Which like Bengal fire shows everything ‘en rose,’
The flowers seem much prettier,
And the birds hop about, chirping on the branches of the bamboo.
The wind has calmed down, the trees are wrapped in silence,
And shades are stealthily creeping over all the land.
My breast swells, but as much with fresh air as with gladness.
But, alas, the day, approaching its end, holds no further prospect of happiness.”
Do not think that to be happy the Chinaman must have a large estate. It is the quality of the philosopher to be satisfied with very little. A small plot of land is all-sufficient for his happiness, provided he has a few square yards of soil in which to plant his bamboo and his favourite flowers.
The following is a poem written by a man of letters, who lived in a cottage, and consoled himself in this wise: