“Then came old January, wrapped well
  In many weeds to keep the cold away;
  Yet did he quake and quiver like to quell,
  And blow his nayles to warme them if he may;
  For they were numbed with holding all the day
  An hatchet keene, with which he felled wood
  And from the trees did lop the needlesse spray: 
  Upon an huge great earth-pot steane he stood,
  From whose wide mouth there flowed forth the Romane floud.”

* * * * *

As long as you are engaged in the world, you must comply with its maxims; because nothing is more unprofitable than the wisdom of those persons who set up for reformers of the age.  ’Tis a part a man can not act long, without offending his friends, and rendering himself ridiculous.—­St. Gosemond.

THE PAVILIONS ON THE LAKE.

FROM THE FRENCH OF THEOPHILE GAUTIER.

In the province of Canton, several miles from the city, there once lived two rich Chinese merchants, retired from business.  One of them was named Tou, the other Kouan.  Both were possessed of great riches, and were persons of much consequence in the community.

Tou and Kouan were distant relatives, and from early youth had lived and worked side by side.  Bound by ties of great affection, they had built their homes near together, and every evening they met with a few select friends to pass the hours in delightful intercourse.  Both possessed of much talent, they vied with each other in the production of exquisite Chinese handiwork, and spent the evenings in tracing poetry and fancy designs on rice-paper as they drank each other’s success in tiny glasses of delicate cordial.  But their characters, apparently so harmonious, as time went on grew more and more apart; they were like an almond tree, growing as one stem, until little by little the branches divide so that the topmost twigs are far from each other—­half sending their bitter perfume through the whole garden, while the other half scatter their snow-white flowers outside the garden wall.

From year to year Tou grew more serious; his figure increased in dignity, even his double chin wore a solemn expression, and he spent his whole time composing moral inscriptions to hang over the doors of his pavilion.

Kouan, on the contrary, grew jolly as his years increased.  He sang more gaily than ever in praise of wine, flowers, and birds.  His spirit, unburdened by vulgar cares, was light like a young man’s, and he dreamed of nothing but pure enjoyment.

Little by little an intense hatred sprang up between the friends.  They could not meet without indulging in bitter sarcasm.  They were like two hedges of brambles, bristling with sharp thorns.  At last, things came to such a pass that they could no longer endure each other’s society, and each hung a tablet by the door of his dwelling, stating that no person from the neighboring house would be allowed to cross the threshold on any pretext whatever.