120 A TOUa BOUND 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 suoh 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 



spreads 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 



