The fragrance of the violet is noticed when the flower itself is not seen—just as benevolent persons’ actions are sometimes known and felt, while the actors remain out of sight.

Four hundred years ago, some gentlemen of rank, who were very fond of poetry, were walking at Toulouse; one of them remarking the beauty of the violet, all agreed to write some verses on it, as a sort of trial of skill. At the end of the week, the poets met, and each read the verses he had written, and the umpire decided which of the poems was the best. Wishing to extend a love of poetry, those gentlemen, with some others, drew up a circular letter in rhyme, and addressed it to all the poets of Languedoc, inviting them to come to Toulouse on the first of May, and read their verses, promising a golden violet to him who should compose the best poem. This society continued until the middle of the last century, when it became more celebrated from an incident connected with Marmontel, the French poet. He was the child of very poor parents, but being very fond of study, he gave his life up to it. After contending with great difficulties, he obtained admittance into a college, and hearing of this annual challenge, resolved to enter the list of the Toulousian writers. He was very fond of his mother, and, for her sake, more than anything else, he determined to obtain the prize of the golden violet.

The hall was filled with the gentry, and the young students of the university were present. When the successful candidate was announced, the hall resounded with the sounds of music and the shouts of the audience.

Marmontel had been kept in great suspense during the time of the decision by the judges. It was first announced that the prize for the ode had been withheld; and as he had offered an ode to the academy, and had been the author of an unsuccessful idyll, everybody pitied the youth for his disappointment. But when the poem which gained the prize was proclaimed, Marmontel stood up and received it. Some were glad of this, and said, “Poor fellow, he missed twice—but he did not fail a third time; he has more than one string or arrow to his bow.” He retired to his seat, but only to be called up the second time for the second prize; again he retired, and again returned to receive the other prize, amid the redoubled and enthusiastic applause of the multitude. But, in the midst of this applause, the young poet looked around among the vast multitude, and there he beheld two arms stretched out to receive him; they were those of his tutor. Close beside stood his mother, shedding tears of joy. He rushed forward through the crowd,—“My father!” said he, “my mother!—take them all,—they are yours;” and so saying, he threw all the prizes, together with himself, into the arms extended to receive him.

“Ah! my children;” said he, when he became an old man, “that which interests the heart is always sweet. I care nothing for the golden violet now. But the feelings of love which burned in my heart for my mother and good old tutor, are as fresh as ever, and survive the blight of other things, as the fragrance of the violet survives its withered leaf.”

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