THE BEAUTIFUL STREAMLET AND THE UTILITARIAN.

Alphonse Karr's new book, Travels in my Garden, is full of social heresies, but quite as full of wit. We find in Fraser's Magazine for May translations of some admirable passages, with specimens of his peculiar speculation. Karr is an ardent lover of Nature; he takes note of all her caprices, and respects them,—remarks under what shade the violet loves to dwell, and tells us how certain plants—the volubulis, the scarlet-runner, and the Westeria, for instance—invariably twine their spiral tendrils from left to right, whereas hops and honeysuckles as infallibly twist theirs from right to left. He knows which are the plants that fold, when evening comes, their leaves in two, lengthwise,—which are those that close them up like fans, and which are the careless ones that crumple them up irregularly with happy impunity, for the next morning's sun smooths them all alike. He loves Nature in all her details, but with disinterested love, and has no idea of making her subservient to his pride, or selfishly monopolizing her; he has evidently no wish to wall in woods and meadows, and call them a park, or to dam up sparkling, bubbling, dancing streams, and turn them into cold, spiritless, aristocratic sheets of water. Indeed, in one of the first chapters of the book, there is a fanciful bit of sentiment about a happy little stream that falls into the hands of a pitiless utilitarian, which we are tempted to quote:—

"That stream which runs through my garden gushes from the side of a furze-covered hill; for a long time it was a happy little stream; it traversed meadows where all sorts of lovely wild flowers bathed and mirrored themselves in its waters, then it entered my garden, and there I was ready to receive it; I had prepared green tanks for it; on its edge and in its very bed I had planted those flowers which all over the world love to bloom on the banks and in the bosom of pure streams; it flowed through my garden, murmuring its plaintive song; then, fragrant with my flowers, it left the garden, crossed another meadow, and flung itself into the sea, over the precipitous sides of the cliff, which it covered with foam.

"It was a happy stream; it had literally nothing to do beyond what I have said,—to flow, to bubble, to look limpid, to murmur, amidst flowers and sweet perfumes. It led the life I have chosen, and that I continue to lead, when people let me alone, and when knaves and fools and wicked men do not force me—who am at once the most pacific and the most battling man on earth—to return to the fight. But heaven and earth are jealous of the happiness of gentle indolence.

"One day my brother Eugene, and Savage, the clever engineer, were talking together on the banks of the stream, and to a certain degree abusing it.

"'There,' said my brother, 'is a fine good-for-nothing stream for you, forsooth, winding and dawdling about, dancing in the sunshine, and revelling in the grass instead of working and paying for the place it takes up, as an honest stream should. Could it not be made to grind coffee or pepper?'

"'Or tools?' added Savage.

"'Or to saw boards?' said my brother.

"I trembled for the stream, and broke off the conversation, complaining loudly that its detractors (its would-be tyrants) were treading down my forget-me-nots. Alas! it was but against them alone I could protect it. Before long there came into our neighborhood a man whom I noticed more than once hanging about the spot where the stream empties itself into the sea. The fellow I plainly saw was neither seeking for rhymes, nor indulging in dreams and memories upon its banks,—he was not lulling thought to rest with the gentle murmur of its waters. 'My good friend,' he was saying to the stream, 'there you are, idling and meandering about, singing to your heart's content, while I am working and wearing myself out. I don't see why you should not help me a bit; you know nothing of the work to be done, but I'll soon show you. You'll soon know how to set about it. You must find it dull to stay in this way, doing nothing,—it would be a change for you to make files or grind knives.' Very soon wheels of all kinds were brought to the poor stream. From that day forward it has worked and turned a great wheel, which turns a little wheel, which turns a grindstone; it still sings, but no longer the same gently-monotonous song in its peaceful melancholy. Its song is loud and angry now,—it leaps and froths and works now,—it grinds knives! It still crosses the meadow, and my garden, and the next meadow; but there, the man is on the watch for it, to make it work. I have done the only thing I could do for it. I have dug a new bed for it in my garden, so that it may idle longer there, and leave me a little later; but for all that, it must go at last and grind knives. Poor stream! thou didst not sufficiently conceal thy happiness in obscurity,—thou hast murmured too audibly thy gentle music."