NOV. go 
337 
MOORE’S RURAL NEW-YORKER, 
A PORTRAIT GALLERY. 
IT is not in the storied corridor 
Of the old, ancestral hall. 
Where the belted knight and the lady bright 
Smile from the tapestried trail; 
Where a Guido’s tender radiance shows 
By a Rubens' gorgeous hues. 
Or the stately grace of a Vandyok face 
By the soft, slow glance ot a Greuze. 
Drawn on no earthly esnvos; 
By no mortal peocil limn’d ; 
Ne’er glorlded by an use's pride ; 
By no poet’s psean lijmn’d. 
By the quiet hush of the winter’s hearth, 
Or the breathless nights of June, 
Are my pictures seen by the (Ire-light’s shceu. 
Or framed the silvery moon. 
They rise around me, one by one, 
The lost, the changed, the dead; 
I see the smile I knew erewhilo 
On the sweet Ups dewy red. 
The soft dark eyes flash love for me, 
The soft cnrl3 gleam and ware, 
Till I half forgot how my life sun set 
'Neath the yews by a lonely grave. 
I see white robes and blushing flowers. 
And two close side by side. 
Nor think how deep is the bridegroom's sleep. 
As l watch him clasp Ills bride. 
I look In the gentle mother’s face, 
Till her blessing Is breathed again. 
While the father's eye*, strong, true and wise, 
Call counsel and calm the pain. 
I seem to smooth tho golden curls 
Toss’d back from the child’s pure brow. 
And prize them as then,though the whirl of men 
Etas smirch’d their gtltler now. 
The flrst friend’s form moves joyously 
Out through the dusky air. 
In Us frank, fresh truth, ns when hope and youth 
Set a royal signet there. 
Naught fades my portrait’s living lines; 
No flecks or sun-stains fall; 
No time corrodes; no thick dust loads 
Their beauty with Its pall. 
Painted b> memory and love 
For my waiting life and me. 
My pictures will sinno till in light divine 
Their deathless types I see. f Harper's Bazar, 
®ur ^tcrg-St^ll^r. 
THE WHITE CAMELLIA. 
A STORY OF THE EMPRESS JOSEPHINE, 
The following beautiful sketch Is translated 
from the German, showing the love or Queen 
Josephine for the Camellia, to whom It is said 
Is to be given the credit of the flrst intro¬ 
duction of this stately flower within her 
lovely home. 
The time Of roses is done; quickly done I 
—as ever—it Isgone. Summer and autumn 
rustled by like a dream and gathered all 
the flowers in their train. Only In great 
quiet rooms of palm tree houses and win¬ 
ter gardens are/ound bright blossoms and 
buds, which flourish in spite of the stern 
winter king, who frowns on everything 
but. his ice-flowers aud tendrils. 
It Is the proud Camellia which now un¬ 
folds her glossy leaves, polishes the folds 
of her drapery and salutes us above them ; 
graceful as a princess. There seems to be 
someth lug embodied In this charming, un¬ 
approachable flower .that reminds us of the 
words, “Touch not the queen." With un¬ 
speakably earnest eyes, It gazes upon us 
and remains a stranger to us always—In 
spite of Its beauty-a cold, indifferent 
heart — without language, without fra¬ 
grance. 
The proud camellia will never be the 
gift of love, like the rose—like the violet 
and forget-rno-not. Beyond the sea lies 
Its home, and It is said that there a gently 
intoxicating fragrance flows from its 
leaves, but thy ohllly breath of the north 
has made the siraager-plaut mute, like so 
many frail humau plants who have been 
removed from warm, cheerful homes Into 
cool shades or transplanted from their 
native, tender sol) into rocky wastes. 
But It was a woman’s hand under whose 
tender care the white camellia flrst saw 
the light In France and afterwards bloom¬ 
ed in Germany—the small, beautiful hand 
of the Empress Josephine. 
“Fortunately Malmaison is not destroy¬ 
ed,” wrote a friend In the spring of 1871. 
“The accompanying little box contains a 
white camellia from the greenhouse, rt 
was Josephine’s favorite flower, and will 
bloom anew beneath your warm eyes. I 
know full well what deep sympathy your 
heart cherishes for that charming creature 
and I sought out that quiet asylum for 
your sake, almost at the peril of my life. I 
reached there unobserved and in safety, 
and am happy to relate some pleasant as¬ 
sociations connected therewith. I was 
permitted to throw only a hurried glance 
upon all kinds of Interesting relics. I saw 
a small fan with a golden handle, which la 
said to have been sacred to Josephine’s 
use, and a dress of pale-blue silk was 
shown me over which the great Coral an 
had poured the contents of an ink-stand, 
because the color was distasteful to him— 
yea, verily, my dear, a real lnk-stand I ac¬ 
cording to the on dit; his actions corres¬ 
ponded at all times to the one described. 
If a robe of the F.inpress failed to please him 
and was exchanged for another, after which 
she chanced to reappear In the former proscrib¬ 
ed robe—In the face of his flrst slight gesture of 
reproof—suddenly and without pity flowed the 
black, destructive fluid upon it. Just such a 
dress she wore in her solitude, the dear woman! 
how many traces of tears were visible on this 
rich, elegant dress! t»he could not certainly 
have valued that ruined splendor. It was doubt¬ 
less its association with that painful circum¬ 
stance which made her treasure it even with 
bitter tears. I am glad, moreover, that your 
favorite was so wotnau-likeln many ways which 
you cannot fall t<r appreciate. For Instance, 
that things of bygone days were so cherished 
by her: of many such there are still preserved 
velvets, silks, laces and the like. She also pos¬ 
sessed one hundred and fifty real shawls I” 
This woman was truly a flower-rairy with her 
sensitive heart and liberal hand, whose grace 
aud goodness disarmed the bitterest enemy. 
Like u gardener, she assumed the oare of flow¬ 
ers at Maimason; her greenhouses and violet 
beds were under her special supervision. 
In her days of fortune and splendor she sur¬ 
rounded herself with violets—those most mod¬ 
est of all flowers—between the pearls and Jew¬ 
els of her crown, upon the scams of her trailing, 
gold-emhroidered dress—everywhere wore nest¬ 
led those delicate blossoms. 
Then, when the darkened time of her aban¬ 
donment came, Josephine nourished, as her 
prerogative, the quiet, stranger-flower, which 
was as homeless aud lonely as herself. 
There was a German musician who visited 
the garden at Malmaison at the time when the 
shrubs were planted, which afterwards extend¬ 
ed so protect!ngiy their branches, concealing 
the asylum of the abandoned from the eye of a 
curious and merciless world. 
Friedrich Reichardt writes on the 2»th March, 
1803, concerning Malmaison, to a friend in Ber¬ 
lin, as follows:—“ We drove toward this rnelau- 
choly place, where stood the insignificant, 
poorly-built country house, In a barren, open 
field upon the highway, surrounded by an In- 
trencbinent and inclosed by a wall. We would 
gladly have taken a closer view of It but had 
scarcely reached the spot when Bonaparte, with 
his family and suite, drove thither for their 
abode during the beautiful spring-time, and we 
accordingly turned rapidly away. Bonaparte 
himself drove, from the foremost box, an open 
coach with four horses. Beside him was seated 
an officer in a red habit, probably a prefect du 
palate, and In the coach were seated his wife 
and her daughter, Madame Louis Bonaparte. 
“ Madame carried a large hunch of violets in 
her band. A number of mounted pens d’armes 
rode In advance and behind the coach, besides 
several generals and high officers. 
“ Many grooms rode so near to ths coach 
horses that, to an observer, they appeared to 
he holding the reins of the same. A strong 
guard already held possession of the entrance 
and fore court, whilst patrolmen rode round 
the walls scanning narrowly the intrenchmeuts, 
though it was yet daylight. 
“ Over the whole remaining way wo were mot 
by a multitude of carriages filled with actors 
from the French Theater and musicians and 
singers, on their way to give entertainment that 
evening, for the flrst time, in the little House- 
Theater at Malmaison. However elegant and 
artistically adorned the interior of the old 
house may he, the externul surroundings were 
hare and almost sterile. The planting of aymjn- 
forest hero is begun, and In the greenhouses 
are to ho reared all kluda of plants. 
“They tell of an exotic white flower the care 
of which Madame Bonaparte herself supervised 
Do you not remember the lovely parks at St! 
Cloud? To forsake them and the excellent 
dwellings there for Malmaison would he some¬ 
thing incomprehensible to us did we not know¬ 
how gladly the first Consul Isolates himself. 
“ Near the house, in the direction of Paris, 
stand large barracks for the Consul's guard, 
lllled with soldiers. The barracks are probably 
six times tliesizo and far better built than tim 
dwelling of the first Consul.” 
What a picture la presented by this plain ac¬ 
count of the«German musician! Like a fata 
moroana, It ascends and pusses like a panorama 
before our eyes. 
On a clear night in spring lies Malmaison en¬ 
veloped In moonlight. In the garden are bloom¬ 
ing violets and cherry trees, whilst nightingales 
are trilling their emulative songs. On the broad 
graveled walks even the little stones are dis¬ 
cernible by the silvery light that is spread like 
a mantle over them. The blooming branches 
cast their transparent shadows over the garden 
beds. The lights la the windows are extin¬ 
guished except!ngin the right wing, from which 
they shine brightly, casting a reddish luster 
over the turfy lawn. This is the study or the 
first Consul. A world of dauntless thoughts 
and plans are lodged In tills bead, which la sup¬ 
ported by a small white band. This wonderful 
Crnsar-profile is soen in a dltn light. 
The rolling of the last carriage wheels has 
Ju3t died away in the distance which convoy 
hack to Parts the merry band of comedians. 
How they laugh and chat over the puppet thea¬ 
ter at Malmaison—these careless favorites of 
the I arlslan world! The young uctro.sses assert 
defiantly that they will not appear in that place 
again and their amiable admirers kiss their 
hands in token of their approval. 
1’he graceful Madame St. Aubtno trilled with 
her elegant attendant, St. Pal, a new duett hy 
Paeslello ; the pretty vocalist Contat, who per¬ 
THE FT IT ST LESSON. 
sonated la coquette, corrtqec to the delight of 
Istened allured to the impassioned eulo^ of 
the handsome Baptiste, her first lover. The 
nearer they approached to their beloved Paris 
the louder their joyousness. ” Vive la joie. t 
thro t 'mu d - Par(S! ” r,UK9 olear from every 
thioat. The Incubus of Malmaison was shakoJ 
So still was it that night In the garden of Mal- 
maison that one could distinctly hear, even at 
and'?h« d MraT’ thS IOW creakln *>* of « silk shoo 
* .’f foot - top of n woman, as hor shad¬ 
ow fell on the walk which led to the green- 
V*/ Ult ni 0 onll A'ht now appeared a form. 
. “.f V a ? UOt ' D • A lon *’ white dress 
grazed the ground, embroidered to the knees 
with colored foil. A slender diadem of opals 
confined !‘ er ', l!irk ’ W!,r >' hair; on her neck, over 
which only a light-blue shawl was thrown, foil 
a short gauze veil spangled with gold. Rich 
lace enveloped herwaist, failing over her boau- 
Srtl r,' TbiS daz * lln K »PParltIon van¬ 
ished in the diruly-lightod entrance to the con¬ 
servatory. The old gardener was awaiting his 
protectress there. mum 
♦‘Howare my flowers?” said the gentle crea¬ 
ture. I could not, coma earlier, Pierre - tfco 
play lasted so long, and only this moment l,aa 
the Consul dismissed mo.” And whilst she was 
uttering those words she hastened forward 
with the eagerness of a mother who, returning 
cloild J* y0arna to kis * *»®r sleeping 
“ I hope, madame,” said the old man, tripping 
after her, it may blossom; wo shall preservo 
at least one, the largest of the buds. If madame 
visits It often it win Bve-this stranger^ower 
Muht 6 Kht !' Bht nhv '* y '’’ aml ^ry ftrong 
light. Out sun la too cold beie. So human eyes 
rauflt lonk warmly upon It/' 
Josephine now stood still. Separated from 
the rest was standing ono slender plant, with 
dark grr.cn leaves. The light of the lamp fell 
upon the beautiful female face which now bent 
with an expression of fervent, tenderness over 
her foster-child—her Camellia. 
It was the first, the only one that might bloom 
at Malmaison ! All Paris had not, as yet, beheld 
a white Camellia. y ' eneld 
Until that hour only dark loaves had unfolded 
themselves again and again ; the promised mar¬ 
vel had kept them waiting long. In spite of the 
most watchful care; so long, that the Consul 
had long since grown impatient and censed to 
inquire ari.or his wire’s favorite. At last buds 
appeared whtoh slowly dilated and filled. Kverv 
day J osephine had driven to Malmaison to visit 
her flowers, nod to-day— tbe day of thtdr rt 
niovu! hither she had been granted no moment 
of repose to satisfy the secret longings of her 
huart. 
It was now long after the hour of mldMght. 
‘ Oh { it had surely grown since yester¬ 
day ; the one large bud I” whispered she 
wild a smile of delight. And her ’ustreus 
eyes were fastened admiringly on the still 
bud which was yet wrapped so snugly in 
its many covers of green. Only at the top, 
at the outermost point, R shone more 
clear; there was the veil becoming trans¬ 
parent. 
“ It Is cold here, whilst outside it is now 
spring, and I only can understand thee • 
poor flower, we both knew a warmer sun !’’ 
And Oiled with a sympathy which over¬ 
flowed from h heart suddenly seized with 
a home-longing, this daughter of the south 
bowed herself, and her lips touched, light 
ly as a breath, th B Camellia bud. Then 
she slowly turned away and walked with 
lingering steps back through the labyrinth 
of flowers, pausing hero and there and 
stroking caressingly a brood, velvety leaf 
or bending to breathe deeply the fragrance 
of a flower. 
Like the veritable flower-queen she wan¬ 
dered there In her white robe and spark¬ 
ling veil, her girdle ornamented with a 
ouuch of violets, and followed meanwhile 
by a good spirit; even the bowed form of 
the old gardener. 
Very many times Josephine gilded, at 
late hours, into the conservatory before 
the much-loved flower bloomed ; often In 
the rain and wind, when the crystal drops 
would lodge In her hair and on her long, 
dark eyelashes, and she, with childish 
glee, would shake them off. 
“ f cannot sleep when I fall to hid them 
good-night,” confessed she to old Pierre. 
At least Bbe possessed, in ail its chaste 
magnltloence, the white Camelila-Queen. 
One evening she entered the Consul’s 
study with beaming eyes and glowing 
cheeks. She raised not her head, hut 
walked with the assurance of a beloved 
Wife, lightly across the room to his side 
and laid the wondrous flower upon the 
papers which riveted so closely his gaze. 
“ There It ts, and with jou it shall bloom 
aad die!” whispered the beautiful lips. 
And the flrst White Camellia at Malmai¬ 
son bloomed and faded upon the study 
table of the Consul. 
Later, when Josephine wore the French 
Imperial crown—and tills she did with the 
meekness of a violet—the exotic from her 
land shared, with her other favorite, her 
gentle protection and eare. Her heurt 
and her thoughts Usd for comfort and 
consolation to these precious fluwers. 
lathe diary or a gifted princess Is re¬ 
corded. touchingly, the account of her 
visit to the apartments of the Empress In 
Paris, In 1808, as she witnessed the profu¬ 
sion of flowers with which this graceful 
