OUR SENTIMENTAL GARDEN 

 than not to be on my London bookshelves / and mutatis 

 mutandis, vice versa I > The precise wording cannot in 

 consequence be given here. But it is a small matter/ the 

 story is to this effect : 



In his young and singularly impressionable days, Jean- 

 Jacques was taking a country walk with one very near to 

 his heart. At a certain spot of the garden, or the wood, 

 in which he was tasting the subtle joys of solitude a 

 deux, the lady suddenly exclaimed : 

 " See, yonder is a pervenche ! " 



" Indeed/ 7 returned the youth, little intent then, upon the 

 beauties of the outer world, and gazed absently upon the 

 tender blue peeping out of the tender green. " So, that is 

 a periwinkle 1 " And he resumed the thread of his inter- 

 rupted discourse. 



But, later much later on, in twilight days of his life some 

 one happened again to say in his hearing : 

 "See~a Periwinkle !" 



And Rousseau, now old Jean-Jacques, amazed the com- 

 pany by an almost incredible exhibition of sensibility. 

 " Une pervenche ! Where where ? " he called out, 

 throwing himself down on his knees to look for the flower, 

 with eyes bathed in tears. 



If this is not quite the exact tale, it matters, as I said above, 

 very little. It is the story, in its essence. The age of 

 sensibility <praise be to our fate !> is no longer with us , 

 but there is something permanently true in the picture it 

 sets forth. To the philosophe of mature years the mere 

 word pervenche suddenly recalled, in a poignantly intimate 

 manner, the first love of his spring-time. Veteris vestigia 

 flammae ! 

 68 



