guilty of during my life at the bean-
flowering season. It will be all the more easy for me to do go,
from my having, for a length of time, been in the habit of
writing down every evening the impressions of the day; that
is the only means of thoroughly explaining both actions and
thoughts.

June,

“How fortunate! I have succeeded. That kind M.
d’'Eloges has consented to take my note for 300 francs, in ex-
change for which he has given me a watch and 25 francs in
money. I have sold my watch again for 40 francs. I am
all right then, now. I can send my bouquet, and be at the
theatre.”

The beans were in blossom.

June.

_“ Can it then be true that age thus renders hearts cold?
and is blindness of the mind, with some people, the result of
years? And is that what is called experience?

“ Here is an old friend who has just preached me a sermon
three hours long. He pretends that I am wrong in making
my happiness, my future, and my life, depend upon a woman
and her caprices. I answered him that she whom I loved is
not a woman, but an angel, and that a caprice was beneath
both her heart and her understanding. I found I was soon
obliged to give up the idea of making him renounce his
opinion. There are sentiments that everybody cannot com-
prehend, and man is easily led to declare that that which he
does not see does not exist, and that which he does not think
is a folly.

“ But I can say, there could not arise in my mind either
a doubt or a fear, if all men united were to come and say to
me: She is deceiving you, she will forget you, she will be
false to her promises—I would not ask even herself to reassure
me !

“ No, no, Jam sure of her and of her love. I cculd not

THE BEANS ARE IN BLOSSOM. 237

pardon myself a moment of uneasiness, it would be to offend
Heaven, which has caused me to meet with her, and which
has placed in her hands the happiness of my life. She expects
me—she loves me. At the moment I write these notes she
is thinking of me.

“ Men, envy, destiny, are only able to delay my happiness.

“T believe in her without any restriction: I might go to
the other extremity of the world, and after long years of
absence, might fear to find her dead; but I never once should
put this question to myself—Is she faithful ?—Does she love
me still?

The beans were in blossom.

“ What a black, dismal malady is misanthropy! and what
long and disheartening books it has inspired! J have friends,
true friends, upon whom I can reckon as firmly as upon
myself. They have frequently told me so, and I believe them.

“Oh! how sweet and smiling a thing is life! what pleasures
it gives, what happinesses it promises!

“Tt is a delightful road upon which we love to walk,
looking forward confidently into the blue mists of the horizon
which veil the objects of our desires, and lingering among
the blossom-covered trees by which it is bordered !

“* How deliciously my heart was moved by the protesta-
tions of friendship made to me on leaving that dinner-party
at which we sat so late! their arms, their swords, their purses,
everything was at my service. Certainly I shall uot abuse
these generous offers, but it gives me much confidence to find
that I have a place in such hearts!”

The beans were in blossom.

“ T have just read the discourse of a statesman who com-
plains bitterly of being dragged from the calm pleasures of
private life, and the humble joys of his domestic hearth.
But, says he, my country calls upon me, and I devote myself
to its interests: I repair to the breach, ready to sacrifice
to that dear country, my energies, my life, &e.

“Oh! leaders of nations, why do you not always follow
such a noble example?”

The beans were in blossom.

“T arrived yesterday evening exhausted, but so happy!

“J had walked eighteen leagues, but I knew that I should

238 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

be able to get a distant glance of her at the theatre. -If it
had been a hundred leagues I might have been more fatigued,
but I am certain I should have accomplished the journey all
the same, and have arrived in time. Whatever the obstacles
may be that arise between her and me, I do not always per-
ceive how I shall overcome them; but, what I am certain of
is, that they will be overcome, that we shall be united, that
she is mine as I am hers.”

The beans were in full blossom.

But a truce to this cold-hearted pleasantry. No, it is
not a folly to be under the empire of the most beautiful—
the most noble feelings; it is no folly to feel oneself great,
strong, invincible; it is not a folly to have a good, honest,
and generous heart; it is no folly to be filled with good
faith; it is not a folly to devote oneself for the good of
others; it is not a folly to live thus out of real life.

No, no; that cold wisdom which pronounces so severe
a judgment upon all it cannot do; that wisdom which owes
its birth to the death of so many great, noble, and sweet
things ; that wisdom which only comes with infirmities, and
which decorates them with such fine names—which calls decay
of the powers of the stomach and loss of appetite sobriety ; the
cooling of the heart and the stagnation of the blood a return
to reason; envious impotence, a disdain for futile things ;—
this wisdom would be the greatest, the most melancholy of
follies, if it were not the commencement of the death of the
heart and the senses.

LETTER XLI.

THE CLOTHES-MOTH — AN INCREDULOUS MAN DOES NOT BELIEVE IN THE
SAUSAGE-TREE.

THERE are moments at which I accuse myself of great
restlessness of mind, and of a strong inclination for vaga-
bondizing, when I look back at the road I have already
travelled in my garden in search of new things, when there
are so many which I pass by without favouring them with
a glance.

As I was going out this morning to resume my journey
from a tuft of flax at which I stopped yesterday, I perceived
that there was going on upon the arm of my old fautewil,
life, manners, manceuvres, and industry; in a word, all that
we go so far in search of.

The little moths, very agreeably shaded with grey, that we
see flying about our apartments in an evening, have not
always, any more than other moths, enjoyed that capricious
flight or agreeable lightness; they have been caterpillars,

240 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

as the others have. But these caterpillars were not fed
during their lives upon either leaves or flowers, nor did they
at the period of transformation spin themselves a shroud of
silk.

These are very small caterpillars with sixteen legs, and
which are seldom seen, although the traces of their passage
can but too plainly be perceived in stuffs and furs, in which
they make for themselves a wide road, considering their size,
and which they ravage and destroy without mercy.

During the summer these little grey moths that flit about
in houses, deposit their white eggs upon some of the hangings
of the furniture; little caterpillars issue from these eggs, and
immediately set about feeding and clothing themselves. The
stuff upon which they are born presents them at once with
vestments and food; they tear out hairs of the wool, and
make of them a case or sheath, which they elongate and
enlarge in proportion with their own growth, When the
vestment is finished, they still continue to pull owt the hairs
of wool, but now for the purpose of eating them.

If one of these little caterpillars, which pass, even in that
state, by the general name of the moth, be upon red cloth, its
covering will be red ; this is the case just now upon the arm of
my chair, which is of woollen velvet; if it be upon furniture
of other colours, these colours will, in the same way, be re-
cognised in its vestments. This, which appears so necessary
that it is scarcely worth while to repeat it, is not however
without exceptions. It sometimes happens, that a moth
placed upon red cloth makes itself a white coat, and that
another born upon grey cloth weaves itself a red or blue vest-
ment. But if you examine these stuffs through a microscope
you will see white hairs in the red cloth, and hairs of all
sorts of colours in the grey, of which it has pleased the moth,
for reasons with which J am unacquainted, to make an exclu-
sive choice.

Whether it prefers a certain colour for its vestment, and
others for its food, 1 know not; I have not been able to dis-
cover any convincing proof whether this insect coquetry
prevails over greediness,

We may however say, that in case of famine, the moth eats
its own coat, and appears to think it delicious food; others

THE CLOTHES-MOTH. 241

find upon fur the means of satisfying both these imperative
wants, up to the moment at which they go and conceal them-
selves in some corner of an apartment, preparatory to becom-
ing butterflies.

I could easily believe that these moths were unknown to
the ancients, if I had any faith in the accounts of people who
said that they had seen the clothes of Servius Tullius five
hundred years after his death.

But Pliny tells us of a means of preserving things from the
moth, which proves that the furniture and clothes of these
great men, who have been the cause of our making so many
“themes,” “verses,” and “reflections,” in our childhood,
were no more exempt from it than my old arm-chair. He
asserts very seriously that clothes placed for a few minutes
upon a coffin, will never be attacked by moths.

Some more modern savants have not thought proper to
have any faith in this receipt of Pliny’s, but they advise
people to wrap up the stuffs they wish to preserve in the skin
of a lion, thinking, doubtless, that these little insects had
taken in earnest the royalty which man has conceded to the
lion, and that they would respect this monarch, although
conquered, skinned, and become a carpet or rug.

This is an experiment that will succeed no better with lions
than with other monarchs. Moths eat stuffs enclosed in a
lion’s skin with the same assurance and impunity as the will
of Louis XIV. was set at nought.

It seems true I am, like yous a traveller; if I remained all
this time in my old arm-chair, it was only because the sky looked
grey and threatening; but a bright ray breaks through the
clouds, and I will pursue my walk in my garden, and visit that
little tuft of flax near which I yesterday broke off my account.

A man was once pointed out to we whom credulity had
rendered absolutely mad. At first, a person had innocently
said to him, pointing to a peasant with some flax in his hand,
“There is a man sowing shirts.” He smiled. It was then
explained to him seriously and truly, that from this seed
would grow a plant, which, by means of preparations, would
become excellent cloth, and that from this cloth shirts would
be made. This idea did not find entrance into his brain
without causing a little tumult there, and the people around

R

242 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

him continued to amuse themselves with cramming him with
the most absurd ideas upon the vegetable kingdom.

One day they told him that there was in the king’s garden
a sausage-tree of great beauty.

“What do you mean by a sausage-tree?” asked he.

“What's a sausage-tree? there’s a question! What’s an
apricot-tree?”

“A tree that bears apricots.”

« Well?”

“Well!”

“ Well! why, the sausage-tree is a tree that bears sausages.”

«Pooh! nonsense! Porkbutchers make sausages.”

“ T know very well that porkbutchers make sausages ; pork-
butchers make sausages, it is true; but what sort of sausages!
It is just the same as little Eulalie, who lives near you; she
makes flowers; but in stuffs or wools. Are you astonished
that because Eulalie makes roses, that rose-bushes should
produce them likewise? ulalie makes artificial flowers.”

“ What! do porkbutchers then make artificial sausages?”

“ Exactly so, my good friend; but the sausages of the pork-
butchers are like the roses of Eulalie to nature, what the false
is to the true. If you had ever eaten the fruit of the sausage-
tree, you would never allow your teeth to touch the gross
imitation that you have hitherto eaten.”

“ Ah! but, now tell me, are there really any sausage-trees?”

At this mark of wavering incredulity the friends only
deigned to reply by shrugging up their shoulders, and con-
tinued to talk among themselves about the sausage-tree, with-
out appearing to be willing to admit incredulity any longer
into their conversation.

“Ts it the garlick variety which is in the king’s garden?”
asked one.

“Yes,” replied the other.

‘ Ah, that’s the most rare of all.”

“But the tree had very little fruit on it this year. You
are aware that the sausage-tree originally comes from a hot
climate; and the winters here try it severely; part of the
blossoms were destroyed by the late frosts.”

“Tt is a pity we cannot get one, to convince our sceptical
friend here.”

THE SAUSAGE-TREE, 243

“T could easily get one, because I am intimate with the
head gardener; but I don’t think it worth the trouble to
convince him; I hate these upstart minds, that are so dis-
dainful of the beliefs of the vulgar; who aim at producing an
effect by giving faith to nothing ; who appear to take men for
simpletons, amongst whom they form a brilliant and solitary
exception.”

“But,” says our hero, “I ask nothing better than to be-
lieve when I am convinced by proofs.”

“Proofs! Have I not already told you that shirts were
sown and reaped? Do you not know that cotton grows upon
a cotton-tree, and that sugar is the produce of a reed?
Perhaps you don’t believe that.”

“T ask your pardon; yes, I do.”

“T will be bound you doubt that hemp is the seed of ropes,
or that snuff is the seed of the ideas which we sow in our
brain through the nose. Or perhaps you do not believe
that peaches grow upon peach-trees; you prefer believing, no
doubt, that porkbutchers make peaches?” :

“No, I don’t-say that.”

“Neither do you believe, I suppose, that rose-bushes
produce roses; you think that all roses are made by
Mademoiselle Eulalie, do you not?”

“Not at all. I know very well—”

“ You really know nothing at all. Do you know that gun-
powder is the seed of death? Do you know that apples come
from trees? But you say you will believe nothing without
proof, and will doubt next whether braces grow upon the
Indian brace-tree?”

“ Well, I certainly did not know that, What, do you say
that braces grow upon a tree like apples?”

“TI do not tell you that the tree is like an apple-tree; on the
contrary, it isa fig-trée, which is called jicus elastica, because
whilst cutting the braces which it produces, they draw Indian
rubber from it.”

“Ah! that’s a different thing; I thought you were speak-
ing of braces with metal springs.”

“That’s the way in which you always believe. Those metal
springs are artificial springs, a wretched imitation of the
jicus elastica, or brace-tree of India; so with the roses of

1

244 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

Mademoiselle Eulalie; so with the sausages of the pork-
butchers.”

“Let us prove to him that braces grow upon the brace-
tree.—With all my heart; here is a botanical work, look for
the word Ficus.

“Ficus, Ficus religiosa—that’s not it. Ficus bengalensis—
nor that. Ficus virens, ficus scabra, ficus mauritana—none ot
them. Ficus populifolia, ficus ulmifolia. No. Ficus lauri-
folia, jicus cetrifolia, ficus crassinervia, sicus ferruginea,
ficus racemosa, ficus phytolaccefolia, ficus glaucophylla, sicus
scandens, ficus rubiginosa, jicus macrophylla, ficus nymphei-
folia. No, Where can it be? Ah! here it is, ficus elastica.

“Well, ficus elastica, does it exist? yes or no. Answer.
Can you read? What is that before you?”

“ Ficus elastica.”

“Well, do you believe that India exists? If you do not
believe that (ndia exists, why, we must show it to you ona
map; besides, you know what Poules d Inde (turkeys) are?
you know what Manons d’Inde (large chestnuts) are? Now
here are braces produced from the jicus elastica ; they are good
for nothing, they grew in the greenhouse at the Jardin des
Plantes. There are none good but such as are brought from
India every year, just the same as they grow pineapples; all
foreign fruits are in greatest perfection in their own country.
It is said the crop is excellent this year, the brace-trees are
loaded. Well, do you believe me now? Have you proofs
enough of that?”

“Oh, yes, when you produce good reasons—”

“ Well, it’s just the same with the sausage-tree. Is that
more surprising than braces on the jicus elastica ? If you are
only willing to believe what you have seen, you will not be-
lieve much, my good friend.”

The next morning they had a large cervelas a [ail (a large
sausage seasoned with garlic) served for his breakfast.

“Well, my friend, we have been fortunate enough to
get one; as nothing could convince you but proofs, here
it is.”

They tasted the sausage, and found it excellent.

“Do you imagine a vulgar porkbutcher could make any-
thing like that?

THE SAUSAGE-TREE. 245

‘ Rien n’est beau que le vrai; le vrai seul est aimable.’
(Nothing is beautiful but truth; truth alone is lovely.)

“And yet this even is not half so good as it might be; in
the first place, it did not grow in its native country, and then
it is not quite ripe; but such as it is, it is quite another
thing from those which the porkbutcher so coarsely imitates.”

“ Well, but this is very astonishing!”

“What is there astonishing in it? You know very well
that garlic grows in the earth. Does not nature produce pig?
Thus you admit that nature has produced the two elements
with which porkbutchers make their bad garlic sausages, and
you are not willing to believe that she has produced these
elements united in one and the same fruit?

“ Has not nature given to certain arums the odour of a leg
of mutton that has hung too long? Has she not given to the
Buddlea the colour and the odour of the stamens of the
saffron? Has she not? But you must have proefs! Monsieur
believes nothing without proofs. In good sooth, my friend,
I must tell you the truth, you become quite unsociable ; there
is no such thing as holding a conversation with you, none
of the ingenuousness of friendship, everything assumes the
air of a theorem, you must have proof of everything. It will
not be long before you will require proof that the sun shines,
or that it rains. And truly, I don’t know how we shall
furnish you with it,” &¢. &e.

This nonsense, uttered with the utmost confidence by five
or six men, and all directed against this poor fellow, whom
they constantly accused of incredulity and Voltairianism,
whom they style sceptic, strong-minded, or M. Arouet,
ended by completely turning his brain.

LETTER XLII. :

FLAX—THE DISCOMFITED FLOKISTS.

I wavE not yet done with my tuft of flax.

Flax has a slender stalk a foot high, and is of a sea-green
colour; every morning it displays pretty pale blue flowers,
which yield to the ardour of the sun, fall, and are replaced by
others on the morrow.

Some tolerably large books have been written upon this
important subject: were the vestments of the Egyptian
priests, and of the persons initiated into the mysteries of
Isis, really made of linen or cotton?

Upon this question travellers afford us the following in-
formation :—

Osbeck (Voyage aux Indes) says that flax is not known in
Egypt. Olivier (Mémoire sur l’Egypte) says that immense
quantities of flax are cultivated in that country.

THE TWO FLORISTS. 247

Science, thanks to travellers, is just as far advanced on this
point as an inhabitant of La Place Sulpice, who had never
been any further than the Luxembourg.

Just now I wrote or pronounced the name of Buddlea; for
it always appears to me in my unpremeditated, off-hand
letters, that I am quietly chattering by the fireside.

I knew two amateurs of flowers who were animated by
a noble and touching emulation in their cultivation.

The pleasure of the one, when obtaining a new flower, was
not to see the flower, to watch the progress of its vegetation,
to admire the splendour of its colours, to breathe its perfume,
——the pleasure, the true pleasure, was to show it to the other,
and to see him envy him the possession of it. Happy in
having the plant, he was still more happy that the other had
it not. A friendship founded upon such bases might last
for a long time, but could not be secure from occasional
tempests.

There came a year in which one of our two horticulturists
assumed a more reserved air than common; he looked like
a balloon ready to burst ; to such a degree was he puffed out
with ill concealed satisfaction and dangerously rarefied vanity.

The other affected a modest air, perpetual admiration of
the acquisitions, or the jewels of his rival.

For persons who knew them both this was a certain sign
that each of them expected the blooming of something that
would be very disagreeable to his friend, the flowering of some-
grief for him: each, in the meantime, made extraordinary
concessions to the other. People don’t willingly lose a friend
in whom they are sure speedily to inspire so much envy.

The younger of the two, M. Ollbruck, came to ask pardon
of M. Rémond, for a pleasantry of very bad taste which he had
committed the year before.

This was the joke.

That year, after having reciprocally invited each other
to visit. successively their hyacinths, their tulips, their ane-
mones, their auriculas, their roses, their pinks; in a word,
all the flowers allowed to be flowers, in the same manner, as
we have before said, only certain animals are allowed by
sportsmen to be game, neither had obtained the least ad-
vantage over the other. A conqueror in hyacinths, M.

248 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Rémond had been conquered in tulips, had taken his revenge
in auriculas, but the equilibrium had been reestablished by
the blooming of the ranunculuses.

But in the month of June, M. Rémond led M. Ollbruck to
a corner of his garden, and showed him a large thistle with
immense leaves spotted with white, called the Charden-marie,
in full splendour.

Now, this is really a plant of great magnificence, and of
which I take particular care in my garden; but could never
be deemed worthy of a second glanve by so thorough an
amateur as M. Ollbruck. We do not cultivate thistles; and,
however handsome a thistle may be, it is but a thistle.

M. Rémond would not have thought much of it in his
neighbour’s garden; but in his own, it was, he said, an ad-
mirable plant.

M. Ollbruck asked him why he did not make a collection
of nettles, and a collection of chickweed, as well as a collection
of thistles. They parted comfortably, and M. Ollbruck, avail-
ing himself of the first pretext to write to his friend and rival,
addressed him thus:

“* A Monsieur,
Monsieur Rémond, orties-culteur.”

For this piece of diluted facetiousness it was that M. Oll-
bruck came to ask a pardon which M. Rémond granted with
great eagerness; and each began the performance of his
character.

M. Rémond rubbed his hands and said, “ Ah! ah! my fine
fellow, it is not a thistle this time; it isa good and a beau-
tiful thing; it is something quite unknown, something that
you have never seen; you will not have much occasion to
crow over me this year.”

M. Ollbruck, on the contrary, said, “You will not have
much trouble in beating me; for I have really nothing :—
ab! yes,—but a bagatelle, a nothing, which does not displease
me; but which you, perhaps, will not deign to look at,—and,
perhaps, you will be in the right; for, perhaps, I am wrong
in admiring it.”

And M. Rémond, who knew his man, said to himself:
“Hem! hem! it would appear he has something very good,
that is his manner; but never mind that, all the better even: ,

THE DISCOVERY. 249

if he has anything very good, I would rather it should be this
year than any other, in which I am stronger than [ ever
have been.”

“My good Monsieur Rémond,” M. Ollbruck came one
morning to say, in a very bland manner, “ if it would not in-
convenience you, I should like very much for you to come
and see the little thing I spoke of.”

“ Ah! are you there, my dear Ollbruck? I am delighted to
see you,we will go and visit my triumph to-morrow morning,
—I am curious to see what sort of a figure you will make.”

“ My good Monsieur Rémond, I will go and humble myself
before your magnificence whenever you please; but that
which I have to show you is such a trifle, that I do not enter-
tain a hope that you will think it worthy of a second
glance.”

“This fellow is pretty confident,” thought Rémond to
himself; then he added aloud: “ Listen, Ollbruck, I warn
you of one thing, which is, that my plant, brilliant as it
will appear to you, is not in perfection; it suffered from the
last winter.”

“ That is exactly the case with mine, Monsieur Rémond,
the winter tried it very severely.”

“But, you know, the prettiest girl in the world—”

“ Exactly ! exactly!”

After long ceremonies, they went to Rémond’s garden, and
there Rémond showed us, (for I was with them,) a beautiful
shrub, the young branches of which are white; the large,
oblong, figured leaves, of a deep green on the upper side, and
white beneath, do not abandon the tree during the winter.
At the extremity of each branch blows a lax cluster of seven
or eight round balls formed into little alveoles or cells like
those of a honeycomb; the centre ball is of the most splendid
orange-colour, and yields an agreeable saffron odour; when
the flower begins to decline, it smells like honey; it was
a Buddlea.

“Well!” said M. Rémond, triumphantly.

Ollbruck was confounded, pale, speechless.

“ Well! what do you say to that?” repeated M. Rémond.

“Tt is fine, it is superb; but I know the plant.”

“T did not imagine you did not know the plant. I know

250 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

the crown diamonds, but I am not the possessor of them any
the more for that. Breathe this odour, and look at this
colour !—the leaves evergreen—my poor Ollbruck! A tree
which does not shed its leaves in the winter—and what leaves !
green at top and lined with silver! I did not expect to see
you so completely astonished. Never mind, Ollbruck, you will
have your revenge next year. Come, let us go and see your
prodigy !”

“ My prodigy !” cried Ollbruck, as if waking from a dream.
“ Yes, come, let us go and see it at once, and if you are not
as much astonished as I am —”

We went straight to Ollbruck’s garden, and he showed us
—what !—the Buddlea !—precisely the same shrub we had
been admiring in Rémond’s,

Rémond was in his turn overwhelmed with vexation, for,
for him as well as for Ollbruck, the Buddlea immediately lost
all value. What does either care for its beautiful evergreen
fusiage, for the splendour or perfume of the flowers?

Upon inquiring into the cause of this whimsical coinci-
dence, it was found that they were both victims of the artful
knavery of a gardener.

This comical fellow, knowing their mania, went to one after
the other; but first presented himself to M. Rémond.

“ Monsieur Rémond, I have a rare plant to show you.”

“ What is it?”

“Tt is a Buddlea.”

“ A Buddlea! I don’t know that name.”

“T can very well believe that: you don’t know the plant;
come and look at it at my garden.”

Rémond accompanied the gardener, and was astonished.

“ How much do you want for it?”

© A louis.”

“ How many have you of them?”

“Two. I mean to offer the second to M. Ollbruck.”

“Oh, no! don’t do that. What must I give you for the
two?”

“ Three louis.”

“What! instead of abating me something.”

“Your taking both will be of no advantage to me. I am
certain that M. Ollbruck would take the second of me.”

THE FRAUDULENT GARDENER. 251

“Come, put them down at two louis.”

“T cannot. I must have something for the pleasure of
which I deprive myself in not offering it to M. Ollbruch, who

is a very good customer, and never takes his dahlias of
Vaulin.”

“ Ah! apropos, I bespeak twenty-five dahlias, six of which
must be white-tipped.”

“Very well; but listen, M. Rémond: only take one Buddlea.
I know that three louis is too dear, and I would rather gain
only one louis by the two, and please at the same‘time both
you and M. Ollbruck.”

“ Well, if it must be so, here are the three louis.”

“No; truly, Sir, I would rather you would only take one;
M. Ollbruck will be angry.”

“The bargain is made, I will take the plants with me, and
here are the three louis.”

M. Rémond plants one of his Buddleas, breaks the other to
pieces, and burns it.

He was scarcely gone when the gardener replaced the two
Buddleas by two others, and went to seek M, Ollbruck, upon
whom he played off exactly the same trick. He reserved the
second for M. Rémond.

Ollbruck acted in just the same manner that Rémond had .
done, and each counted the days to the period at which he
hoped to humble his rival by the sight of the famous
Buddlea.

The Buddlea in their eyes is no longer good for anything
but firewood. Ollbruck pulled up his, and trampled it under
his feet. I saved Rémond’s, which was about to share the
same fate, and planted it in my garden, where it forms some
apology for the vulgar and common plants to which I give an

asylum.

LETTER XLII.

A MODERN DEITY—A PHILOSOPHICAL AND THEOLOGICAL HISTORY OF HEMP
AND FLAX, WITH THEIR VARIOUS FORTUNES FROM THEIR BIRTH TO THEIR
APOTHEOSIS.

Everytuine that has been hitherto obeyed having been suc-
cessively destroyed; all things to which obedience bas been
rendered having been progressively abolished, men have set
about creating new masters. “ Man is not,” as has been too
often said in prose and verse, “a slave who is ambitious of
breaking his chains,—he is nothing but a capricious servant
who loves to change his master.” In political history ne
tyrant has ever been overthrown but for the advantage of
another more or less remote.

THE IDOL’S BIRTH. 253

People have renounced for ever the old immortal gods, and
have imagined themselves an idol which they make for the
wants of every day; an all-powerful idol in the morning,
which meets with some incredulous votaries at mid-day, and
impious ones at three o'clock. =

This is the manner in which he is made:—Towards the
end of March, the seed of flax is sown in light ground, and
the seed of hemp in ground that has been well manured.

In the month of July the hemp puts forth some insignifi-
cant greenish flowers, and shortly its grey round seeds, of
which birds are so fond, and which they come and steal,
follow: it may truly be said of it,—-

“ Aux petits des oiseaux il donne la pAture.”
(To the young of birds he gives food.)

In the month of June the fields of flax are covered with
little blue flowers upon slender stalks, which bend and roll
with the wind like the waves of the sea.

When they both begin to get yellow, they are pulled up
and put to steep, that is to say, they are plunged into water.
There the terrible power they are destined to wield begins to
manifest itself; the fish that inhabit the waters in which they
are immersed either fly or perish; the men who are employed
in this part of the preparation of them, are affected with a
dry cough, and seldom live beyond the age of fifty years.

Both hemp and flax are metamorphosed into thread.

Hemp becomes cordage to moor vessels and boats in rivers,
and string for tops and boys’ kites.

But what curious and ‘eager crowd is that rushing through
the streets? A man, pale and with his eyes fixed, is escorted
by soldiers towards the most public place in the city; he is
given up to the hangman, who passes a hempen cord round
his neck and launches him into eternity.

And here, as from time to time, some believers recognise
the idol; and it is well known with what avidity the good
women contend for the smallest bits of the cord with which
the man has been hung.

Numerous vessels glide over the bosom of the sea like
great swans with extended wings. These white wings are
still hemp transformed into cloth.

254 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

During this time, the flax, transformed into cloth likewise,
but finer and lighter, replaces the fig-leaf which constituted
the sole vestment of our first parents, and which has under-
‘gone such strange vicissitudes. Strange to say, the fig-leaf
now-a-days must be ten ells long and at least half an ell wide.
Apropos of this, I cannot think why so many people persist
in clothing our first parents and the statues in public gardens
with a vine-leaf.

Flax envelopes, conceals, and keeps from contact with the
air the satin skins of our ladies.

But both seem threatened with a cessation of these em-
ployments; science is lessening the use of sails; fashion is
making a reform in linen vestments.

When once upon the precipitous declivity of decline and
dishonour, they are not long in becoming sad rags, degraded
strips, thrown away with disdain into holes and corners and
among the filth of cities.

But this humiliation is the path of thorns which leads to
power; it is like the pill which purified Hercules and made
him a god.

In general, demi-gods and great men die of hunger, and
arrive at immortality a little sooner than they wish, and
then their contemporaries willingly deify them in touching
festivals in which is mixed a little joy at having got rid of
them.

Romulus only became a god after he had been torn te
pieces. Claudius gained immortality by means of mush-
rooms, poison, and the colic.

Thus hemp and flax are not at all discouraged, and wait
philosophically in holes and corners for the fresh humiliations
which, like a road, separates them, it is true, from supreme
power, but which, nevertheless, conducts them to it.

By night, ragged, half-starved men, go about with lanterns
in their hands collecting these rags, which they heap together
in large tubs, in which the flax and hemp become a sort of
infectious matter.

Of this matter paper is made.

Although paper, they have not yet become idols; they are
sold by the ream and the quire; but they will not have to
wait long,

THE IDOL’S PROGRESS. 955

During this time, on another side, other men are bruising,
pounding, diluting poisons, mixing them and turning them
over fire, till they become of the colour of mourning.

The priests of the idol which is about to be made, then shut
themselves up with the paper, and trace characters upon it.
These characters amount to twenty-four; but, by their
position, they change both their signification and their value.

If such an one of these figures be placed with such
another, and between those certain others, a man a hundred
leagues off, lifts up his head, feels himself puffed up with joy
and pride, and others venerate and envy him.

If, on the contrary, it be another figure which is after such
another figure and before such another, the same man is over-
whelmed with grief and shame, he dares no longer to leave
his house, he shuns the regards of men, everybody attacks
him, ridicules him, abuses him.

The idol is folded in four, and slipped underneath doors,

Certainly it cannot be said of him as Virgil said of the
goddess of beauty in half a charming verse,—

‘« Et vera incessu patet Dea.”

(Her step betrays the goddess.)

He enters underneath doors, it is true; but, when once
entered, he is master of every house; he begins by uttering
oracles ; then there is but one step from oracles to miracles;
of a fool he makes a man of wit, and of a man of wit an
idiot; of a sordid and ambitious man a virtuous and disin-
terested citizen ; he sends a king into exile, and crowns whom
he pleases.

Then the people who regret old beliefs may experience
very great delight. They see them all revive, but consider-
ably augmented.

The idol announces to you miraculous waters, which
prevent the hair from growing grey; and blacking which
revivifies-old boots; and he is believed.

The idol promises the realization of that famous cabbage,
which could not be cooked but in a pot as large as a church;
and he is believed.

He promises men in place who shall neither corrupt nor be

256 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

corrupted, and disinterested citizens, devoted to the public
good; and he is believed.

To try your faith, the oracle relates to you the most absurd
histories; and you believe him.

Never was a deity so punctually obeyed.

But the day is near its end ; the day finishes, the idol sees his
altars abandoned. On the morrow morning, he finds nothing
but disdainful iconoclasts in those that had been his most
fervent adorers; he is exposed to more insults than he has
undergone in all that life so full of vicissitudes which we have
described.

Never was idol so treated, he is cut into round pieces
to cover pots of preserves, and into long pieces, to light
pipes with ; into square pieces, for children to make ducks,
boats, and salt-boxes of.

There is no domestic use to which the idol of yesterday
may not be degraded to-day.

During this time, another deity, who has likewise been
slipped under the door, comes in his turn to utter his oracles ;
he is listened to and obeyed with the same respect and the
same kindness, until on the morrow he goes to the preserve
pots and to light the fire.

Such is the true unadorned history of the greatness and
the fall of flax and hemp.

Now, who could believe this, particularly of flax, which
has so innocent, so pure an air, when it opens in the morning
its little blue flowers, so light and so fragile !

n i) 2
ea eS *

3 PT 7 j
pant y) (MCA,
Ay peibe

iN oh 3

LETTER XLIV.

THE TENDRILS OF PLANTS—THE PURPLE OF THE ANCIENTS~THE MARCH OF
THE ORCHIS.

Here is a singular law which I have never known to be
infringed: among the climbing plants all do not form the
spiral by which they embrace the tree or the trellis to which
they cling in the same manner.

The convolvulus, which opens its beautiful bells of all
colours in the morning a little before day; the scarlet-runner,
with its brilliant flowers, which climbs to the tops of trees;
the Wistaria, with its blue clusters, which covers my house—
form their spirals from left to right: whilst the honey-
suckle, my dear honeysuckle, as well as the hop, turn about
supporting trees from right to left, and that always without
exception. Never will a honeysuckle or a hop twine round
a tree by turning from left to right. Never will a convol-
vulus, or a scarlet-runner, or a Wistaria, climb by making

their spirals from right to left.
8

258 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Other climbing plants have particular manners of raising
themselves; the vine, the passion-flower, which wears the
appearance of a cross of St. Louis; the clematis with its
little perfumed flowers, the sweet pea with its odoriferous
butterflies, attach themselves by little elastic gimlets in the
shape of corkscrews.

Ivy ascends straight up, shooting little roots into the bark
of trees or into the chinks in walls.

And in the same manner acts the Bignonia radicans,
except that it only fastens its old wood, and lets its branches
of the year droop with their clusters of long red flowers.

The jasmin with its silver stars supports its new shoots
upon its old branches.

So likewise does the woody nightshade, whose bunches of
violet flowers are succeeded by magnificent girandoles of
emerald or coral (I say coral for want of a stone as brilliant
as the berries of the nightshade) according to the degree of
maturity of its fruit.

The brier and the periwinkle climb by the strength of the
sap alone, fall back when they attain a certain height, imme-
diately take root again by the point with which they touch
the earth, and spring up again with fresh vigour.

In one of my preceding letters, when speaking of colours,
I asked if there were a savant who could tell what was exactly
the colour of the purple of the ancients, I, this morning,
stumbled by accident upon a passage in Pliny, which says
that the flower of the Amaranth is of a more beautiful
purple than any that dyers can attain. Unfortunately, the
Amaranth is a flower that sports very much; there are Ama-
vanth flowers of all the shades of carmine, from rose-colour to
violet, there are some approaching to white, and some yellow.
If Pliny had chosen for the term of his comparison a
flower of a fixed colour, we should have our question an-
swered,

This reminds me that Virgil, in the fourth book of the
Georgics, says saffron is red,—

*¢ Crocumque rubentem.”

The saffron is violet, and has orange stamens. I do not
know which of these colours is called red in Latin. It is

THE MARCH OF THE ORCHIS, 259

equally to be regretted that we have not the black violet,
which is elsewhere mentioned—

“Et nigre viole sunt.”

A savant has calculated what is the rate of march of the
orchides. It must first be proved how the orchides can
change their places: the orchis is a spike of little violet, rose,
white, or variegated flowers which issues from two bulbs, one
of which is small, empty, and as if become thin; whilst the
other is white and full of juice.

The smaller of the two bulbs, the wrinkled one, is that
from which the flower draws its sap and its nourishment ; the
other will nourish the flower next year. Now, these two
bulbs being distant from each other by some lines, when the
old one becomes quite dry, and a new bulb has grown by the
side of the other, the plant will be displaced by the space
which is that year between the two bulbs, that is to say nearly
six lines, which shows that it would not require more than
twelve thousand years for the orchis to travel a league!

LETTER XLV.

NATURE’S SYMPATHY LESS SUBLIME THAN ITS INDIFFERENCE,

Ir appears that formerly trees and plants were happily
connected with men in various ways, which connezions have
been now interrupted. I neither know why nor how; it
would be a difficult matter to say which was wrong first.

If a shepherd left his country for a short time, everything
reminded him of it, everything mourned his absence:

“Te Tityre pinus,
Ipsi te fontes, ipsa hec arbusta vocalfint.”

Pellio has a son born. That gives pleasure to both the
barley and the wheat; they take a touching part in the hap-
piness of the lieutenant of Augustus:

“ Flavescet campus arist4.”

The sheep not finding themselves sufficiently well dressed

SYMPATHY OF NATURE. 261

for the occasion, think it their duty, and make it a pleasure
to stain themselves red and yellow: |

“« Ipse sed in pratis aries jam suave rubenti
Muricé, jam croceo mutabit vellera luto.”

_ Gallus is a prey to unsuccessful love; the laurels pity him
ee and the brambles even shed some tears over his
te:

“ Tilum etiam lauri, illum etiam flevere myricz.”

When Anacreon wishes to drink, the roses come of them-
selves to crown his silver locks:

“TS pddov To THY EpwTwy,
Té pddov 7d KaARipuAAov.”

For my part, I am to-day as happy as possible; I have got
rid of an annoyance—Edmond is gone, although till the
moment of his departure, nothing announced that he did not
intend to stay twenty years.

Thus “ Happiness is composed of evils we have escaped.”

Iam happy, and yet I seek in vain in my garden for a little
sympathy.

‘Certainly, I am under no obligation to the roses for being
in bloom, or to the honeysuckles for throwing about their
odours so prodigally from the tops of the trees; this is not
done for my sake; they do not do this for the purpose of
associating themselves with my joy.

But there are some flowers which I in some degree reckoned
upon ; the gorteria—that beautiful flower with its green foliage
lined with white, and blossoms of a splendid orange colour
which only open to the sun—might have shown me a little
delicate attention by expanding its rays to-day, although the
weather be rather dull.

The tiger lilies—those beautiful cups of purple and gold
which last only for a few hours—might have prolonged their
blooming for a minute or two, as an evidence of rejoicing.

The aristea—which, upon a miniature foliage of the iris, ex-
hibits charming little blueroses that close in the shade—might
have had the good feeling to keep its blossoms open.

The briars-and the Jawrels might have afforded me a few
tears of joy, as they wept so freely in pity for Gallus.

262 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

My pigeons might have become green or blue; and it
would not have appeared unkind in the roses if they had
tressed up their crests a little.

As for the wheat and barley, I have no complaint to make
of them, as I do not know what they would have done, or
how they would have behaved themselves, seeing that I have
none of either in my garden.

But as to the others—

Here is a rose, now—can you imagine what it has done?
It has enveloped in its petals a rose-beetle, which is going
comfortably to sleep.

The gorterias have folded up their petals in their full
length; the asterias have rolled up theirs, and are absolutely
as fast asleep as if Edmond were not gone.

The pigeons—the pigeons have something else to do than
to stain themselves blue or red; they think themselves,
besides, very well as they are, and are exceedingly busy
telling one another go.

The tiger lilies, as ragged as ill-closed twists of paper, are
ready to fall to the earth ; but nothing can equal the indiffe-
rence of the briars and laurels /

Seriously this fiction, which poets good and bad have all
abused, of showing that trees and flowers partake our sadness
and mourning, our joy and our pleasure, is, for me, a less
elevated poetry than the superb indifference of nature. I am
not convinced even if they have any right to create this
falsehood in order to increase the sadness of their songs.

The church bell sounds: the peasants say—Ah! there is a
funeral bell!

And now the sun, who has triumphed over the clouds, sheds
upon everything the colours of joy and life, like a look of love
and goodness, which God allows to fall upon the earth.

The flowers, spreading forth their beauties like a brilliant
illumination, appear to attract the sun. The insects seek
each other beneath the leaves ; the bees hum; the birds sing;
sweet odours float around.

And the funeral bell continues its heavy monotonous toll,
and the peasants bear to the grave a fair young girl, who so
dearly loved flowers, the sun, perfumes, the hum of bees, and
the song of birds ; that lovely girl who planted many of there

THE SUBLIMITY OF NATURE'S CALM. 263

rose-trees ; that lovely girl who was so fond and careful of her
bees !

They bear her to the cemetery, and to the bottom of the
hole which they have dug in the ground to bury her in, a ray
of the sun penetrates and gilds the depth of the grave; two
butterflies sportively pursue each other over it; in a few
months grass will conceal her resting-place, forgetfulness will
have overcome remembrance; flowers will bloom upon that
grave; the smile will return to the lips of him who loved
her, another love will spring up in his heart, and he will
whisper it to another; under those very same trees, the rays
of that same sun will play among the hyacinthine curls of
this new love, the same perfumes, the same songs of birds will
fill the air; and perhaps he may offer her a rose gathered
from one of the trees this fair dead girl had planted!

LETTER XLVI.

THE CONNOISSEUR IS DECEIVED.

A man, with whom I was very intimate when 1 was an
inhabitant of cities, came to see me, and we conversed a great
deal upon our opposite tastes, and upon the things which
occupy and give interest to our lives.

On his part, he takes no account of flowers, or trees, or the
heavens, or the moon, or men, or animals; none of these can
interest him till after they have been reduced, flattened, dis-
figured, and traced upon canvas by means of colours and a
brush. He gives a high price for the images of things which
in his eyes have no value; he paid 9,950 franes for a picture
by Van Huysum. This picture represents a vase of flowers.

NATURE AND ART. 265

The real bouquet—the living bouquet, with its splendour and
its perfumes, might be worth twenty sous. ;

For the portrait of this bouquet, that is to say, a flat imita-
tion, false in colours, and smelling of oil, he paid 9,950 francs!
and is proud and happy at having made so good a bargain!

I conducted him round my garden, but he looked at
scarcely anything. A branch of hundred-leaved roses, bend-
ing under the weight of its blossoms, for a moment, however,
attracted his attention: he looked at it and exclaimed, “ How
like that is to a bouquet of roses by Van Daél which I have
at home!”

It was very evident that he thought nature had made an
attempt to imitate his picture.

In the evening, after supper, pipes and some Turkey
tobacco were brought in, and we chatted upon all manner
of things; but he always contrived means to bring the sub-
ject round to one of his pictures, by some imperceptible
thread or other.

At length, “Listen,” said I. “I likewise have pictures,
but I will only show them to you by daylight; to-morrow
morning will do.”

“ And what pictures have you?” asked he, with a more
than half disdainful air.

“T have a great number.”

“ Are they pictures by known masters?”

“T suppose so; for I have never seen any more beautiful,
more grand in their ensemble, or more finished in their
details.”

“ Ah, ah! we shall see that.”

“Oh! I don’t conceal them from anybody. Iam not one
of those egotistical amateurs, who find less pleasure in the
possession of their pictures, than they do in the conviction
that others -have none, or at least that they have not the
same.”

“ Did your collection cost you much?”

“T got it for nothing.”

“For nothing! Oh, I know what that means! Picture
amateurs are divided into two classes: those of the first have
expended millions upon their galleries; those of the second,
on the contrary, always get their pictures for nothing. Their

266 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

pretence is to have discovered them on the shelves of some
dealers in images, or upon panels over the chimney of a
village inn, or even among a lot of old bottles. You are of
the second class.”

“You are welcome to place me in which class you please.”

“Well; but by whom are your best pictures?”

“ Oh! as to that, I really cannot tell you; I have no memory
for names. And, to be frank with you, it is a circumstance
I pay no attention to. I should prefer having a fine picture
painted by my porter to a daub by Raffaelle. And what is
very singular, this opinion, worthy, from its ingenuousness,
of being placed in the rank of the maxims and thoughts of
M. de la Palesse, would easily pass for an originality or a
whimsicality. I seek for nothing in painting but the true
and the beautiful.”

“You really excite my curiosity to see the pictures of
a man who entertains such ideas. Can’t you recollect any
of them?”

“Oh, yes. I could easily describe, at least for the most
part, what my pictures represent.”

“Well.”

“Well, I have one above this room; it is of a vast plain,
surrounded on all sides by trees. Upon the verdant grass,
dotted with shadow and light by the sun which is setting
behind the trees, repose some sheep. The whole has a charm
of calmness and repose which yields the greatest pleasure.”

“T am sure that is by Van der Doés. Well, that is not
worth much.”

“All I know is, that it is very beautiful; and I do not
believe that it is by Van der Doés.”

“You astonish me.”

« Another is a sunken road, such as in Normandy is called
une cavée. Travellers walk lower than the roots of.trees, whose
tops extend over the wall of earth which forms the two sides
of the road, thick and long roots like twisted serpents.”

“TJ should not be surprised if that were a copy; and my
reason for thinking so, a reason which I think good, and not
subject to contradiction, is that I possess the original, which
is by J. Ruysdaél.”

“T assure you it is not a copy.”

PICTURES. 267

“ Ah! we shall see.”

“T am convinced that a sight of the picture wi!l make
you change your opinion. By the side of it you see the
entrance to a village; amidst trees with rounded tops shoots
up the church spire; the sun, which darts his oblique rays,
fills the foliage of the trees with golden sparks; a peasant is
driving home his cart.”

“Tf that picture be, as I think it is, by J. Ostade, it is
valuable.”

“TI do not believe that any Ostade ever did anything ap-
proaching it.”

“ My dear friend, you don’t understand the Ostades.”

“TI was yesterday looking at another picture which de-
lighted me very much: a child was seated at a window
blowing soap-bubbles; the child was serious and attentive,
whilst the bubble, still a captive, appeared to grow larger
and larger, as it balanced itself upon an imperceptible breath
of air. The most enchanting colours succeeded each other
upon this frail globe of glass.”

“Oh; that is a well-known picture! I saw it at the house
of an amateur, from whom you must have bought it: that
is by J. Mieris.” _

“TJ did not buy it.”

“Oh, dear no; I suppose it was given you!—or else you
found it! As I told you, you are an amateur of the second
class. You pretend to have got for nothing a picture worth
6,000 francs!”

“The back ground of another is composed of magnificent
chestnut-trees, with large leaves of golden green, rendered
still more so by the rays of the setting sun; a small house
covered with vines is entirely gilded by the last warm rays of
the star of day; nearer, and towards the centre, a Bohemian
olive, and an elder-tree much lower down; so that the oblique
rays of the sun passing over and into the shade, leave the
foliage of the first of a whiteish hue, and the tuft of the
latter of a dark green. In front of the elder is a purple
blossomed rose; its lower flowers are in shade; one alone,
which shoots beyond the elder, catches a ray of the sun, and
looks like a magnificent ruby.”

“ Are there no figures?”

268 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

“ None.”

“Then I cannot tell whom that can be by.”

“T feel no doubt that you will recognise the master when
you see the picture.”

“Very possibly—nay, even probably, I may; but at pre-
sent my memory does not furnish me with anything like
that.”

“T saw another this morning which very much interested
me. It was a beautiful woman, holding a pink in her hand.”

“Oh, well known: that’s by Rubens.”

“Do you think so?”

“T am sure of it; but you must permit me to be less sure
of another thing.”

“ Oh, certainly; and pray what is the thing of which you
are not sure?”

“That is, that this picture can belong to you.”

“ Well, I don’t positively say it does belong to me; but
what I do say is, that I saw it in my house this morning.”

“My dear friend, my dear friend! allow me to speak
frankly to you. There is one thing I greatly fear on your
account; I am afraid you are the dupe of some picture-
dealer, who has plundered you and made you pay very dear
for mere daubs.”

“T beg you, my good friend, to keep this kind interest for
others; I do assure you that the pictures of which I tell you
are all that is most beautiful; I have never seen any, in any
gallery, which can compare with mine, either in truth, design,
or colour.”

“T am accustomed to hear every amateur, if he be only
the master of three middling copies, or five or six unowned
sketches, seek to make himself believe that he possesses mira-
cles. Now, I may be allowed to say to you what I am going
to observe, because you do not pretend to be rich, but on
the contrary, you rather pretend not to be so. Well; I know
the value of the pictures you have described to me; and I
declare to you, that if you really possess them ; if, as you tell
me, these form but a small part of your collection; if you
have not amused yourself with laughing at me. .... How
many pictures have you?”

“Too many to count.”

NATURE VERSUS ART. 269

“Well, then; your gallery cannot have cost you less than
200,000 francs.”

“ Nonsense! It cost me nothing.”

“You are certainly the most audacious of any amateur of
this kind I have ever met with. I wish to-morrow were
come.”

The next morning I led my friend into a large room with
four windows, and said to him, “ Here are my pictures, and
the windows are the frames.”

“Oh! that’s but a joke!”

“Not at all; look, some of my pictures are a little changed
since the last time I looked at them, but they are not the less
beautiful on that account. This is the one you took to be
Ostade, and which is, as the others, simply by the Almighty.
There are the trees and the steeple; the cart is no longer
there, but there is a girl driving cows to pasture, which is
better. Do you believe that Ostade ever attained that truth,
that drawing, that colour, that light?

“Here, on the left, through the other window, is the
hollowed road, which is not by J. Ruysdaél, and of which you
pretend to have the original; I had a right, however, to tell
you that mine is not a copy; it is evident that of the two
pictures, however original yours may be, mine is not the
copy.

“And here is the meadow upon which the sun and shade
play with such effect; there are the tall trees, and the sheep
which repose upon the grass: that likewise is by the Almighty,
and not by Van der Doés.”

“ Well, well; it’s all a very good joke.”

“ No, I am not joking at all; so far from it, I think it is
you who are joking, or else take me for an idiot, to hope to
make me believe that you attach more value to a little tree
daubed upon canvass, flat, without shade, without colours,
without perfume, without the song of birds, than to that
noble, living tree, which, perfumed and harmonious, covers
us with its shade. What! you pay 200,000 francs for
the imperfect imitation of a tree worth five francs! will
you venture to speak of the difficulty overcome? Why do
you not pay more dearly for the imitation of diamonds
and rubies than for true diamonds and rubies? and yet that

270 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

imitation is much more perfect, and is so successful as to
deceive almost anybody. False jewels, as well as true, shine,
and draw upon those who wear them, the same admiration,
envy, and hatred, that the real ones would; whilst no one is
deceived by the painting. The birds which, according to
Pliny, wanted to eat the grapes by Zeuxis, would not be
so taken in now-a-days; there does not exist any bird so silly
as to attempt to build its nest in a painted tree.

“ What! and is it to pay so dearly for feeble imitations
of all the beautiful things we can have for nothing, that men
ruin themselves; fill their lives with anxieties and cares, and
stuff their pillows with thorns ?

“No, no; it is you who are joking and who are laughing
at me; or else I must believe that you, and all who resemble
you, are downright madmen.”

LETTER XLVII.

A TALE OF YOUTH.

I witt tell you what a large plum-tree which shades a
corner of my favourite grass-plat reminds me of; it is a tale
of my youth, ;

As I had, what is called, goné through my studies with
credit ; that is to say, as I was acquainted with Latin, and
could manage a little Greek, I was very much embarrassed to
find an honest means of gaining my living.

Whilst in the embarrassment of this difficulty, I one day met
a man in the street, who accosted me by holding out his hand
to me. I did not at first recognise him; but at all events
it was a mark of kindness, and I gave him my hand, which
he shook cordially. He had been, in the college at which
I had studied, what is called a@ yard dog; that is to say,
guardian over our recreations, positive and negative—recrea-~

272 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

tions in which we really played, and recreations which we
passed in copying:
“A peine nous sortions des portes de Trézéne.”
(We scarcely ever went out from the gates of Trezene.)

The principal cause of my not knowing him arose from the
unwonted splendour of his appearance. He was dressed in
black, and wore a watch with a rich gold chain. He told me
his name, and explained the change that had taken place
in his position, He had left the college, to perform the
same office in the establishment of the master of a small
private boarding-school. The affairs of this master were
in great confusion; to escape from the hands of his cre-
ditors, he formed the idea of placing both his school and
his furniture under another name, and cast his eyes upon
Levasseur. He passed six months in teaching him by rote
what he would have to answer the examiners in order to
receive his licence to teach; then he made a false sale of his
furniture, é&c. to him, taking of him a counter letter, to prove
the invalidity of the transaction.

A short time afterwards, he fell ill upon a journey, and
died at a little inn. Levasseur tore up the counter-letter, which
the dead man had placed in his hands on leaving home, and
remained sole master of the establishment.

It was a matter of great moment, when I met him, to find
an under-master; in the first place, because he was entirely
incapable, and in the next, because he was desirous of giving
himself a little occasional recreation, and not to be always
chained to the oar.

When he met me, I have no doubt he was as much sur-
prised at the modesty of my costume, as I was surprised
at the magnificence of his; a remark to which I dare say
I was indebted for his proposing to me to come and live
with him.

“ Listen to me,” said he : “we shall be like two brothers;
I will share everything with you. I have nothing at present,
because I have been obliged to sustain a lawsuit against the
creditors of my predecessor, because everything was in bad
condition..... he was a man who had no idea of order, and
who did me a deal of injury. The capital I placed in this

M. LEVASSEUR BEGINS TO ENCROACH. 273

business is wasted in bringing things about; I am in debt,
both for the lawsuit and indispensable repairs. So, you see,
I cannot offer you any money at present; you shall be
lodged as I am, fed as I am; and as soon as our united
efforts shall be successful, you shall share my prosperity as you
will have shared my poverty. Will that do?”

The moment was admirably chosen, everything went wrong
with me; besides, I took these falsehoods for frankness and
honesty: I accepted his offer, reproaching myself for still
fancying so good a fellow had a false and vulgar air about
him. The next day I took up my abode with him.

I was not long in finding out that he did not treat me
exactly like a brother; if he did it was like a younger brother,
and kept up in the most rigorous manner the most obliterated
traditions even of the rights of the elder born.

My chamber was next to the sky, and furnished with
a flock-bed and one chair; of four squares which formed the
window of my domicile, and admitted more cold than light,
one was of paper. With respect to my food, I dined with
him and his wife, a vulgar fat woman. After dinner the first
day, they invited me to take some coffee with them, which
I at that time did not much like, and some liqueur which
I did not like at all, and which I determined to decline in
future. On the second day, at coffee-time, Levasseur pre-
tended to listen, and said:—“Monsieur Stephen, I think
there is too much noise in school.” I arose and went to re-
establish order; which, by-the-bye, I found had not been
disturbed.

The day after, exactly at the moment for the introduction
of coffee, M. Levasseur again believed he heard a noise in
school. This appeared to me to be rather singular. I, how-
ever, got up, but found all perfectly quiet.

On the following day, the same noise assailed his ears, just
at the same instant.

I then perceived that they were not willing to give me any
coffee. This discovery relieved me from an annoyance,—that
of remaining at table with them; and I adopted the plan
of rising from table as soon as I had finished my meal,
and going into the school-room, where I could read, or think,
or write a letter, which I hoped to be able to slip into

T

274, A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

her hand on the following Friday, and I was more happy
in doing that than I had ever been in my life.

Every day fresh encroachments were made upon our mutual
agreements.

At first, I was at liberty every evening. Then, one day,
he wanted to go out, and begged me to remain at home for
this once. It was not a Friday, so I did not care much
about it.

A few days after, came the same prayer and the same
success. On the morrow it was the lady who came to me,
and said with a smile, if I was disposed to be very amiable,
I should allow them to go to the theatre that night. I stayed
at home.

The next day they went out without saying anything, and
I stayed at home.

The following day was Friday.

You will ask me, my dear friend, what made me hold
Friday so sacred? I will tell you. That day was my every-
thing—it was all my life, all my hope, all my courage. On
that day I saw Magdeleine.

Some speculators, I don’t remember who, had established
a theatre near the city gates. They had applied for aid to
M. Muller, who had advanced them some money, and as his
principal interest, I believe, had the right of having a weekly
box at this theatre. And he took this box generally on a Friday.

Upon this day I cleaned a pair of boots which I reserved
exclusively for this great day; I beat, brushed, re-beat and
re-brushed my coat; I rubbed ink upon the whitened seams ;
I stitched on some loose buttons (I had taken pains all the
week to secure myself clean linen); I had a pair of gloves
which I mended and cleaned over and over again with India-
rubber. In spite of all these labours and the strictest economy,
there was always some trifling expense to be incurred. M.
Levasseur gave me no money; I procured a supply by copy-
ing some writings in my moments of leisure; but these
moments were now very few, and besides, I wanted to read
a little, and then I was under the absolute necessity of writing
a large volume, in the shape of letters, which I sometimes
succeeded in conveying to Magdeleine on a Friday, in addition
to verses. But still I managed to earn by my writing about

M. STEPHEN GIVES AN INCH. 275

ten francs a-week, The entry to the theatre cost me a franc,
the rest went to the laundress, and now and then in gloves,
which, however seldom used, and taken care of, were not
immortal.

I managed always so as to have, on a Friday, my twenty
sous to go to the theatre with.

There I saw Magdeleine, there I was enraptured by her
presence; my looks met hers, and thence drew strength and
courage, hope and faith, As we left the theatre, by favour
of the crowd, I generally succeeded in slipping into her hand
a letter which I had been writing all the week, and then she
gave me in exchange a morsel of paper, a letter from her!
When I think of the happiness I then felt, it appears to me
that I offended Heaven by the complaints I sometimes have
dared to breathe, when it has overwhelmed me with its
anger.

‘We had now come to the Friday. This gave me some little
scintillations of happiness; but I dreaded lest they should
wish me to stay at home: I knew very well that I would
not stay at home ; I knew very well J should be at the theatre ;
but I was not willing to quarrel with M. Levasseur, in
whose house I had found the only means I then knew of
providing for my existence.

I did not wish to refuse to stay at home, if I should be
asked; I did not wish to prevent their going out, if I saw
them get ready, as I had done the evening before.

I wished, without announcing that I was going out, which
would have been almost an abdication of my rights——I wished
to manifest my intention before theirs could have shown
itself, by a commencement of execution.

I dressed myself beforehand, and came in to dinner quite
prepared. M. Levasseur and his wife exchanged looks ;
Madame Levasseur forgot two or three times to assist me ;
M. Levasseur heard three or four times a noise in the school-
room; then, as I asked the servant for bread, Madame Levas-
seur observed aloud that there was not a house in Paris in
which people ate so much as was eaten in hers.

I felt myself blush; I was on the rack. As soon as dinner
was over, I saluted them, they scarcely returned my bow, and
I went out. That day Magdeleine did not come to the theatre.

276 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

During the week which followed, at first all the Levasseur
household was cold towards me: then fresh encroachments
were attempted, and as I made no opposition to them, things
resumed their former state; they went out every evening.
I was, however, determined not to expose myself a second time
to the humiliations of the past Friday. I reserved for that day
a few sous above the price of my admission to the theatre.

Thad a great mind to propose to them to stay at home
every day except Friday; but I thought it best to stick to
my evenings, because, from some cause or other, Magdeleine’s
night for going to the theatre might be changed, and then if
I were compelled to remain by agreement, labours might be
required of me which would have prevented my writing my
dear letters, or scribbling some of the sixty thousand verses
which I addressed to Magdeleine, and of which she never
saw one.

I seized an opportunity in the course of the morning, when
I met Madame Levasseur in the garden, to tell her, that I
should not have the honour of dining with her on that day.

She made me no answer, but called M. Levasseur. They
talked for a long time together ; for my part, I was in another
part of the garden, watching the boys at play; besides, I was
to see Magdeleine that evening: as to a Friday being lost,
the ill-humour of M. and Madame Levasseur was nothing in
comparison with the armed enemies, the infernal fires, the
fabulous monsters that I would have encountered and over-
come to render myself worthy of my happiness.

The hour being come, I set out and wandered round the
theatre to find a place where I could dine for my few sous.

At that time, my friend, I had a tolerably good appetite,
and from the door of every restaurant, or even poor eating-
house, there issued savoury odours of gibelottes or boeuf’ a-la-
mode, which attracted me involuntarily: then I thought of
the slender state of my finances, and I looked about for more
humble fare.

At length T fixed upon a kind of large plot of ground,
planted with plum-trees, under which was spread a carpet of
turf. The plums were ripe: I asked for three sous’ worth of
bread and twenty plums, made a delicious dinner, and then
went to the theatre. She was there!

M. LEVASSEUR TAKES AN ELL, 277

I reproached myself for ever having thought of dining;
I reproached myself for the paltry regret I had felt at not
being able to partake of that gibelotte, whose provoking odour
had so tempted me.

I exchanged my letter with Magdeleine; after the play
they walked home, and I followed them at a distance.

How I should have gloried in their being attacked, that
I might have had an opportunity of defending them! how
Tracked my memory for all the histories of thieves that I had
read, and how little doubt did I entertain of the certainty of
my victory, whatever might be the number of my assailants !

The following Friday I was less fortunate; I possessed no
more than just my twenty sous. I made up my mind not to
leave Lavasseur’s house till after dinner. But although I had
hinted in the morning I should go out in the evening, I per-
ceived that the servant, in laying the cloth, neglected to place
my knife and fork, conformably with the orders she had
received. I had no dinner that day. I had no money to
enable me to repeat my excellent repast under the plum-trees.
In the evening I returned home, rich in a letter from Mag-
deleine, but with a sad empty stomach !

At length there came a Friday on which I was very un-
easy. Madame Levasseur began by inflicting a good scold-
ing upon the poor servant, and then sent her off, early in the
morning, to her dressmakers, to insist upon having her new
dress home before evening. M. Levasseur was fresh shaved,
although he had gone through that operation only the even-
ing before, and it was his custom to shave every other day.

I foresaw a storm, and I wished to avert it by making a
concession. I addressed M. Levasseur, and offered to give up
all the other evenings of the week, provided I were at liberty
on Fridays.

He answered me, with a little hesitation, that he would see
about it, and went to confer with his wife. After a short
matrimonial discussion, he came back to me and said, “ You
can go out next Friday, but to-day ”—

“To-day,” I replied, “it is indispensable that I should go
out to-day.”

“You must, however, dispense with it, for the house can-
not be left alone, and we are going to the theatre.”

278 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

“My dear Monsieur Levasseur,” said I, “I do not wish to
have any difference with you, but you must please to recol-
lect that according to our agreement, I am at liberty to go
out every evening, and that by reserving only Friday to
myself, I make a concession that you ought to receive, at
least, with politeness.”

“T don’t enter into these reasons,” said he; “but I must
be master in my own house. I am very willing to permit
you to go out on Fridays, but not to-day.”

I thought I had paid a sufficiently high ransom for my
beloved Fridays in giving up the other days of the week. I
replied that I was exceedingly sorry, but that I must go out.

He left me, saying, “ Next Friday, if you please; but to-
day you must not think of it.”

When left alone, I became angry with myself and my ap-
parent want of firmness and spirit. I said no more until the
usual hour, when I dressed myself, and prepared to go out.
I found M. and Madame Levasseur in the doorway, in full
dress; Madame in particular was decked out in flaming style,
and her dress occupied an incredible space. They thought
to have been beforehand with me, imagining that if they
were once gone, I should not dare to leave the house un-
protected, and should stay at home. I bowed to them as
I passed out before them. M. Levasseur called me back. I
turned towards them with the remark that I was late, and
rather in a hurry.

“Sir,” said M. Levasseur, purple with rage, “I forbade
your going out at all.”

“Sir,” replied I coolly, “have you any right to do so? Do
you think you are acting legally and honestly by me? Is
this according to our agreement?” :

“T don’t enter into these reasons,” said he; “JT am deter-
mined to be master in my own house. When I forbid you
to go out, you ought not to go out.”

“Sir,” said I, “I pardon your speaking thus, because I
have merited it by my own want of spirit in allowing you to
impose upon me as you have done; I leave your house, sir,
never to return to it.”

“That is just what I wish,” answered M. Levasseur. I
bowed, and left them

M. STEPHEN ASSERTS HIMSELF. 279

T had no asylum for the night; no prospect of food on the
morrow; but that was a matter of no importance then. The
play began early that day, and I wished to have time to eat
a morsel. The last time I had been to the theatre without
dining; I had glanced at myself in a miror, and found that
T looked pale, thin and ugly. I went to the Orchard, where
I dined upon two sous’ worth of bread and two sous’ worth of
cheese, then went to the theatre, where I passed my evening
delightfully. By a singular chance, in the piece played that
night the two lovers bore the same names as myself and
Magdeleine 3 our eyes were constantly fixed upon each
other, and we applied all the tender things said upon the
stage to ourselves.

Upon going out, after having given and received a letter,
I escorted them home, at my usual respectful distance.

Then, and not till then, as I mechanically took the road to
Levasseur’s, I recollected all that had passed, and it came
sharply and bitterly to my mind that I had neither home nor
bed, and that I must pass the night beneath the canopy of
heaven.

In front of M. Muller’s house there was a little meadow,
from which I could perceive the window of Magdeleine’s
chamber. I soon saw a light in it, and I fancied she must
be reading my letter; whilst I, on my part, for want of light,
could only cover hers with tender kisses. Then the light was
extinguished.

I then pictured to myself Magdeleine sleeping; I thought
I could see her beautiful long eyelashes drooping over her
cheeks; I dare not repeat the smiling pictures that passed
before my mind; I bade her good night twenty times. Good
night, Magdeleine; good night, my beloved; good night, my
wife! my adored wife, good night!

I laid down upon the grass and went to sleep, regretting
only one thing: that I had not read her dear letter, which I
held clasped tightly in my hand.

I was awakened some time before daybreak, by the cool-
ness of the morning air; I was fatigued, depressed, chilled;
T roused myself, put myself a little to rights, day dawned,
and I read her letter, a letter full of tender promises, magic
words, I felt rested, refreshed, and in spirits,

280 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

I left the little meadow, for fear of being noticed, and wan-
dered about at hazard, reflecting upon what was best to be
done. I had still a few sous left, so I went to the Orchard,
and made an excellent breakfast upon bread and cheese. I
got into conversation with the farmer, and soon made an
arrangement with him; I remained with him all the summer,
sleeping in a barn, upon straw, copying to gain something to
subsist on, but above all to obtain twenty sous for every
Friday. I paid daily. When copying failed, I only made
one repast a-day; I pretended to make the other at the house
of some friend, but I never allowed such necessities to inter-
fere with the sacred price of my ticket for the following
Friday.

Now, the Orchard is destroyed, the plum-trees are pulled
up, and probably burnt; the farmer is dead, and houses in-
habited by people I know nothing of, cover the spot upon
which I made so many excellent dinners.

LETTER XLVIII.

THE VINE.

WHat a magnificent tree is a vine!

You know me sufficiently, my dear friend, to be sure that
nothing Bacchic forms part of my admiration; I drink but
little wine, and besides, the vines which I love are not best
adapted to the production of it. I love these immense wreaths
of vine which extend far and wide in rich green garlands, and
which become in autumn of a splendid purple. If I cannot
be said even to like wine, I don’t at all like the poetry it has
inspired. To begin with that of Anacreon, who is fortunate
in having written in Greek, that is to say, in a language which
those even who have learnt it for six years, do not under-
stand; in a language that many pretend to admire, for the
sake of appearing to understand it.

Voltaire has justly said, that there are a hundred and fifty

282 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

drinking songs in the French language, much better than
what are called the Odes of Anacreon, upon the vine and its
juice divine.
To pddov 76 THY epwTov
Mifopev Acovicw
To pddov 76 KaAAI@UAAOY.
“ Let us mingle with the liquor of Bacchus, the beautifully
leaved rose, the rose of love.”
Thivepev .. . yed@rtes.
“Let us drink and Jaugh.”
Such is the matter upon which all the verses of Anacreon
dwell. Let us take an ode at hazard. —

Ele 76 deiy mivecv.
“Upon the necessity for drinking.”
‘Hyne.s
“The earth drinks the water, the tree drinks the earth, the
sea drinks the air, the sun drinks the sea, the moon drinks
the sun; why should I be reproached when I drink?”
And the following, in which he wishes to be seated under
the shade of Bathyllus,* whom he terms a handsome tree.
And the other:

“Orav iw tov olvov...

“ When I drink wine, my cares are laid to sleep.”

These ideas are repeated twenty times over, often without
even changing the expressions.

Or’ bya iw Tov olvov.

“When I drink, &c., my cares are laid to sleep.”

One thing alone distinguishes Anacreon and his odes from
other drinkers and other Bacchic songs, which is, that he puts
water into his wine, and is not ashamed to own that he does so.

Ael rive petpins.
“We must drink with moderation.”
Ta pév dé’ byxéas

“¥datos, ta mévte 3’ olvou
KudOous.

“ Mix ten measures of water with five measures of wine.”
* A Samian youth, the minion of Anacreon.

THE VINE WEEVIL. 283

Now, whatever the songs of Bacchus may be, it has always
appeared to me impossible to see poetry in drunkenness, or
rather in the brutified state produced by wine, which trans-
forms men as Circé transformed the companions of Ulysses,

Pliny goes further than Anacreon, with respect to sobriety,
even in the weak wine and water of which we have spoken.
He tells of a wine with which twenty parts of water were
mixed.

Petronius recommends abstinence to those who are desirous
of applying themselves to elevated things.

“ Artis severe si quis amat effectus
Mentemque magnis applicat, &c.”

T love the vine so much for the richness and elegance of its
foliage, and for its beautiful violet and golden clusters of
fruit.

There is a little beetle or weevil which lives upon the vine;
its vestment, although very hard, and rather a cuirass than a
vestment, is of a clear green, inclining to blue in the male,
sprinkled with gold and silver, in such a manner that it
appears to be clothed in magnificent apple-green velvet. It
rolls itself up in the leaves of the vine, of which it makes a
cornet which it lines with down, and in which it lays its eggs ;
from these eggs issue white worms, which pass the winter in
the earth, The perfect insect has its head terminated by a
point armed with shears, with which it does much injury to
the grapes.

At the extremity of my garden the vine extends in long
porticoes, through the arcades of which may be seen trees of
all sorts, and foliage of all colours. Here is an azerolier (a
small medlar) which is covered in autumn with little scarlet
apples, producing the richest effect. I have given away
several grafts of this: far from deriving pleasure from the
privation of others, I do my utmost to spread and render
common and vulgar all the trees and plants that I prefer ; it
is as if I multiplied the pleasure and the chances of beholding
them of all who, like me, really love flowers for their splen-
dour, their grace, and their perfume. Those who, on the
contrary, are jealous of their plants, and only esteem them in
proportion with their conviction that nobody else possesses

284: A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

them, do not love flowers; and be assured that it‘is either
chance or poverty which has made them collectors of flowers,
instead of being collectors of pictures, cameos, medals, or any
other thing that might serve as an excuse for indulging in all
the joys of possession, seasoned with the idea that others do
not possess.

I have even carried the vulgarization of beautiful flowers
further than this.

I ramble about the country near my dwelling, and seek the
wildest and least frequented spots. In these, after clearing
and preparing a few inches of ground, I scatter the seeds of
my most favourite plants, which re-sow themselves, perpetuate
themselves, and multiply themselves. At this moment,
whilst the fields display nothing but the common red poppy,
strollers find with surprise in certain wild nooks of our
country, the most beautiful double poppies with their white,
red, pink, carnation, and variegated blossoms.

At the foot of an isolated tree, instead of the little bind-
weed, with its white flower, may be sometimes found the
beautifully climbing convolvulus major, of all the lovely
colours that can be imagined.

Sweet peas fasten their tendrils to the bushes, and cover
them with the deliciously scented white, rose-colour, or white
and violet butterflies.

It affords me immense pleasure to fix upon a wild rose in
a hedge, and graft upon it red and white cultivated roses,
sometimes simple roses of a magnificent gold yellow, then
large Provence roses, or others variegated with red and white.

The rivulets in our neighbourhood do not produce on their
banks these forget-me-nots, with their blue flowers, with
which the rivulet of my garden is adorned: I mean to save
the seed, and scatter it in my walks.

T have observed two young wild quince-trees in the nearest
wood; next spring I will graft upon them two of the best
kinds of pears.

And then, how I enjoy beforehand and in imagination, the
pleasure and surprise which the solitary stroller will experience
when he meets in his rambles with those beautiful flowers and
those delicious fruits!

This fancy of mine may, one day or other, cause some

SCATTERED SEED. 285

learned botanist, who is herborizing in these parts a hundred
years hence, to print a stupid and startling system. All these
beautiful flowers will have become common in the country,
and will give it an aspect peculiar to itself; and, perhaps,
chance or the wind will cast a few of the seeds of some of
them amidst the grass which shall cover my forgotten grave!

LETTER XLIX.

L’HERBE AU CHANTRE—RACINE—BOILEAU—SORCERERS—PLINY—HOMER
—AND YELLOW GARLIC.

Hers, now, is a plant which had the honour of being the
object of a correspondence between Racine and Boileau.
Gardeners call it the yellow julienne; horticulturists, Velar
de Sainte Barbe; savants, erysimum barbarea; old women,
herbe au chantre.

It throws up, from a bunch of leaves shaped like a lyre, a
stalk surmounted by a thyrsus of yellow flowers.

It was formerly believed, even as late as the time of
Louis XIV., that this herbe aw chantre was, at least in one of
its varieties, a sovereign remedy in cases of extinction of the
voice.

We find in the correspondence of Racine and Boileau two
letters, in which Racine recommends the syrup of erysimum
to Boileau, who is visiting the waters of Bourbonne in order

THE ERYSIMUM. 287

to be cured of a loss of voice. Boileau replies that he has
heard the best accounts of the erysimum, and that he means
to make use of it the following summer.

It is a plant of slender pretensions in a garden, and which,
as regards a cough, cures it, as any herb would, of which
we should persist in drinking an infusion till the cough went
away of itself.

For a long time, virtues and miracles were attributed to
plants, which have been exploded for centuries, virtues
founded upon analogies, resemblances, and want of resem-
blances.

The scabious was in great repute for complaints of the
eyes, because the scabious is in shape somewhat like the eyes;
one plant was good for the liver, and another for the heart, on
account of the shape of their foliage.

Then again, some tiger-spotted plants have been used, solely
on that account, against the venom of serpents.

Other plants have received names borrowed from the
writings of the ancients, and with their names have been
transmitted to them the virtues, most frequently fictitious,
which the ancients attributed to the plant pointed out by
them. But if these virtues had been real, as the plant of the
moderns, though bearing the same name, is frequently a very
different plant, it could not participate in any respect with
the miracles proclaimed.

Among the virtues attributed to plants, we must not forget
that of destroying enchantments, and overpowering the efforts
and conjurations of sorcerers.

The service-tree, that fine tree whose umbels of white
blossoms are succeeded by bunches of fruit, first green, then
yellow, then orange, and then bright scarlet, still enjoys in
Scotland a great reputation of this kind. Every year,
shepherds make their sheep pass, one by one, through a ring
made of the branches of the service-tree. God in the
beginning, when creating the service-tree, never designed it to
be subservient to such impious follies; He only meant to
make a very beautiful tree, covered with very beautiful fruit,
which should present in the winter to those other charming
objects of His creating, the blackbirds and the thrushes, a
sumptuous and an abundant feast.

288 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Among the bulb-gods, I forgot to mention a little god of
this kind, which is at this moment almost under my feet,
which Homer calls moly, and the moderns yellow garlic,
allium aureum. Many persons keep it in their gardens,
solely for the pleasure of seeing the yellow stars with which
it is covered, and are blessed with all the joys of earth, and
preserved from all mischances, without feeling the least grati-
tude towards the garlic, which is, notwithstanding, the only
cause of this happy state; preferring, without doubt, to
attribute their success in everything to their merit, their
wisdom, and their prudence; looking upon the garlic as a
mere “bouquet.”

But the yellow garlic is more than it appears to be; the
yellow garlic has the power of keeping us safe from enchant-
ments, spells, evil presages. A crow may fly by you on your
left hand, but you need not entertain any fear if you have
only the yellow garlic in your garden. You meet with a
spider in the morning—don’t be afraid of it; you spill the
salt—the mischance will not fall to you; a hare crosses your
path in the morning—be not on that account apprehensive of
the crosses of the world ; the yellow garlic is cherished by;you
in your garden, and watches over you; the yellow garlic,
which affects to bloom simply like any other flower, and has
the air of caring about nothing, which yields but a sufficiently
disagreeable smell—the yellow garlic will not allow any of
these evil omens to affect you. You happen to be thirteen at
table, you know that one of the guests of course will die
within the year. Let others be made uneasy by this ominous
circumstance, others who have not the yellow garlic in their
gardens. But this is Friday! To be thirteen at table is a
particularly unfortunate affair, when there happens to be
barely dinner enough for twelve. Yes, but this is Friday!
and Friday is an unlucky day. What is that to you? there
is no unlucky day, I tell you, for the fortunate possessor of
the yellow garlic.

Pliny as well as Homer was acquainted with the qualities
of the yellow garlic.

Pliny says that it is one of the most valuable plants to
man. Homer relates that it was to the virtues of the yellow
garlic that Ulysses owed his fortunate escape from being

MOLY. 289

turned into a pig by Circé, as well as his companions, whom
he delivered from this disagreeable transformation.

And yet, after all this, perhaps the learned are deceived,
when they tell us that the yellow garlic is precisely that
which Homer and Pliny call moly. Whichever way it may
be, I feel quite disposed to recognise equal and the same
virtues in both plants.

LETTER L.

VIRTUES OF PLANTS.

THERE exists a work in sufficiently bad Latin, written in
old times by a doctor named Johannes de Mediolano, of the
Academy of Salerno, and attributed to the entire school of
Salerno—

“ Anglorum regi scribit tote schola Salerni.””

This book, which contains all sorts of medical precepts and
rules for preserving health, and of which some are exceed-
ingly whimsical, frequently recurs to my memory, in the
course of the journey I am making round my garden, on
account of the singular virtues attributed to certain plants by
the said school of Salerno.

THE RUE AND THE SAGE. 291

Rue, for example, of which I have already spoken to you,
is a plant which merits all sorts of consideration, according
to the learned doctor. In fact, by an uncommon prodigy, it
diminishes the force of love in man, and, on the contrary,
increases the flame in women. This plant clears both the
sight, and the perceptions of the mind, when eaten raw; but
when cooked, it destroys fleas.*

This I warn you,—and you can make use of rue according
to your need: if you fall in love imprudently, and, by a
strong effort of your own good sense, or by the advice of
sincere friends, you perceive your folly, eat your rue raw; if
you are tormented by fleas, boil it.

Does not this aphorism, put forth in the most serious
manner possible, quoted and respected by all old physicians,
—(I am not acquainted with the sentiments of the medical
world of the present day with regard to the school of Sa-
lerno,)—does not this aphorism appear to have been merely
translated in a discourse which a writer of the present day
puts into the mouth of a charlatan 1—

“ Buy my specific ;
Taken as a liquid it awakens,
Taken as a powder it promotes sleep.”

“But rue is nothing in comparison with sage. Sage pre-
serves the human race,t and the whole school of Salerno, after
a long enumeration of the virtues of sage, seriously exclaims:
“ How can it happen that a man who has sage in his garden,
yet ends by dying ?” ¢

The learned body replies to itself by saying: “It is a proof
of the necessity of death, which nothing can enable us to
avoid,”

Thave in my garden sages of various sorts: one is remark-
able for its curious foliage; sometimes one of its notched
leaves is painted half rose-colour and green, or rose-colour
and white, or green and white. Some leaves are entirely rose-
colour, or green, or white.

Another sage exhibits, at the extremity of its branches,

* “ Cruda comesta....
Ruta facit castum, dat lumen et ingerit astrem,
Cocta et ruta facit de pulicibus loca tuta.”

+ © Salvia salvatrix, nature: conciliatrix.”
¢ “Cur moriatur homo cui salvia crescit in horto?”

292 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

flowers, and the as yet unopened cups of flowers, of the
brightest red (Salvia fulgens); others are of a softer red, its
blossoms clothed with a purple down (Salvia cardinalis) ;
this one (Salvia patens) spreads forth its flowers of so clear
and pure a blue, that every silk stuff, having any pretensions
to be blue, takes by the side of it a different colour, and
inclines to green, yellow, &c.

I do not know whether, in the eyes of the partisans of the
school of Salerno, it is not exhibiting an immoderate love of
life, with a great desire to become a centenarian, to have so
many sage-plants around me; and yet I can safely affirm
that I have only been led to cultivate them by the splendour
of their hues,

Sage and rue, uniting their powers, allow you to drink as
much as your inclination prompts you to take, without injury
to your brain. *

Permit me, my friend, whilst we are on the subject, to
quote a few more of the precepts of the school of Salerno.

T do not know what walnuts can have done to the learned
doctors, but it is impossible to speak more disadvantageously
of a poor fruit than they do. The first walnut is good, they
say; the second is injurious, the third kills. ¢

Do you remember the time when we did not take the
trouble to count them, when we laid siege with stones to the
great walnut-tree which partly shaded the courtyard of the
old house where we were educated? How the projectiles
hissed as they cut the leaves, and brought down the fruit in
showers! How we picked them up, and how we ate the con-
quered ! ;

Perhaps the danger of eating walnuts is in an inverse
sense, as it is in certain games,—when arrived at a certain
number of points, you win; but if you exceed that number,
you lose. The third nut, doubtless, only kills when you don’t
eat a fourth; or perhaps this dangerous virtue ceases to
exist when the walnuts are stolen !

And do you remember all those games in which walnuts
so advantageously took the place of marbles, encouraged as
we were in these diversions by the example of the most

* “Salvia cum ruta faciunt tibi pocula tuta.”
+ ‘Unica nux prodest, nocet altera, tertia mors est.”

WALNUTS. 293

famous Romans, the heroes of our themes, who had, like us,
played with walnuts in their childhood?

One of the recommendations upon which the learned doc-
tors of whom we were speaking laid great stress, is—“ Never
eat goose on the first of May :”—

“ Prima dies Maii...
Non carnibus anseris uti!”

But here is an aphorism full of sense and wit.—“ Wash
your hands often,” says the learned doctor Johannes,—“ wash
your hands often, if you wish to live in good health. Wash
your hands after meals; it clears the sight.” And then adds,
very seriously: “To wash the hands, not only promotes
health and clears the sight, but it also, incontestably, cleans
them.”

LETTER LI. ;

THE INCOGNITO.

THE master of the tulips placed his finger on his lips, as
Harpocrates, the God of Silence, might have done, and then
said: “ Look ! what magnificent hues !—what a form !—what
onglets! what a carriage !—what purity in the pencilling !—
what clearness in the streaks !—how it is cut !—how it is .
proportioned !”

“ Tt is really a faultless tulip !”

““ What do you call it?”

“ Hush! It is a tulip which in itself alone is worth all the
rest of my collection. There are but two of them in the
world, gentlemen.”

“ But its name ?” “

“Hush! Its name! I dare not pronounce it without
forfeiting my word of honour. I should be most proud and

THE INCOGNITO. 295

very happy to tell its name,—to proclaim it aloud,—to write
it in letters of gold over its magnificent corolla. It is a name
well known and respected.”

“TI beg your pardon, Sir; I press no further. There may
be something political in the matter: perhaps it is the name
of some famous exile. I by no means wish to compromise
you. Besides, on such subjects, we may not be of the same
opinion.”

“Oh! nothing of the kind, Sir; the name has no con-
nexion with politics: but I have sworn upon my honour not
to let it be seen under its proper name. It is here incognito
—under the most severe incognito, Perhaps, even already I
have said too much. But with everybody—with people for
whom I have not the esteem which you inspire me with—I
do not go so far; I do not even confess that that tulip is the
queen of tulips. I pass before it with indifference—an affected
indifference—you understand: I designate it under the name
of Rebecca. But, mind, that is not its real name.”

The amateurs left the garden, and I with them; but on
the morrow I returned, and said to him: “ But now, really,
is this a terrible mystery ?”

“You shall judge. This tulip, which we will continue to
call the Rebecca, was in the possession of a man who had paid
very dearly for it; particularly as, knowing there was another
of the kind in Holland, he had gone thither to purchase it,
and had crushed it beneath his feet, in order to render his
own unique. Every year it excited the envy of the numerous
amateurs who flock to see his collection; every year he took
care to destroy the offsets which formed around the bulb, and
which might have produced more of the sort. For my part,
Sir, I dare not tell you how much I offered him for one of
these offsets, which he every year pounded in a mortar. I
would have injured my property to obtain it—compromised
the prospects of my children !

“T began to lose all interest in my collection: my most
beautiful tulips could not console me for not possessing that
one—that one which I dare not name. In vain my friend—
ought I to call a man so who allowed me to perish without
pity !—in vain my friend said to me, ‘Come and see it as
often as you please.’ I went—I sat down before it for hours

296 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

‘together; but he took care never to leave me alone with it:
he dreaded the force of my passion. I dare say I should have
stolen it; or else I might have watered it with a deleterious
liquid, in order to destroy it: then, at least, it would not
have existed, and I should have felt no remorse. When Gyges
slew Candaules, in order to obtain his wife, everybody blamed
Candaules, who had insisted upon Gyges seeing her as she
came out of the bath. They should not have shown me the
tulip. I arrived at such a state of despair, that one year I
planted no tulips—my dear tulips. My gardener took pity
upon them, and perhaps upon me; and the clown—but I
must pardon him, because he saved them,—he planted them
about in the garden, in vulgar earth !”

“ Well, but at length, how did you obtain this tulip?”

“T will tell you. I have not quite imitated Gyges, although
my friend had not proved himself to be more delicate than
Candaules ;— but, nevertheless, that which I did, I fear may
be called a crime. I contrived to have an offset stolen.
Candaules has a nephew. This nephew who has great expec-
tations from his uncle, who is very rich, assists him in plant-
ing and taking up his tulip roots, and affects an admiration
for these flowers which, poor creature! he does not really feel,
but without which his uncle would not even endure his
presence. The uncle is rich, but he is of opinion that it is
not safe for young people to have too much money in their
pockets. The nephew had contracted a debt which tormented
him very much. His creditor threatened to make application
to his uncle. He applied to me, and implored me to extricate
him from his embarrassment. I was cruel, Sir: flatly refused
him. I even took a delight in exaggerating the anger of his
uncle if he became acquainted with the disgraceful affair. I
threw him into a state of perfect despair, and then said to
him: ‘Nevertheless, if you are willing, I will give the money
you want.’

“*Oh! cried he,—you save my life.’

“Yes, but on one condition.’

“¢ A thousand, if you require them!’

“*No; one will do. You will give me an offset of.
tulip in question.’

“ He drew back in horror from the proposition. ‘ My uncle.

the

THE INCOGNITO. 297

cried he, ‘would turn me out of doors and disinherit
me!’

“*Yes, but he shall know nothing about it—whilst there is
no doubt he will soon hear of the debts you have incurred,’

“¢ But, if he ever should know it!’

“* He never shall, unless you tell him yourself’

“¢ But you.’

“ In short, I pressed, I terrified the unhappy young man ;—
he promised to give me an offset when they took up the tulip
roots,—but he required my oath on my honour never to
name, that which I call Rebecca, to anybody—and to give it
another name—till the death of his uncle.

“In exchange for this promise, I gave him the money he
wanted.

“ Well, we both kept our words; I had the tulip, and I have
never named it before any one ;—the first time it blossomed
here in my garden—being mine—the uncle came to see my
tulips. That is a courtesy which amateurs exchange, as you
know ;—he looked at it and turned pale. ‘What do you call
this ?’ said he, in a faltering voice.

“ Ah! Sir, I could willingly have paid him back all he had
made me suffer! I could have told him the name you
don’t know. But I remembered my promise, my promise on
my honour, and the nephew was present, and awaited my
auswer in an agony, and I replied, ‘ Rebecca !’

“ He, nevertheless, could but observe the resemblance to his
tulip ;—he was evidently struck, but said nothing ;—he
praised the rest of my collection, but said not a word in
praise of this, the pearl and the diamond of it. He came
again the next day—the following day—in short, every day
whiist it was in blossom,—but he succeeded in deceiving
himself ;—he fancied he saw—between Rebecca and the other
—some imaginary differences; but he only said, ‘It in some
degree resembles—you know what.’

“ Well, Sir, I have now the tulip I have so much desired,
and yet I am not happy. What use is it to me, since I
cannot tell anybody? Some deep amateurs nearly recognise
it, but I am forced to deny the fact, and I don’t meet with
one who is so sure as to say to me, You area liar. I every day
undergo frightful torments; I am obliged to hear the praises

298 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

of a tulip which I have as well as he. When I am alone, I
regale myself with it; I call it by its true name, to which I
add the most tender and magnificent epithets. The other day
I enjoyed a little pleasure; I pronounced this name—this
mysterious name—aloud to a man; but I did not, in this,
break my word: this man is deaf, and could not hear a
cannon.

“Well, that comforted me a little, but very imperfectly.
Nobody knows that I have it—it—look—have pity on me,—
my oath oppresses me—swear to me upon.your honour, on
your part, never to reveal what I am going to say to you; I
will then tell you its real name—the true name of Rebecca,
of that queen disguised as a grisette. The oath will not be
difficult for you to keep; you will have no struggle like mine,
Monsieur, it is frightful! I almost wish that this Candaules
were dead—that I might say aloud that I have—now do take
the oath I ask you to take.” I took pity on him, and solemnly
promised never to repeat the name of the famous tulip.
Then, with an inexpressible feeling of pride, he touched the
plant with his wand, and said, “ This is ai

But, on my part, I am bound by an oath; I must not
repeat the name he was so happy to pronounce.

LETTER LII.

EACH PLANT HAS ITS OWN TYPE, BUT MEN TRY TO FORM THEMSELVES
ON ONE SINGLE TYPE,

Ir I sometimes appear to prefer trees and plants to men, I
will not tell you, as my sole reason, that I owe ever-reviving
pleasures to trees and flowers, and that men, with very few
exceptions, have always been to me obstacles or enemies; for
you know the human heart too well to be satisfied with this
reason, and no one could pretend with a worse grace than I,
particularly to you, that our affections and antipathies are in
direct ratio with the good or evil we have received from the
persons or objects which have given birth to them. I, who
have given up all my life to one who has done me so much
injury; you, who are so fond of melons, which never fail to
repay your love for them with horrible cramps in the
stomach.

I principally like trees and flowers, because both exhibit
themselves to me as they really are, whether near or at a
distance, winter or summer. I perceive at a distance a tree
covered with blossoms of flat white, and I know that it isa
cherry-tree; I know that its rich panache will bloom under

3800 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

mild rains and blasts of wind even, after which it will be
decked in beautifully shining leaves, among which will grow
fruit, first green, then red, which the birds will dispute with
me; then the leaves will become ruddy, and fall.

If the tree have rose-coloured flowers, I know that it will
give me velvety peaches in the month of September ; I know
likewise that the leaves are bitter.

But here is a plant which climbs up a trellis; in summer,
it bears little star-shaped flowers of a violet colour, to which
succeed girandoles of fruit, which are at first of the colour of
the emeralds, and afterwards of that of coral; I know that I
have nothing to look for from it beyond the pleasure afforded
to the eyes,—for the berries are poisonous.

If I plant the bulb of a hyacinth, I know what colour and
what perfume I am to expect; in the same way, if I sow
seeds, they will give me the colours and the odours they
promise me.

But with men it is very different.

We lind in books two or three types of characters, in which
romancers have delighted to assemble all perfections even the
most contradictory and the most exclusive of one another.

If we could rely upon the first view of this, we should
only meet in life with people formed upon these two or three
types; all men are, without exception, modest, disinterested,
brave, generous, devoted, sensible, &c.

It is a comedy with very little variety, in which every one
wishes to play under the same mask. All these virtues are
blossoms—wait for the fruits! the fruits!

It is just as if all the trees and plants in the spring time,
decked themselves with the rose-coloured blossoms of the
peach-tree, and afterwards, in autumn, bore the mortal cap-
sules of the thorn-apple, the fox-glove, or the henbane.

Not that I wish any ill to these plants; on the contrary, I
love them on account of their beauty ; and besides, does not
medicine extract even from their poison medicaments of great
power and use ?

I should not complain of them unless, after having
promised by the blossoms of the peach and the cherry to
yield me delicious fruits, they gave me afterwards their
berries and their capsules, and invited me to eat them.

TYPES OF CHARACTER. - 301

Look into the world; all are chalked out upon the same
model, or nearly so,

There are two or three types for a hundred thousand girls,
all different one from ‘the other; they have all the same
inclinations and the same forms; there is but one type for
young people from eighteen to twenty years of age; they
have all the same tastes, the same pretensions, and the same
mode of arranging their hair ; all the mothers afford but one
single and the same representation; she is the vigilant hen
who only lives for her chickens.

There is something even worse than not having certain
qualities, and that is to feign them; certainly, if I had only
room for one tree in my garden, and I were obliged to choose
between the peach-tree and the thorn-apple, I should deter-
mine in favour of the peach; but where is the garden in
which there is only room for two trees, or the heart in which
there is only room for two affections? And then there are so
many gardens, and so many different hearts.

Give me the smallest portion of a plant, half of a leaf, a
‘torn petal, the fragment of a branch, a seed even, and I know
at once what I am to expect; that plant promises me such a
form, such a colour, such a perfume; if I love its perfume,
its colour, its form, it will give them to me in the promised
season ; if not, I can ask that which I love of another; this
one will not be long in meeting with some one who seeks it,
and whu loves that which it has to give. Now, here is a
drawing-room filled with young girls; let us examine them
for a minute.

This one is a fair girl; her head is covered with small
tresses which escape from the comb and curl of themselves ;
her dark blue eyes are piercing ; her nose is aquiline; her
mouth is terminated at the two corners by a strongly-marked
line, the upper lip is thin and close, the under lip is short
but thick; both are as red as cherries; she has a firm,
decided, bold character, she loves risks and dangers.

But being fair she must always be dressed in white; her
eyes are constantly cast down, and she will utter piercing
cries at the sight of a spider; she is passionately fond of the
country and solitude, and declares she could live for ever
upon milk and fruit.

302 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Now, here is another whose profile is straight and soft as
that of a Greek statue; her figure is slender, tall, almost
thin; her hair is brown; her eyes, of a luminous hazel, shed
nothing but timid and furtive glances from beneath their
long beautifully-pencilled lashes; she is mild and gentle; she
really loves repose—the shade of willows by the side of a
murmuring stream ; she is really capable of profound, eternal,
timid and concealed love.

It is a great chance, however, as she happens to be a bru-
nette, if she has not been taught that she must be lively,
sparkling, and joyous; but the least that can happen—if both
be not compelled to play a part which nature never intended
them for—the least that can happen is, that both will be
alike: the first will assume a mark that resembles the second,
the second will exaggerate her manners and bearing in imita-
tion of the first.

Both are charming as God placed them on the earth; both
are disguised and have become a falsehood.

Take twenty young men and set them talking; all have
the same tastes, all carry their canes in the same manner, all
speak lightly of love and women, all profess to seek rather
than avoid quarrels and duels, and to love fiery horses, strong
liquors, and potent tobacco,

It will not be before an acquaintance of some duration,
that yon will discover that one of these young men is a
youth of soft sensibility, who was two years before he could
summon resolution to slip into the hand of the girl he loves
some verses, in which he softened down and diluted as much
as possible the sentiments which fill his heart.

That other loves quiet and meditation, and can pour out
his full heart in beautiful verses and delicious melodies.

Again, a third really dreams of nothing but peace and
universal fraternity ; he, naturally, would preach and practise
concord.

Are you not satisfied that each of these, separately, is pre-
ferable to the common type upon which all aim to model
themselves?

My creed is not very bitter as regards the wicked; I do
not require them to be exterminated, any more than I would
pull up my beautiful foxglove, or my splendid thorn-apple ;

TYPES OF CHARACTER. 303

only I must insist upon their not pretending to be cherry-
trees, and that they will not disguise themselves as goose-
berry-bushes.

If the potato were to disguise itself, we might attempt to
eat its fruit, or to bite its raw roots, but we should soon
throw it away in disgust.

Every one has a right to be what he is; every one is best
80; every one bears within himself affinities looked for in
life by analogous affinities ; facets prepared for other cor-
responding facets, projected, which fall into corresponding
hollows. I would willingly love all real personages, I cannot
love a mask. .

It is the same with animals and insects. The spider pre-
tends no passion for roses; the grub has no particular par-
tiality for flies,

Everything in nature is frankly that which it is; man
alone, from vanity, arrives by a singularly circuitous route at
the most astonishing degree of humility.

Every one, if he examines himself thoroughly, believes
himself to be superior to all others, and does his best to
cause this opinion which he entertains of himself to be ac-
cepted by the greatest number possible.

He never dreams of what he is seeking to acquire; simply,
an incontestable right to the hatred of all he may persuade
to agree with him, and the ridicule of those whom he does
not persuade.

Every one believes himself superior to others, and yet no
one appears as he really is. How is this contradiction to be
explained?

That woman believes herself to be the most charming of
women; she speaks of others with the utmost disdain, and
yet she never moves a step without being completely dis-
guised, without displaying a figure differing widely from her
own, without studying a carriage which is not natural to her.

Of what then is she so proud? Of her beauty? She cannot
have faith in that, because she takes such pains to alter it.
What vanity and what humility!

Ask that man, into the skin of which of his contemporaries
he would most wish to enter ;—but I mean his real skin, not
in a skin of riches, dignities, é&c.;—ask him if he should like

304 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

to be Mr. Any-one, with not only his fortune, his rank, or
his reputation; but if he should like to change minds, noses,
teeth, and names with him. If he tell you the truth, there
will always be something which he will wish to reserve,
something in which he feels himself superior to all others:
lead him to talk a little more, and he will not fail to let you
perceive that the things in which he acknowledges himself
inferior, are things about which he cares very little ; that real
qualities and perfections, such as are worth the trouble of wish-
ing for, such as truly deserve admiration, are precisely those
by which he believes he bears it away.

I would tell you to put this question to yourself; but
although there is some chance of making another person
speak truth if you happen to be more cunning or more
skilful than he, I fear there is very little chance of making a
man speak truth to himself.

Well; this man so happy, so proud of being precisely him-
self, he never exhibits himself such as he really is, either
morally or physically: he will boast of talents which he does
not possess, and conceal qualities he, perhaps, might justly
claim merit for. Take him upon all points, and, with a little
address, you will make him, by fractions, disown himself three
times over.

I again ask, how is it possible to be at the same time so
proud and so humble, and of the self-same things?

What vanity and what humility!

“Every man possesses three characters: that which he
ee eae that which he really has, and that which he believes

e has.”

LETTER LIII.

MAN THE MONARCH OF CREATION—THE VIOLET AND 1f5 FROPRIETORS.

Man pretends to be the king ot all nature. When I look at
things closely, this monarch, so vain of his power, appears to
me to have a singular resemblance to certain bishops, styled
in partibus infideloum—that is to say, whose bishoprics, in the
power of infidels, are so situated, that if chance should offer
them an opportunity of appearing in them, they could not
avoid being broiled, hung, quartered, or impaled.

I do not here speak of animals, who, if man ventures too
near to their den, eagerly avail themselves of the opportunity
of regaling upon a monarch raw, or in his own gravy.

I mean the innocent pretenders, who share with man the

x

306 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

empire of the things of the earth, and, generally, leave him
nothing but their refuse.

Here we are, by chance, returned to my violet-filled turf.
You, my good friend, king of nature as of all the world, you
think that the violet was only made to recreate your eyes by
its green foliage, and its amethyst-coloured flowers but to
intoxicate your brain with its perfume. Permit me to unde-
ceive you. The violet serves as an asylum and as food to
insects without number; they are not so large as you, it is
true, but if you pride yourself upon this advantage, you
must give way to the ox and the elephant, and also to your
gardener, or your butcher, who are bigger and stronger than

ou.
‘ I do not intend to fatigue you with a long nomenclature
of the insects that haunt the violet, for which it is a shelter,
a retreat, and a sumptuous well-furnished table.

Here, gnawing away with all his heart at the leaves of the
flower of Io, is a grey caterpillar, with white and reddish
thorns; it will become a butterfly, of which the upper side
of the superior wings is of a marigold yellow, and the under
part of the inferior wings is ornamented with fourteen silver
spots. I do not know its name.*

Here is another caterpillar; in general, caterpillars, out of
contempt I suppose, are not honoured with names; the but-
terfly, into which this will be metamorphosed, is called
Huphrosyne:t the upper side of its wings will be fawn-
coloured, the under part of the inferior wings will be spotted
with silver, like those of the other, but it will only have nine
of these brilliant spots. The caterpillar is black, with two
rows of yellow spots.

This other brown caterpillar, with yellowish spots, will
become a butterfly, called Spanish snuff; its name indicates
its colour; it will become a denizen of the air in the month
of July.

The Aglaé{ will take flight about the middle of June; at
present it is still a black caterpillar with white bands; as a
butterfly, it will be fawn-coloured ana yellow.

And this olive-tinted caterpillar, with a white band bor-

* Argynnis Niobe?!—Ep. + Melitcea Euphrosyne.—Ep,
t Argynnis Aglaia.—Ep,

THE VIOLET AND ITS PROPRIETORS. 307

dered with black points, will become a fawn-coloured moth,
spotted with black, with a few silver eyes, and is called
Adippe.*

These are the guests, the inhabitants, and the masters of
the violet,

In vain the Athenians consecrated it to themselves, and
engraved it on tablets everywhere in the city of Athens
with it: in vain, according to Aristophanes, the orators
flattered the people, by calling them Athenians crowned with
violets—an epithet which I can only compare to one which
Homer so frequently bestows upon the Greeks, calling them
at least twenty times in the course of the Iliad, “Evavijpuides
*Axauot, the well-greaved Greeks: in vain, in some cities of
Germany, this flower is still consecrated to the coffins of
virgins ;—the insects we have just seen are the masters of
the violet before men, and only leave them as much of it as
they do not want.

* Argynnis Adippe.—Ep,

LETTER LIV.

FLOWERS AND THEIR PROPRIETORS.

Anp the honeysuckle !

The honeysuckle, whose odours I have so often breathed—
the honeysuckle, which intoxicates me—which every year brings
back so many sweet and melancholy thoughts—that, wherever
I chance to meet with it, the honeysuckle appears to me to be
my own particular flower. Well, it really belongs to the Sphinz
JSuciformis, a moth, whose body is green, with wings trans-
pareut in the centre, and of a brown colour round the edges ;
the caterpillar is green with a brownish red horn.

It belongs to the moth sibilla, previously a green cater-
pillar, with its head and bristles inclined to red ; afterwards
a brown, white and dull-blue-coloured butterfly.

It belongs to the blue sylvan, which is of a black-blue with
a white band; and to I don’t know how many flies, and to a
particular species of aphis, de. &e.

Do you fancy that the alder, yonder beautiful tree growing
on the verge of the rivulet, was only made to cover you with
its shade during the sultry hours of the day?

Fluminibus . . . alni

Nascuntur.
Do you really suppose it has nothing else to do than to pro-
vide ladders, wooden shoes, and stakes fur you? No, no; the

THE ALDER, THE CRESS, THE SCABIOUS. 309

alder nourishes numerous insects, and among the rest, the one
called the alder moth,—why, the whole of the alder belongs to
it! This moth, whose wings are yellow sprinkled with brown,
has previously been a very singular caterpillar: its shape, its
colour, everything, resembles a little portion of an alder-
branch of the preceding year, already dried and withered.

Do you imagine that cresses have no other destination but
to surround the roast-fowls on your table? No; in cresses,
a green caterpillar, ornamented with three white lines, con-
ceals, feeds, and is metamorphosed into a charming moth with
wings, each enriched with two orange spots.

Close to our feet is a scabious, that dark flower which
we have already met with and spoken of—do you think
it has no moth peculiar to itself? The maturne, at first
a black caterpillar with three yellow lines; then a brown,
yellow, and black moth:—the artemisia, a black caterpillar
with white points ; then a brown, yellow and red moth: and
the Sphinaz bombiciformis, whose body is painted with a black
and a purple band.

The epilobe, which grows close to the water, at the foot
of the alder—does not it nourish the brown caterpillar, (orna-
mented with two spots of violet-tinted white, and six grey
stripes, with a white-pointed black horn,) which is transformed
into the vine sphinz, that charming green and rose-coloured
moth ?

The colchicum, in the autumn, enamels the meadows with
its little lilac-coloured lilies. The flowers spring from the
earth, without being accompanied by leaves; without being
supported by stalks: the ovary remains in the earth ; the
stamens shed their pollen upon it; the flower disappears
beneath the snow—and it is not till the following spring, that
a tuft of large broad leaves, of a beautiful green, is seen
issuing from the earth, amidst which appear the seeds which
have ripened underground. The leaves die and disappear
a long time before the new flowers appear. All parts of the
colchicum are injurious; but the bulb is deadly poison. Its
flavour, at first insipid, becomes hot and sharp; soon after it
has been eaten, violent vomitings and cold sweats ensue,
followed by death in a few hours.

Man, when sometimes checked in his singular ideas relative

310 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

to the royalty over nature which he attributes to himself;
asks himself what is the use of certain plants which he cannot
eat, or of certain animals which eat him ; and in his hypocri-
tical submission to the decrees of Providence, imagines that
these animals, or these plants, contain for him some concealed
utility, which he seeks with pertinacity, and hopes some day
to discover.

He would avoid racking his brain on the subject, if he
would but renounce the foolish pride which makes him believe
that he is the centre and the aim of all that exists. The
bulbs of the colchicum, which are mortal to man and cattle,
are eagerly sought for by moles, those subterranean travellers,
who consider them as the best and most wholesome food for
their young.

Here is, however—for the truth must be told in a journey
like mine,—here is a plant that no insect, no animal attacks ;
it is the paqueretie, or Easter daisy, that ornament of the
fields, with golden disc and rays of silver, spread in such pro-
fusion at our feet; nothing is so humble, nothing is so much
respected,

There are other daisies, calm autumn flowers, called China
asters. Around their yellow disc they exhibit rays of all
the shades of rose and violet, sometimes white, or white
and violet, or white and rose-coloured ; it is a rich but melan-
choly flower. It is, beyond contradiction, the most beautiful
of the asters; a family which, with the chrysanthemums,
completes the rich coronet of the year.

The aster came to us from China about a hundred years ago.

LETTER LY.

THE GROUNDSEL—LAUREL—LIBERTY, FRATERNITY. AND EQUALITY.

Ir is evident that groundsel was created for the birds of
the fields: as man has determined, as I told you yesterday, to
refer everything to himself; he has imagined the following
use for groundsel:—You have the tooth-ache; groundsel
was made expressly to cure your tooth-ache.—Pull up a root
of groundsel, cut through the root with a razor or a very sharp
knife, replant the groundsel, and preserve only the portion
you have cut off, and which you must apply three or four
times to your ailing tooth; it is very probable you will
be cured, says Pliny; but that depends upon a condition;
the groundsel that you have replanted after having mutilated
its root, must continue to vegetate and to do well; if it should
die, your tooth will give you more pain than ever.

Let us stop a little ;—here is the laurel of the poets,* the
laurel of triumphant conquerors !—but, alas! also the laurel of
hams! But there is another more humble laurel, which
serves likewise to crown victors, and which has escaped the
disgrace of being employed in sauces, and in decorating the
smoked members of an impuré animal; it is the Alexandrine

* The bay-tree. Ep.

312 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

laurel, which only grows in the shade of other trees, and the
representation of which we meet with upon ancient medals
and monuments.

The laurel, as it is said, was formerly a safeguard against
thunder: in this respect, it appears to me to have been ad-
vantageously displaced by the lightning conductor; it has
never been a safeguard against envy or hatred. which, on the
contrary, it seems to attract with an invincible power: the
true crown of genius has always been a crown of thorns,—but
of that beautiful perfumed thorn which blooms in the spring,
and which conceals its ensanguined spikes beneath its festoons
of white flowers.

Another reputation enjoyed by the laurel was, that of pro-
curing agreeable dreams, by the placing of some of its leaves
under the pillow; a saying which I mean to put to the test
one of these nights,

Now-a-days, all greatness and power are overthrown, under
the pretext of equality. Equality is an absurdity; but if
possible it would be desirable that it should be sought for,
rather by elevating the low than by abasing the great, as is
the fashion ; by raising the strawberries and hazels to the
height of oaks, instead of cutting down the oaks to a level
with the strawberries and the hazels; but man is not so
much the enemy of slavery as he pretends to be.

Kings and men of genius are cast into the mire; but we
worship singers and dancers; not only those that are beau
tiful, which is after all a great superiority, a great power and
a legitimate royalty, natural and incontestable; but also the
most meagre, the most ugly, the most yellow among them ;
and simply because they are singers and dancers. Formerly
they were paid with money and diamonds; now we heap
flowers upon them, and drag their carriages through the
streets.

Everything is for them, even consideration. I should now-
a-days be laughed at, if I said that which is incontestable,
that the poorest and humblest wife of an artisan or mechanic
is a thousand times above the richest, the most beautiful, and
the most skilful of these women ; Jower than whom I can
discover none but the imbeciles who worship them and crown
them with flowers and love.

LIBERTY, FRATERNITY, AND EQUALITY. 313

I am this day forty years old: I have seen two political
revolutions; and I shall see at least another. After I have
seen the third it is probable I shall say exactly as I said after
the other two: “ Abuses are not attacked for the purpose of
removing them, but of conquering them. The more fre-
quently things change, the more they continue to be the
same things.”

LETTER LVI.

DREAMLAND.

Au! my friend; I am just returned from such a beautiful
country! Now, will it be possible for me to remember all
the wonders I have there seen?

In the first place, the trees bore fruits which exhaled un-
known perfumes ; some had blossoms of fire, and in these
flowers were bees of gold, whose humming was an enchanting
music.

Scarcely had I entered these happy regions when I felt
the influence of the climate: I became lively and light; I no
longer walked ; I flew, and perched upon the very tops of
the trees.

In this land I found all that I had lost by death or forgetful-
ness ; I found them all living, all happy, and all loving me with
a delightful tenderness; they were all young and handsome.
There I beheld all the things I had dreamt of, or desired,

DREAMLAND. 315

and which I had rejected from my thoughts and my heart as
the follies and visions of a diseased brain; I saw them
realized, and considered ordinary and common ; no one was
astonished at them, and I not more than others. At my
call, lions and tigers came and rubbed themselves against me,
and offered to bear me on their backs; but what need had
I of their assistance, I who could fly like an eagle myself!

There I found my Magdeleine, Magdeleine who loved me,
and made it clear to me that she had never been unfaithful.
Oh, unspeakable happiness! Ido not know what she said to
me, nor what arguments she made use of ; all I know is, that
I entirely believed her.

And M. Muller too; how he shook my hand; how delighted
he was with our happiness, And my father, my father for
whom I had wept so bitterly, he was not dead, he had only
gone to wait for me in this blessed country, wherein all I had
ever loved were assembled ; he still wore his smiling, cheerful, .
open countenance, and from his fingers still poured forth
floods of harmony.

It appeared to me that till that time my life had been
nothing but a dream and a nightmare ; or that after difficult
proofs and an initiation, the phantoms which had terrified
me were all dispersed.

I was rich, and I lavished upon Magdeleine everything that
woman.loves, everything that we love so dearly to give her.
Upon what magnificent jewellery, upon what beautiful stuffs,
upon what carpets, and upon what flowers she walked! What
pearls were entwined in the manes of the horses which dragged
her carriage! Oh! how beautiful she was! How was she
adorned with all these riches, and how was I adorned by her!
Precious stones and diamonds surrounded her, and sparkled
beneath her feet; but neither diamonds nor precious stones
were deemed worthy of glittering upon her. I gave her stars
to place in her hair; Mars, that red star; and Venus, that
blue star which I had so long seen shining in the heavens,
were not, as they are called elsewhere, large planets; no, they
were like flowers of fire, which became her delightfully.

Then, as I examined her more closely, I discovered that
she was at the same time all the women I have loved in the
course of my life. Then our looks were fixed upon each

316 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

other; the fire that issued from our eyes met and was
mingled; I became her and she became me; I felt her blood
in my veins; I then at once became aware of what love really
is—a flame separated in two which endeavours to unite again.

Oh, the beautiful country! nobody took any notice of us;
nobody envied our happiness; we thought of nobody.

And what a beautiful blue the sky was of !

This country, my friend, you may visit it as I have done,
where you are, just as if you were here this evening, if it be
agreeable to you; only give directions that no imbecile indi-
‘vidual should come and awaken you by knocking too early at
your door in the morning, as I was served.

Because if there is a stunning fall, it is that which we make
in descending from the smiling regions of dreams into this
arid country which we call life.

If we consider the matter well, however, who knows, if
after that which we call death, we shall not learn, that that.
which was really a dream was what we called life ; whilst what
we took for dreams were excursions which our souls made,
whilst our body, that prison of flesh, remained in the country
of real life.

LETTER LVII.

AROMATIC PLANTS—SCIENTIFIC NOMENCLATURE.

Here is a thorny tree, with narrow leaves, of a bluish
grey, which is called hippophde.

J. J. Rousseau relates that one day, as he was herborising on
the banks of the Isére, he ate some of the yellow fruits of this
tree. An advocate of Grenoble, who accompanied him, did
not dare to take the liberty of warning him that these fruits
were supposed. to be poisonous.—Happily they are not so.

Almost all trees, almost all plants will have their share of
sun; all require air. The fragon, almost alone, is more
modest; it is only under trees that it grows with vigour into
tufted bushes. The fragon, from a distance, has the appear-
ance of a myrtle, but each of its leaves is terminated by a
sharp point. In the spring its little flowers, green and violet,
do not bloom as other shrubs do, at the extremity of a pedun-
cle, but upon the leaves themselves. To these flowers suc-
ceed little green, round fruits. When winter arrives, the
fragon, which has remained green under the bare trees, is
covered all over with little red balls, as large as small chervies,
but of a coral red.

318 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

The Alexandrine laurel, of which I, spoke to you not long
since, and which shares with the bay the glory of crowning
victors, is a sort of fragon.

Thyme, like the fragon, takes upon itself to embellish the
parts of the earth which other plants disdain. If there is an
arid, stony, dry soil, burnt up by the sun, it is there thyme
spreads its charming green beds, perfumed, close, thick, elastic,
scattered over with little balls of blossom, of a pink colour,
and of a delightful freshness.

Thyme and the fragon have often inspired me with lively
sentiments of gratitude ;—they are two beautiful presents
from heaven. When we admire other plants, we may think
that if chance had not placed them where they are, their place
would be occupied by others,—whilst upon the spot in which
the fragon displays its evergreen foliage, and its beads of coral,
there would be nothing but the bare earth ;—there, where the
thyme spreads its green and pink beds, there would be no-
thing but clay.

Melesse, thyme, savory, lavender, and rosemary, grow in
preference upon the driest lands, and the most burning rocks.
Thyme has its moth, called the thyme moth—the melesse is
a great favourite with bees: the Greeks called it honey-leaf.
An insect in the shape of a little green tortoise, a cassida, in-
habits the blossoms of the melesse.

Whilst we are upon aromatic plants, we must not fail to
seek for the mint. But, besides that, there are several species
of mint ; we must quit the dry part of the garden, and return
to the banks of the rivulet and the pool, where we shall find

‘the mint-balms, of which one is aquatic, both bearing flowers
of the grey of the heliotrope, the aquatic in round clusters,
the other in spikes.

But the true mint is peppermint, that whose hot and pun-
gent flavour is followed by an agreeable coldness. Otherwise
it resembles the preceding, only it has not, as they have, any
down upon its leaves.

There is a history attached to mint.

It is well known that Pluto, god of the infernal regions,
bore off Proserpine. Ceres set out in search of her daughter,
and complained to Jupiter. Jupiter pronounced, that Proser-
pine should be restored to her mother, if she had eaten nothing

METAMORPHOSES—-NOMENCLATURE. 319

since her entrance into the kingdom of darkness. One Ascal-
aphus declared he had seen her put three pomegranate seeds
into her mouth. Proserpine remained queen of hell, and
Ascalaphus was changed into an owl, as a reward for his
meddling.

It may easily be imagined that Pluto in time became cooler
in his admiration of a wife whom he had had such difficulty
to keep when he had won her; but, however that may be,
it was pretty well known that he was not insensible to the
attractions of a young virgin named Mentha, daughter of the
old river Cocytus.

Several daughters of rivers were beloved by the gods, but,
in general, their fathers took care to transform them into
something insensible in the moment of danger. Syrinx, pur-
sued by the god Pan, was changed into a reed; Daphne, on
the point of being caught by Apollo, was metamorphosed into
a laurel. So Apollo crowned himself with laurel; Pan made
himself a pipe of reed.

Old Cocytus was less careful—the god was successful ; but
Proserpine surprised the lovers, and changed the nymph into
the plant which bears her name.

Two cassidas and a chrysomel, a sort of blue beetle, take
up their abode in the aquatic mint.

I am very much embarrassed when I wish to give a correct
idea of an insect or a plant; to you, particularly, who have
never taken delight in either botany or entomology. If I
explain to you one word with which you are unacquainted, by
another of which you are equally ignorant, I cannot be said
to assist your progress in knowledge greatly; if, on the con-
trary, I try to find a similitude between that which I want
you to understand and something that you already know, I
run the danger of angering the learned, by the use of im-
proper terms.

If I were to tell you that the chrysomeles is one of the cole-
optera, whose antenne are articulated globularly, the body
oval, the corslet wide and fringed at the sides, the elyéra gene-
rally adorned with brilliant colours, you would be very little
the wiser—uuless I told you that by coleoptera I mean insects
which have hard elytra; by elytra, the cases of the wings; by
articles, the divisions of the antenne; the antenne the kind

320 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN,

of moveable horns which the insect bears in the front of its
head.

This would do very well for once; but if, at every insect
we meet with, it were necessary for me to make you undergo
a sentence in a foreign language, and then a translation with
dictionary fragments, you would soon cease to listen to me;
besides, all these words, whatever trouble we may give our-
selves in explaining them, convey very little to those who have
not seen the objects.

If, on the contrary, by straining the sense a little, I try to
confine the ideas which I wish to make you comprehend within
the circle of the somewhat too general ideas which you always
possess; if, on your account, I call every four-winged insect
covered with coloured dust, a butterfly, when perhaps it is
a night-moth, a phaleena, a sphynx, &c. &e.

If I designate every insect having its wings covered with
two hard cases under the vague designation of a beetle, I may
make myself sufficiently understood by you, who do not re-
quire science of me; but I offend the learned, and my lan-
guage would be as ridiculous for them as that of a foreigner
who would write: You have always had for me des boyauax de
peére; instead of saying, des entrailles de pére.*

I must, however, tell the learned, that, thanks to their
austerity and their dignity, even well informed people, finding
the first step of the ladder to a special science too elevated,
are frequently discouraged, and do not attempt to mount it.
Whilst an ignorant fellow, like me, who has seen some of the
learned, and who has carefully preserved all the crumbs they
have been kind enough to drop before him, goes to seek people
in a state of ignorance, whose language he knows and does
not despise, and brings them to the foot of the ladder; the
rest is your concern. '

If I should publish this journey round my garden, it would
go further in rendering entomology and botany familiar than
the largest and best books published by the learned.

Science is a steep island, surrounded by a few more rocks
than are necessary, to which every savant makes it a pleasure

* An untranslateable sentence, best explained as being analogous to that of the
French author, who translated ‘Love's last shift,” (the title of an old comedy,) by
La derniére chemise de l’amour.—TRans.

DIFFICULTIES OF SCIENCE. 821

and a duty to add some asperities. I pass people over in a
light wherry ; I transport them from the opposite shore to
the banks of your isle, it remains for you then to hold out
your hand to them, if it be true that you wish to people
your isle, (of which I sometimes feel inclined to doubt,) when

I observe in what a manner you every day make access to
it more difficult. ‘

LETTER LVIII.

THE YELLOW ROSES,

Hers is a yellow rose-tree which reminds me of a story.

I went one evening, two years ago, to pass a few hours at
the house of an old, amiable, intellectual and indulgent lady,
who lives near me; she is passionately fond of flowers, and
you can scarcely guess how much coquetry I exercise in
making bouquets for her; how delighted I am with her
astonishment when I carry her a flower she is not acquainted
with, or one that is not common in our country.

On my arrival there yesterday, I found with her an old
gentleman, who, about a year since, took possession of a large
property left to him by a distant relation, upon the condition
of his bearing the name of it, and who is consequently called
M. Descoudraies.

He got introduced to my old friend, and I soon had reason
to be jealous of his assiduities; they quickly conceived a

THE YELLOW ROSES. 823

friendship for each other, and passed almost all their evenings
together playing at backgammon.

I bowed in silence, that I might not interrupt the con-
versation, and when it was finished presented to Madame
Lorgerel a bouquet of yellow roses which I had brought
with me.

My roses were very fine ones, in addition to which, the rains
of that year caused roses to bloom badly; mine, sheltered
by a projecting roof, were, perhaps, the only yellow roses in
the neighbourhood that had blossomed well. Madame Lorgerel
was delighted with her beautiful bouquet.

M. Descoudraies said nothing, but he appeared absent
and a little agitated. I looked at him with astonishment,
being quite unable to comprehend the mysterious influence
of my yellow roses; but Madame Lorgerel spoke of something
else, and I believed I must have been mistaken.-

As for M. Descoudraies, he smiled, and would have laughed,
but it did not amount to a laugh, and said :—

“Would you believe that this bouquet has just called up,
as if by a magic operation, an entire epoch of my youth?

“ During five minutes I have been twenty years old, during
five minutes I have again become in love with a lady, who, if
she be still alive, must be sixty. I must tell you this story,
it is a circumstance that has exercised a great influence over
my life, and the remembrance of which, even now, when my
blood has no more warmth left than just to enable me to
live and play at backgammon, does not fail to agitate me in
an extraordinary manner.

“T was twenty; that is rather more than forty years ago.
I had but just left college, at which young men stayed rather
later than they do at present.* After having deliberated
seriously for me, but without consulting me, upon the choice
of a profession, my father one morning announced to me that
he had procured me a lieutenancy in a regiment then in
garrison in a city of Auvergne, and desired me to be ready to
join it in three days.

“J was greatly disconcerted on many accounts; in the first
place, I had no liking for a military life, but that was an

* Thereader must bear in mind, that the “colleges ” mentioned in this and other
places are analogous to our public schools, such as Harrow and Eton.

324 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

objection that might have been quickly overcome; the sight
of a handsome uniform, a few ambitious sentences, and a
little music might have easily made an Achilles or a Cesar
of me.

“ But I was in love!

“ On no consideration in the world would I have ventured
to say a word of this to my father; his only reply to my
confidence would have been to order me to set out that
very evening.

“But I had an uncle. What an uncle he was!

“ He was a man of nearly the same age that I am now;
but he was still young, not for himself but for others; for
never did an old man resign to Satan his pomps, works, and
vanities with a better grace. He loved young people; he
understood them without being jealous of them. He did not
believe that infirmities were a progress, or that old age was
necessarily wisdom. By the force of goodness and reason, he
lived upon the happiness of others. He was mixed up with
all the generous follies, all the noble extravagances of youth ;
he was the confidant and protector of all lovers, the assistant
in cases of debt, the encourager of hopes.

“T went to his house, and saluted him with,—

“¢ Dear uncle, I am very unfortunate.’

“«T will bet twenty louis you are not,’ said he.

“« Dear uncle, don’t joke. Besides, you would lose.’

“Tf I lose I will pay; and that perhaps will help to
console you.’

“* No, uncle; money has nothing to do with my grief.’

“« Well, tell it me, then.’

“« My father has just announced to me that I am a lieu-
tenant in the regiment of :

“« Pretty misfortune that, to be sure. One of the hand-
somest uniforms in the army; the officers all gentlemen.’

“¢ But, uncle, I don’t wish to be a soldier.’

“* What! you don’t wish to be a soldier? Perhaps you
are deficient in courage?’

“«T scarcely know yet, uncle; nevertheless, you are the
only person I would allow to put such a question to me.’

“¢ Well, brave Cid! and my very good friend, why are you
unwilling to be a soldier ?’

¥ THE YELLOW ROSES. 3825

“¢ Because I wish to be married.’

“« ¢ Bah !’

“<Tt is very well for you to say, Bah! I am in love!’

“¢ Do you call that a misfortune, you ungrateful young
scoundrel? Why, I should like to be in love myself, over
head and ears. And, pray who is the object of such a bril-
liant flame 1’

“* Dear, uncle, she is an angel !’

“¢ Oh! I knew that before; it is always an angel. Ina
little time you will love a woman better than an angel. But
what earthly name does this angel reply to?’

“«¢ Her name, uncle, is Noémi.’

“¢ That’s not what I asked you. Noémi; that’s all your
own,—it’s a pretty name, though. But for me, who want to
know who this angel is, and to what family she belongs,
a family name is necessary.’

“Tt is Mademoiselle Amelot, uncle.’

“¢ Tndeed! that’s better than an angel! A tall, slender,
graceful brunette, with eyes of black velvet. I can’t say
I disapprove of the object at all.’

“¢ Ah! dear uncle, if you did but know her mind and
heart !” -

«¢ Ah, yes! I know all about that. And thou art paid in
return, as we used to say formerly? Is that the phrase with

ou fellows, now-a-days?”
« “© Really, uncle, I do not know.’

“Not know! thou nephew unworthy of thine uncle!
You are every day creeping into the house, and don’t know
whether you are loved !’

“ ¢ She does not even know that I love her, uncle.’

“¢QOh! in that respect you are deceived, fair nephew; and
show that you understand nothing of the matter. She knew
you loved her, at least a quarter of an hour before you knew
it yourself.’

“ ¢ Uncle, all that I know is, that I shall kill myself, if she
be not mine.’

“< Qh, oh! as strong as that, fair nephew, is it? Humph!
there are many chances against her being yours. Your father
is much richer than hers, and will not bestow his son upon
her,’

826 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

« ¢ Well then, uncle, I know what remains for me to do.’

“ ¢ Nonsense! let us see: don’t commit any folly; at least
listen to me.’

“<¢ Yes, uncle.’

“« Well, in the first place, you cannot marry at twenty.’

“ «Why not, uncle 2”

* ¢ Because I won't let you; and without me this marriage
will never take place.’

“« Oh, my dear, good little uncle !

“< Tf the girl loves you—if she promises to wait three years
for you P

“« Three years, uncle !’

“* Don’t begin to argue about it, or I shall insist upon
four. If she will promise to wait three years for you, you will
join your regiment.’

“© Ah, uncle !—uncle !’

“¢ But not at Clermont; I will contrive to have you placed
in a regiment at a few leagues from Paris, whither you can
come once in every three months.’

“ ¢ Well, uncle; but how am I to know if she loves me?’

“ ¢« How are youto know! Why by asking her, to be sure.

“ ¢ Dear uncle, I dare not.’

“¢ Then pack up your kit, and obey your father.’

“ « But, dear uncle, you don’t know what sort of a girl she
is. I have wished a hundred times to tell her I loved her; I
have been ashamed of my own timidity; I have endeavoured
to obtain courage in all ways; I have prepared speeches, and
learnt them by heart; I have written letters: but when an
opportunity offered for speaking to her, I felt the first word
choke me, and I spoke of something else. Her look is so
mild, but at the same time so severe, it appeared to me that
she could never love a man; and then I spoke of something
else. As for letters, it is still worse: at the moment I should
give them, I fancy them so silly, that I cannot believe I can
tear them into pieces small enough.’

“¢ Well, but, my boy, the matter must be decided; and I
will tell you why: your father has not let you into the whole
affair. One of his reasons for sending you to Clermont is,
that the colonel of the regiment is one of his most intimate
friends, and has a daughter: this daughter is destined for

THE YELLOW ROSES. 827

you; it isa rich and suitable match. But you need say
nothing about it; I know that all this amounts to nothing
when a man is in love. It is a great folly, but it is a folly
I should be sorry not to have committed myself: they must
be cold-blooded mortals who do not commit such. I know
very well that old folks call this illusions; but who knows if
it be not they who have some of these illusions? The spec-
tacles that lessen objects are not more true than those which
enlarge them.

“ «Tf she loves you, you must sacrifice everything for her
sake: that’s a folly, I know; but it is right, and must be
done. But you must ascertain if she loves you; and there is
just now an excellent opportunity for putting the question.
Her family are about to marry her to another Well,
nephew, you turn pale at that idea, and you would like to
measure swords with your odious rival. Is not that what
you said just now? Well, try to preserve a little of this great
courage in the presence of the beautiful Noémi. They want
to marry her: you are richer than she is, but the man they
wish to marry her to is richer than you; besides, he has
a title, and is a husband quite ready, and the corbeille is
ready; whilst for you they must wait. Go to Noémi, and
tell her you love her: she knows it well enough, but it is
expected to be told. Ask her if she responds to your affection,
and tell her she ought to love you; you are young, hand-
some, and sensible, Tell her that she shall swear to you to
wait three years for you, and that she shall write it to me—
to me myself, in a letter, which I will keep. Then I will
break off the marriage yonder; I will get you placed in
another regiment; and in three years, in spite of your father,
in spite of the “Bah!” in spite of everything, I will marry

ou.’.
7 “ ¢ Dear uncle, I have an idea.’

“ ¢ What is it?’

“ ¢T will write to her.’

“« ¢ Ag you please.’

“T left my uncle, and instantly set about my letter. There
was no difficulty in the writing—I had already written her a
hundred and fifty; but it was the delivery of the letter that
embarrassed me, ~Nevertheless, as there was no time to be

328 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

lost in hesitation, I fixed upona plan: I purchased a bouquet
of yellow roses, and placed my billet in the middle of the
bouquet.

“ Stop—perhaps it is being very foolish, but I still remem-
ber the contents of it. After the avowal of my love, I sup-
plicated her to love me in return, to be happy with me, and
to wait for me three years. I entreated her, if she con-
sented, to wear in her bosom in the evening one of my yellow
roses. Then, said I, I shall have courage to speak to you,
and will tell you all you have to do to secure my happiness:
T dare not say owr happiness.”

“ What! did you put the billet in the bouquet?” said
Madame Lorgerel.

“ Yes, Madame.”

“ And then ?”

“ And then, in the evening Noémi did not wear a yellow
rose in her bosom. I was near killing myself. My uncle
dragged me away to Clermont, in spite of myself; he re-
mained with me two months, mingled with the young officers,
and finished by diverting my thoughts, and convincing me
that Noémi had never loved me.

“~¢ But, uncle, said I, ‘she always appeared so glad when
I arrived, and made such gentle reproaches when I came
late”

“« Ah! women love to have the love of all the world; but
there are persons whom they don’t love.’

“In short, in the end, I nearly forgot her; and then I
married the daughter of the colonel, whom I lost after a
union of eight years; and here I am now, left quite alone.
My uncle has been dead a long while. Well, would you
believe that I still think frequently of Noémi; and what is
most curious is, that she always presents herself before me as
a young girl of seventeen, with her beautiful brown hair, and,
as my uncle said, her black velvet eyes; whereas she must
now be, if living, quite an old woman.”

“ You do not know what became of her ?”

* No, Madame.”

“ Well, but your name was not then Descoudraies ?”

“No; that is the name of my uncle’s estate. My name
was Edmond d’Altheim.”

THE YELLOW ROSES, 829

“ Just so.”

“ How, Madame, just so?”

“ T will tell you what is become of Noémi.”

“You will, Madam?”

“Yes; she loved you.”

“ But the yellow rose?”

“She never saw the billet. Your sudden departure cost
her much grief and many tears; but, like you, she married—
Monsieur de Lorgerel.”

“M. De Lorgerel!”

“Yes, M. de Lorgerel, whose widow I now am.”

“What, you !—What! you, Noémi Amelot?”

“ Alas! yes, as you are, or rather as you no longer are,
Edmond d’ Altheim.”

“Who could ever have believed that the day would come
when we should not recognise each other?”

“ Yes, is it not strange? And only to meet to play at back-
gammon?”

“ But the bouquet?”

“The bouquet—here it is, I have always kept it.”

And Madame Lorgerel fetched an ebony box from an
escritoire, which she opened.

She took out a faded bouquet. She trembled.

“ Untie it, untie it!” said M. Descoudraies.

She untied the bouquet, and found the billet, which had
been there forty-two years..

Both remained silent. I wished to leave them. M. Descou-
draies arose. Madame de Lorgerel took him by the hand and
said, “ You are right. This renewal of the youth of our hearts
must not take place before two old faces like ours. Let us
avoid casting this ridicule upon a noble sentiment, which will
perhaps afford us happiness for the rest of our lives. Do not
come again till after the expiration of a few days.”

From that time, old M. Descoudraies and old Madame de
Lorgerel are seldom apart ; I have never witnessed anything:
like the sentiment that exists between them. They go over
again and again all the little details of that love which was
never told; they have a thousand things to relate, they are
in love retrospectively: they wish to be married, but they
dare not marry.

LETTER LIX.

ORIGIN AND PROPERTIES OF CERTAIN PLANTS—THEIR COLOURS ONLY
COMPARATIVE—END_ OF THE TOUR,

Many controversies have taken place with respect to the
heliotrope, the flower whose umbels, of a greyish blue,
exhale such a sweet odour of vanilla.

Tt is related that the nymph Clytie, the daughter of
Oceanus, was abandoned by Apollo, whom she had loved.
This threw her into such deep grief that she ceased to eat or
to drink, and died with her eyes fixed upon the sun. She
was changed into a flower called heliotrope. Now heliotrope
signifies, J turn towards the sun.

Some savants have determined that it was not our helio-
trope with the vanilla odour, that was spoken of when
alluding to the metamorphoses of Clytie, but of the great

THE HELIOTROPE AND HORSE-CHESTNUT. 3381 |

sunflower, sometimes called turnsole, which implies just the
4ame thing as heliotrope. But there is a trifling incon-
venience attached to this solution, which is, that the sun-
flower comes to us from Peru, and that in the time of Ovid
Peru was not known.

If we seek for another flower to which to attribute the his-
tory of Clytie, that is another embarrassment, with the indica-
tion you have, that it isa flower which turns towards the sun.

Point out to me any flower that does not turn towards the
sun. Put all you please into a chamber that has but one
opening, and you will see, not only their flowers, but their
leaves, nay, their stalks, seek the air, daylight, and the sun.

The wild heliotrope which resembles the cultivated helio-
trope, excepting in the smell, is often sold under the pretence
that it has the quality of curing warts, which is not true.

This time I will not forget it; I will clear up the phe-
nomena of the fraxinella. As soon as day disappears, I will
set fire to the inflammable air that surrounds it. In the mean-
while, here we are under the horse-chestnut-trees. Some bear
spikes of white flowers, others spikes of rose-coloured flowers.
The horse-chestnut-tree is originally from Constantinople,
whence it was sent into Austria in 1594, and brought to Paris
in 1613, by a M. Bachelier, the same who brought the ane-
mones, as I told you.

Men, who in general render great worship to beauty, are, I
know not why, ashamed of this worship, and invent for that
which they think beautiful all sorts of moral and useful
qualities, often sufficiently apocryphal. On the other side,
there is nothing concerning which one part of mankind does
not seek to deceive the others.

It was from these two united causes, no doubt, that attempts
were made to manufacture, but more particularly to sell, soap
made of the fruit of the horse-chestnut-tree. Then they
undertook to feed cattle upon it. The latter did, in the end,
eat it, but with great dislike, and after long and almost starv-
ing hesitation; they preferred hunger to death, but very little.

The millepertuis for a long time was supposed to possess
the power of driving away demons; it is now-a-days satis-
fied with displaying some pretty clusters of yellow flowers, and
with presenting the singular appearance of leaves perforated
with an infinite number of little holes.

‘

o

332 A TOUR ROUND MY GARDEN.

Here shines the scarlet-geranium; its splendid colour
dazzles the eyes; it would appear to be the sovereign red.
Take a flower of it and place it by the side of the little scarlet
verbena of Miquilon, which creeps among the magnolias,
those trees which bear lilies upon heath land, and variegate it
with sparkling little umbels. Place near one of these umbels
the blossom of the geranium, and by a singular metamor-
phosis, the geranium is no longer red, it becomes yellow, its
red is subdued and destroyed by the red of the verbena. The
verbena, in its turn, will pale before the Cardinal’s flower. All
which proves that things are only red as they are great by the
side of those which are less red and less great. The greatness
of great men is made more than half of the littleness of
the others.

By the side of the marigold of the gardens, that beautiful
orange anemone of such a brilliant colour, there opens at
certain hours the rainy marigold, a daisy-like flower with a
violet-coloured disc and white rays above, violet and green
underneath, which closes a little before rain.

But day is beginning to decline; the sparrows chirp and
seem to squabble in the trees; bats fly around my head; the
beauties of the day are closed, the beauties of the night and
the onagres unfold and open their corollas.

Varai, bring me a light. Now for the fraxinella!

I was just at this point of my journey, my good friend,
when an unusual noise interrupted the wonted silence of my
retreat. It was the noise of a carriage and the horses
galloping, with the crack of the post-boy’s whip.

It was you, returned from your long voyage before I have
half-finished mine. But you could only afford me a few
minutes; you set out again for Paris two hours after your
arrival; business imperatively required your presence.

I have put these letters in order, and send them to you.
When you come to see me, we will continue my journey
together. Farewell!

BR, CLAY, PRINTER, BREAD STREST HILL,