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      Paul and Virginia, by Bernardin de Saint Pierre
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Project Gutenberg's Paul and Virginia, by Bernardin de Saint Pierre

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Paul and Virginia

Author: Bernardin de Saint Pierre

Release Date: March 25, 2006 [EBook #2127]
Last Updated: February 7, 2013

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PAUL AND VIRGINIA ***




Produced by Dagny; John Bickers and David Widger





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      PAUL AND VIRGINIA
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      by Bernardin de Saint Pierre
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      With A Memoir Of The Author
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Contents
    </h2>
    <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto">
      <tr>
        <td>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE </a>
          </p>
          <p class="toc">
            <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> PAUL AND VIRGINIA </a>
          </p>
        </td>
      </tr>
    </table>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      PREFACE
    </h2>
    <p>
      In introducing to the Public the present edition of this well known and
      affecting Tale,&mdash;the <i>chef d'oeuvre</i> of its gifted author, the
      Publishers take occasion to say, that it affords them no little
      gratification, to apprise the numerous admirers of "Paul and Virginia,"
      that the <i>entire</i> work of St. Pierre is now presented to them. All
      the previous editions have been disfigured by interpolations, and
      mutilated by numerous omissions and alterations, which have had the effect
      of reducing it from the rank of a Philosophical Tale, to the level of a
      mere story for children.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the merits of "Paul and Virginia," it is hardly necessary to utter a
      word; it tells its own story eloquently and impressively, and in a
      language simple, natural and true, it touches the common heart of the
      world. There are but few works that have obtained a greater degree of
      popularity, none are more deserving it; and the Publishers cannot
      therefore refrain from expressing a hope that their efforts in thus giving
      a faithful transcript of the work,&mdash;an acknowledged classic by the
      European world,&mdash;may be, in some degree, instrumental in awakening
      here, at home, a taste for those higher works of Fancy, which, while they
      seek to elevate and strengthen the understanding, instruct and purify the
      heart. It is in this character that the Tale of "Paul and Virginia" ranks
      pre-eminent. [Prepared from an edition published by Porter &amp; Coates,
      Philadelphia, U.S.A.]
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE
    </h2>
    <p>
      Love of Nature, that strong feeling of enthusiasm which leads to profound
      admiration of the whole works of creation, belongs, it may be presumed, to
      a certain peculiarity of organization, and has, no doubt, existed in
      different individuals from the beginning of the world. The old poets and
      philosophers, romance writers, and troubadours, had all looked upon Nature
      with observing and admiring eyes. They have most of them given
      incidentally charming pictures of spring, of the setting sun, of
      particular spots, and of favourite flowers.
    </p>
    <p>
      There are few writers of note, of any country, or of any age, from whom
      quotations might not be made in proof of the love with which they regarded
      Nature. And this remark applies as much to religious and philosophic
      writers as to poets,&mdash;equally to Plato, St. Francois de Sales, Bacon,
      and Fenelon, as to Shakespeare, Racine, Calderon, or Burns; for from no
      really philosophic or religious doctrine can the love of the works of
      Nature be excluded.
    </p>
    <p>
      But before the days of Jean Jacques Rousseau, Buffon, and Bernardin de St.
      Pierre, this love of Nature had not been expressed in all its intensity.
      Until their day, it had not been written on exclusively. The lovers of
      Nature were not, till then, as they may perhaps since be considered, a
      sect apart. Though perfectly sincere in all the adorations they offered,
      they were less entirely, and certainly less diligently and constantly, her
      adorers.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is the great praise of Bernardin de St. Pierre, that coming immediately
      after Rousseau and Buffon, and being one of the most proficient writers of
      the same school, he was in no degree their imitator, but perfectly
      original and new. He intuitively perceived the immensity of the subject he
      intended to explore, and has told us that no day of his life passed
      without his collecting some valuable materials for his writings. In the
      divine works of Nature, he diligently sought to discover her laws. It was
      his early intention not to begin to write until he had ceased to observe;
      but he found observation endless, and that he was "like a child who with a
      shell digs a hole in the sand to receive the waters of the ocean." He
      elsewhere humbly says, that not only the general history of Nature, but
      even that of the smallest plant, was far beyond his ability. Before,
      however, speaking further of him as an author, it will be necessary to
      recapitulate the chief events of his life.
    </p>
    <p>
      HENRI-JACQUES BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE, was born at Havre in 1737. He
      always considered himself descended from that Eustache de St. Pierre, who
      is said by Froissart, (and I believe by Froissart only), to have so
      generously offered himself as a victim to appease the wrath of Edward the
      Third against Calais. He, with his companions in virtue, it is also said,
      was saved by the intercession of Queen Philippa. In one of his smaller
      works, Bernardin asserts this descent, and it was certainly one of which
      he might be proud. Many anecdotes are related of his childhood, indicative
      of the youthful author,&mdash;of his strong love of Nature, and his
      humanity to animals.
    </p>
    <p>
      That "the child is the father of the man," has been seldom more strongly
      illustrated. There is a story of a cat, which, when related by him many
      years afterwards to Rousseau, caused that philosopher to shed tears. At
      eight years of age, he took the greatest pleasure in the regular culture
      of his garden; and possibly then stored up some of the ideas which
      afterwards appeared in the "Fraisier." His sympathy with all living things
      was extreme.
    </p>
    <p>
      In "Paul and Virginia," he praises, with evident satisfaction, their meal
      of milk and eggs, which had not cost any animal its life. It has been
      remarked, and possibly with truth, that every tenderly disposed heart,
      deeply imbued with a love of Nature, is at times somewhat Braminical. St.
      Pierre's certainly was.
    </p>
    <p>
      When quite young, he advanced with a clenched fist towards a carter who
      was ill-treating a horse. And when taken for the first time, by his
      father, to Rouen, having the towers of the cathedral pointed out to him,
      he exclaimed, "My God! how high they fly." Every one present naturally
      laughed. Bernardin had only noticed the flight of some swallows who had
      built their nests there. He thus early revealed those instincts which
      afterwards became the guidance of his life: the strength of which possibly
      occasioned his too great indifference to all monuments of art. The love of
      study and of solitude were also characteristics of his childhood. His
      temper is said to have been moody, impetuous, and intractable. Whether
      this faulty temper may not have been produced or rendered worse by
      mismanagement, cannot not be ascertained. It, undoubtedly became
      afterwards, to St. Pierre a fruitful source of misfortune and of woe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The reading of voyages was with him, even in childhood, almost a passion.
      At twelve years of age, his whole soul was occupied by Robinson Crusoe and
      his island. His romantic love of adventure seeming to his parents to
      announce a predilection in favour of the sea, he was sent by them with one
      of his uncles to Martinique. But St. Pierre had not sufficiently practised
      the virtue of obedience to submit, as was necessary, to the discipline of
      a ship. He was afterwards placed with the Jesuits at Caen, with whom he
      made immense progress in his studies. But, it is to be feared, he did not
      conform too well to the regulations of the college, for he conceived, from
      that time, the greatest detestation for places of public education. And
      this aversion he has frequently testified in his writings. While devoted
      to his books of travels, he in turn anticipated being a Jesuit, a
      missionary or a martyr; but his family at length succeeded in establishing
      him at Rouen, where he completed his studies with brilliant success, in
      1757. He soon after obtained a commission as an engineer, with a salary of
      one hundred louis. In this capacity he was sent (1760) to Dusseldorf,
      under the command of Count St. Germain. This was a career in which he
      might have acquired both honour and fortune; but, most unhappily for St.
      Pierre, he looked upon the useful and necessary etiquettes of life as so
      many unworthy prejudices. Instead of conforming to them, he sought to
      trample on them. In addition, he evinced some disposition to rebel against
      his commander, and was unsocial with his equals. It is not, therefore, to
      be wondered at, that at this unfortunate period of his existence, he made
      himself enemies; or that, notwithstanding his great talents, or the
      coolness he had exhibited in moments of danger, he should have been sent
      back to France. Unwelcome, under these circumstances, to his family, he
      was ill received by all.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is a lesson yet to be learned, that genius gives no charter for the
      indulgence of error,&mdash;a truth yet <i>to be</i> remembered, that only
      a small portion of the world will look with leniency on the failings of
      the highly-gifted; and, that from themselves, the consequences of their
      own actions can never be averted. It is yet, alas! <i>to be</i> added to
      the convictions of the ardent in mind, that no degree of excellence in
      science or literature, not even the immortality of a name can exempt its
      possessor from obedience to moral discipline; or give him happiness,
      unless "temper's image" be stamped on his daily words and actions. St.
      Pierre's life was sadly embittered by his own conduct. The adventurous
      life he led after his return from Dusseldorf, some of the circumstances of
      which exhibited him in an unfavourable light to others, tended, perhaps,
      to tinge his imagination with that wild and tender melancholy so prevalent
      in his writings. A prize in the lottery had just doubled his very slender
      means of existence, when he obtained the appointment of geographical
      engineer, and was sent to Malta. The Knights of the Order were at this
      time expecting to be attacked by the Turks. Having already been in the
      service, it was singular that St. Pierre should have had the imprudence to
      sail without his commission. He thus subjected himself to a thousand
      disagreeables, for the officers would not recognize him as one of
      themselves. The effects of their neglect on his mind were tremendous; his
      reason for a time seemed almost disturbed by the mortifications he
      suffered. After receiving an insufficient indemnity for the expenses of
      his voyage, St. Pierre returned to France, there to endure fresh
      misfortunes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not being able to obtain any assistance from the ministry or his family,
      he resolved on giving lessons in the mathematics. But St. Pierre was less
      adapted than most others for succeeding in the apparently easy, but really
      ingenious and difficult, art of teaching. When education is better
      understood, it will be more generally acknowledged, that, to impart
      instruction with success, a teacher must possess deeper intelligence than
      is implied by the profoundest skill in any one branch of science or of
      art. All minds, even to the youngest, require, while being taught, the
      utmost compliance and consideration; and these qualities can scarcely be
      properly exercised without a true knowledge of the human heart, united to
      much practical patience. St. Pierre, at this period of his life, certainly
      did not possess them. It is probable that Rousseau, when he attempted in
      his youth to give lessons in music, not knowing any thing whatever of
      music, was scarcely less fitted for the task of instruction, than St.
      Pierre with all his mathematical knowledge. The pressure of poverty drove
      him to Holland. He was well received at Amsterdam, by a French refugee
      named Mustel, who edited a popular journal there, and who procured him
      employment, with handsome remuneration. St. Pierre did not, however,
      remain long satisfied with this quiet mode of existence. Allured by the
      encouraging reception given by Catherine II. to foreigners, he set out for
      St. Petersburg. Here, until he obtained the protection of the Marechal de
      Munich, and the friendship of Duval, he had again to contend with poverty.
      The latter generously opened to him his purse and by the Marechal he was
      introduced to Villebois, the Grand Master of Artillery, and by him
      presented to the Empress. St. Pierre was so handsome, that by some of his
      friends it was supposed, perhaps, too, hoped, that he would supersede
      Orloff in the favor of Catherine. But more honourable illusions, though
      they were but illusions, occupied his own mind. He neither sought nor
      wished to captivate the Empress. His ambition was to establish a republic
      on the shores of the lake Aral, of which in imitation of Plato or
      Rousseau, he was to be the legislator. Pre-occupied with the reformation
      of despotism, he did not sufficiently look into his own heart, or seek to
      avoid a repetition of the same errors that had already changed friends
      into enemies, and been such a terrible barrier to his success in life. His
      mind was already morbid, and in fancying that others did not understand
      him, he forgot that he did not understand others. The Empress, with the
      rank of captain, bestowed on him a grant of fifteen hundred francs; but
      when General Dubosquet proposed to take him with him to examine the
      military position of Finland, his only anxiety seemed to be to return to
      France: still he went to Finland; and his own notes of his occupations and
      experiments on that expedition prove, that he gave himself up in all
      diligence to considerations of attack and defence. He, who loved Nature so
      intently, seems only to have seen in the extensive and majestic forests of
      the north, a theatre of war. In this instance, he appears to have stifled
      every emotion of admiration, and to have beheld, alike, cities and
      countries in his character of military surveyor.
    </p>
    <p>
      On his return to St. Petersburg, he found his protector Villebois,
      disgraced. St. Pierre then resolved on espousing the cause of the Poles.
      He went into Poland with a high reputation,&mdash;that of having refused
      the favours of despotism, to aid the cause of liberty. But it was his
      private life, rather than his public career, that was affected by his
      residence in Poland. The Princess Mary fell in love with him, and,
      forgetful of all considerations, quitted her family to reside with him.
      Yielding, however, at length, to the entreaties of her mother, she
      returned to her home. St. Pierre, filled with regret, resorted to Vienna;
      but, unable to support the sadness which oppressed him, and imagining that
      sadness to be shared by the Princess, he soon went back to Poland. His
      return was still more sad than his departure; for he found himself
      regarded by her who had once loved him, as an intruder. It is to this
      attachment he alludes so touchingly in one of his letters. "Adieu! friends
      dearer than the treasures of India! Adieu! forests of the North, that I
      shall never see again!&mdash;tender friendship, and the still dearer
      sentiment which surpassed it!&mdash;days of intoxication and of happiness
      adeiu! adieu! We live but for a day, to die during a whole life!"
    </p>
    <p>
      This letter appears to one of St. Pierre's most partial biographers, as if
      steeped in tears; and he speaks of his romantic and unfortunate adventure
      in Poland, as the ideal of a poet's love.
    </p>
    <p>
      "To be," says M. Sainte-Beuve, "a great poet, and loved before he had
      thought of glory! To exhale the first perfume of a soul of genius,
      believing himself only a lover! To reveal himself, for the first time,
      entirely, but in mystery!"
    </p>
    <p>
      In his enthusiasm, M. Sainte-Beuve loses sight of the melancholy sequel,
      which must have left so sad a remembrance in St. Pierre's own mind. His
      suffering, from this circumstance, may perhaps have conduced to his making
      Virginia so good and true, and so incapable of giving pain.
    </p>
    <p>
      In 1766, he returned to Havre; but his relations were by this time dead or
      dispersed, and after six years of exile, he found himself once more in his
      own country, without employment and destitute of pecuniary resources.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Baron de Breteuil at length obtained for him a commission as Engineer
      to the Isle of France, whence he returned in 1771. In this interval, his
      heart and imagination doubtless received the germs of his immortal works.
      Many of the events, indeed, of the "Voyage a l'Ile de France," are to be
      found modified by imagined circumstances in "Paul and Virginia." He
      returned to Paris poor in purse, but rich in observation and mental
      resources, and resolved to devote himself to literature. By the Baron de
      Breteuil he was recommended to D'Alembert, who procured a publisher for
      his "Voyage," and also introduced him to Mlle. de l'Espinasse. But no one,
      in spite of his great beauty, was so ill calculated to shine or please in
      society as St. Pierre. His manners were timid and embarrassed, and, unless
      to those with whom he was very intimate, he scarcely appeared intelligent.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is sad to think, that misunderstanding should prevail to such an
      extent, and heart so seldom really speak to heart, in the intercourse of
      the world, that the most humane may appear cruel, and the sympathizing
      indifferent. Judging of Mlle. de l'Espinasse from her letters, and the
      testimony of her contemporaries, it seems quite impossible that she could
      have given pain to any one, more particularly to a man possessing St.
      Pierre's extraordinary talent and profound sensibility. Both she and
      D'Alembert were capable of appreciating him; but the society in which they
      moved laughed at his timidity, and the tone of raillery in which they
      often indulged was not understood by him. It is certain that he withdrew
      from their circle with wounded and mortified feelings, and, in spite of an
      explanatory letter from D'Alembert, did not return to it. The inflictors
      of all this pain, in the meantime, were possibly as unconscious of the
      meaning attached to their words, as were the birds of old of the augury
      drawn from their flight.
    </p>
    <p>
      St. Pierre, in his "Preambule de l'Arcadie," has pathetically and
      eloquently described the deplorable state of his health and feelings,
      after frequent humiliating disputes and disappointments had driven him
      from society; or rather, when, like Rousseau, he was "self-banished" from
      it.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was struck," he says, "with an extraordinary malady. Streams of fire,
      like lightning, flashed before my eyes; every object appeared to me
      double, or in motion: like OEdipus, I saw two suns. . . In the finest day
      of summer, I could not cross the Seine in a boat without experiencing
      intolerable anxiety. If, in a public garden, I merely passed by a piece of
      water, I suffered from spasms and a feeling of horror. I could not cross a
      garden in which many people were collected: if they looked at me, I
      immediately imagined they were speaking ill of me." It was during this
      state of suffering, that he devoted himself with ardour to collecting and
      making use of materials for that work which was to give glory to his name.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was only by perseverance, and disregarding many rough and discouraging
      receptions, that he succeeded in making acquaintance with Rousseau, whom
      he so much resembled. St. Pierre devoted himself to his society with
      enthusiasm, visiting him frequently and constantly, till Rousseau departed
      for Ermenonville. It is not unworthy of remark, that both these men, such
      enthusiastic admirers of Nature and the natural in all things, should have
      possessed factitious rather than practical virtue, and a wisdom wholly
      unfitted for the world. St. Pierre asked Rousseau, in one of their
      frequent rambles, if, in delineating St. Preux, he had not intended to
      represent himself. "No," replied Rousseau, "St. Preux is not what I have
      been, but what I wished to be." St. Pierre would most likely have given
      the same answer, had a similar question been put to him with regard to the
      Colonel in "Paul and Virginia." This at least, appears the sort of old age
      he loved to contemplate, and wished to realize.
    </p>
    <p>
      For six years, he worked at his "Etudes," and with some difficulty found a
      publisher for them. M. Didot, a celebrated typographer, whose daughter St.
      Pierre afterwards married, consented to print a manuscript which had been
      declined by many others. He was well rewarded for the undertaking. The
      success of the "Etudes de la Nature" surpassed the most sanguine
      expectation, even of the author. Four years after its publication, St.
      Pierre gave to the world "Paul and Virginia," which had for some time been
      lying in his portfolio. He had tried its effect, in manuscript, on persons
      of different characters and pursuits. They had given it no applause; but
      all had shed tears at its perusal: and perhaps, few works of a decidedly
      romantic character have ever been so generally read, or so much approved.
      Among the great names whose admiration of it is on record, may be
      mentioned Napoleon and Humboldt.
    </p>
    <p>
      In 1789, he published "Les Veoeux d'un Solitaire," and "La Suite des
      Voeux." By the <i>Moniteur</i> of the day, these works were compared to
      the celebrated pamphlet of Sieyes,&mdash;"Qu'est-ce que le tiers etat?"
      which then absorbed all the public favour. In 1791, "La Chaumiere
      Indienne" was published: and in the following year, about thirteen days
      before the celebrated 10th of August, Louis XVI. appointed St. Pierre
      superintendant of the "Jardin des Plantes." Soon afterwards, the King, on
      seeing him, complimented him on his writings and told him he was happy to
      have found a worthy successor to Buffon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although deficient in the exact knowledge of the sciences, and knowing
      little of the world, St. Pierre was, by his simplicity, and the retirement
      in which he lived, well suited, at that epoch, to the situation. About
      this time, and when in his fifty-seventh year, he married Mlle. Didot.
    </p>
    <p>
      In 1795, he became a member of the French Academy, and, as was just, after
      his acceptance of this honour, he wrote no more against literary
      societies. On the suppression of his place, he retired to Essonne. It is
      delightful to follow him there, and to contemplate his quiet existence.
      His days flowed on peaceably, occupied in the publication of "Les
      Harmonies de la Nature," the republication of his earlier works, and the
      composition of some lesser pieces. He himself affectingly regrets an
      interruption to these occupations. On being appointed Instructor to the
      Normal School, he says, "I am obliged to hang my harp on the willows of my
      river, and to accept an employment useful to my family and my country. I
      am afflicted at having to suspend an occupation which has given me so much
      happiness."
    </p>
    <p>
      He enjoyed in his old age, a degree of opulence, which, as much as glory,
      had perhaps been the object of his ambition. In any case, it is gratifying
      to reflect, that after a life so full of chance and change, he was, in his
      latter years, surrounded by much that should accompany old age. His day of
      storms and tempests was closed by an evening of repose and beauty.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amid many other blessings, the elasticity of his mind was preserved to the
      last. He died at Eragny sur l'Oise, on the 21st of January, 1814. The
      stirring events which then occupied France, or rather the whole world,
      caused his death to be little noticed at the time. The Academy did not,
      however, neglect to give him the honour due to its members. Mons. Parseval
      Grand Maison pronounced a deserved eulogium on his talents, and Mons.
      Aignan, also, the customary tribute, taking his seat as his successor.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having himself contracted the habit of confiding his griefs and sorrows to
      the public, the sanctuary of his private life was open alike to the
      discussion of friends and enemies. The biographer, who wishes to be exact,
      and yet set down nought in malice, is forced to the contemplation of his
      errors. The secret of many of these, as well as of his miseries, seems
      revealed by himself in this sentence: "I experience more pain from a
      single thorn, than pleasure from a thousand roses." And elsewhere, "The
      best society seems to me bad, if I find in it one troublesome, wicked,
      slanderous, envious, or perfidious person." Now, taking into consideration
      that St. Pierre sometimes imagined persons who were really good, to be
      deserving of these strong and very contumacious epithets, it would have
      been difficult indeed to find a society in which he could have been happy.
      He was, therefore, wise, in seeking retirement, and indulging in solitude.
      His mistakes,&mdash;for they were mistakes,&mdash;arose from a too quick
      perception of evil, united to an exquisite and diffuse sensibility. When
      he felt wounded by a thorn, he forgot the beauty and perfume of the rose
      to which it belonged, and from which perhaps it could not be separated.
      And he was exposed (as often happens) to the very description of trials
      that were least in harmony with his defects. Few dispositions could have
      run a career like his, and have remained unscathed. But one less tender
      than his own would have been less soured by it. For many years, he bore
      about with him the consciousness of unacknowledged talent. The world
      cannot be blamed for not appreciating that which had never been revealed.
      But we know not what the jostling and elbowing of that world, in the
      meantime, may have been to him&mdash;how often he may have felt himself
      unworthily treated&mdash;or how far that treatment may have preyed upon
      and corroded his heart. Who shall say that with this consciousness there
      did not mingle a quick and instinctive perception of the hidden motives of
      action,&mdash;that he did not sometimes detect, where others might have
      been blind, the under-shuffling of the hands, in the by-play of the world?
    </p>
    <p>
      Through all his writings, and throughout his correspondence, there are
      beautiful proofs of the tenderness of his feelings,&mdash;the most
      essential quality, perhaps, in any writer. It is at least, one that if not
      possessed, can never be attained. The familiarity of his imagination with
      natural objects, when he was living far removed from them, is remarkable,
      and often affecting.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have arranged," he says to Mr. Henin, his friend and patron, "very
      interesting materials, but it is only with the light of Heaven over me
      that I can recover my strength. Obtain for me a <i>rabbit's hole</i>, in
      which I may pass the summer in the country." And again, "With the <i>first
      violet</i>, I shall come to see you." It is soothing to find, in passages
      like these, such pleasing and convincing evidence that
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "Nature never did betray,
     The heart that loved her."
</pre>
    <p>
      In the noise of a great city, in the midst of annoyances of many kinds
      these images, impressed with quietness and beauty, came back to the mind
      of St. Pierre, to cheer and animate him.
    </p>
    <p>
      In alluding to his miseries, it is but fair to quote a passage from his
      "Voyage," which reveals his fond remembrance of his native land. "I should
      ever prefer my own country to every other," he says, "not because it was
      more beautiful, but because I was brought up in it. Happy he, who sees
      again the places where all was loved, and all was lovely!&mdash;the
      meadows in which he played, and the orchard that he robbed!"
    </p>
    <p>
      He returned to this country, so fondly loved and deeply cherished in
      absence, to experience only trouble and difficulty. Away from it, he had
      yearned to behold it,&mdash;to fold it, as it were, once more to his
      bosom. He returned to feel as if neglected by it, and all his rapturous
      emotions were changed to bitterness and gall. His hopes had proved
      delusions&mdash;his expectations, mockeries. Oh! who but must look with
      charity and mercy on all discontent and irritation consequent on such a
      depth of disappointment: on what must have then appeared to him such
      unmitigable woe. Under the influence of these saddened feelings, his
      thoughts flew back to the island he had left, to place all beauty, as well
      as all happiness, there!
    </p>
    <p>
      One great proof that he did beautify the distant, may be found in the
      contrast of some of the descriptions in the "Voyage a l'Ile de France,"
      and those in "Paul and Virginia." That spot, which when peopled by the
      cherished creatures of his imagination, he described as an enchanting and
      delightful Eden, he had previously spoken of as a "rugged country covered
      with rocks,"&mdash;"a land of Cyclops blackened by fire." Truth, probably,
      lies between the two representations; the sadness of exile having darkened
      the one, and the exuberance of his imagination embellished the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      St. Pierre's merit as an author has been too long and too universally
      acknowledged, to make it needful that it should be dwelt on here. A
      careful review of the circumstances of his life induces the belief, that
      his writings grew (if it may be permitted so to speak) out of his life. In
      his most imaginative passages, to whatever height his fancy soared, the
      starting point seems ever from a fact. The past appears to have been
      always spread out before him when he wrote, like a beautiful landscape, on
      which his eye rested with complacency, and from which his mind transferred
      and idealized some objects, without a servile imitation of any. When at
      Berlin, he had had it in his power to marry Virginia Tabenheim; and in
      Russia, Mlle. de la Tour, the niece of General Dubosquet, would have
      accepted his hand. He was too poor to marry either. A grateful
      recollection caused him to bestow the names of the two on his most beloved
      creation. Paul was the name of a friar, with whom he had associated in his
      childhood, and whose life he wished to imitate. How little had the owners
      of these names anticipated that they were to become the baptismal
      appellations of half a generation in France, and to be re-echoed through
      the world to the end of time!
    </p>
    <p>
      It was St. Pierre who first discovered the poverty of language with regard
      to picturesque descriptions. In his earliest work, the often-quoted
      "Voyages," he complains, that the terms for describing nature are not yet
      invented. "Endeavour," he says, "to describe a mountain in such a manner
      that it may be recognised. When you have spoken of its base, its sides,
      its summit, you will have said all! But what variety there is to be found
      in those swelling, lengthened, flattened, or cavernous forms! It is only
      by periphrasis that all this can be expressed. The same difficulty exists
      for plains and valleys. But if you have a palace to describe, there is no
      longer any difficulty. Every moulding has its appropriate name."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was St. Pierre's glory, in some degree, to triumph over this dearth of
      expression. Few authors ever introduced more new terms into descriptive
      writing: yet are his innovations ever chastened, and in good taste. His
      style, in its elegant simplicity, is, indeed, perfection. It is at once
      sonorous and sweet, and always in harmony with the sentiment he would
      express, or the subject he would discuss. Chenier might well arm himself
      with "Paul and Virginia," and the "Chaumiere Indienne," in opposition to
      those writers, who, as he said, made prose unnatural, by seeking to
      elevate it into verse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The "Etudes de la Nature" embraced a thousand different subjects, and
      contained some new ideas on all. It is to the honour of human nature, that
      after the uptearing of so many sacred opinions, a production like this,
      revealing the chain of connection through the works of Creation, and the
      Creator in his works, should have been hailed, as it was, with enthusiasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      His motto, from his favourite poet Virgil, "Taught by calamity, I pity the
      unhappy," won for him, perhaps many readers. And in its touching
      illusions, the unhappy may have found suspension from the realities of
      life, as well as encouragement to support its trials. For, throughout, it
      infuses admiration of the arrangements of Providence, and a desire for
      virtue. More than one modern poet may be supposed to have drawn a portion
      of his inspiration, from the "Etudes." As a work of science it contains
      many errors. These, particularly his theory of the tides,(*) St. Pierre
      maintained to the last, and so eloquently, that it was said at the time,
      to be impossible to unite less reason with more logic.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     (*) Occasioned, according to St. Pierre, by the melting of
     the ice at the Poles.
</pre>
    <p>
      In "Paul and Virginia," he was supremely fortunate in his subject. It was
      an entirely new creation, uninspired by any previous work; but which gave
      birth to many others, having furnished the plot to six theatrical pieces.
      It was a subject to which the author could bring all his excellences as a
      writer and a man, while his deficiencies and defects were necessarily
      excluded. In no manner could he incorporate politics, science, or
      misapprehension of persons, while his sensibility, morals, and wonderful
      talent for description, were in perfect accordance with, and ornaments to
      it. Lemontey and Sainte-Beuve both consider success to be inseparable from
      the happy selection of a story so entirely in harmony with the character
      of the author; and that the most successful writers might envy him so
      fortunate a choice. Buonaparte was in the habit of saying, whenever he saw
      St. Pierre, "M. Bernardin, when do you mean to give us more Pauls and
      Virginias, and Indian Cottages? You ought to give us some every six
      months."
    </p>
    <p>
      The "Indian Cottage," if not quite equal in interest to "Paul and
      Virginia," is still a charming production, and does great honour to the
      genius of its author. It abounds in antique and Eastern gems of thought.
      Striking and excellent comparisons are scattered through its pages; and it
      is delightful to reflect, that the following beautiful and solemn answer
      of the Paria was, with St. Pierre, the results of his own experience:&mdash;"Misfortune
      resembles the Black Mountain of Bember, situated at the extremity of the
      burning kingdom of Lahore; while you are climbing it, you only see before
      you barren rocks; but when you have reached its summit, you see heaven
      above your head, and at your feet the kingdom of Cachemere."
    </p>
    <p>
      When this passage was written, the rugged, and sterile rock had been
      climbed by its gifted author. He had reached the summit,&mdash;his genius
      had been rewarded, and he himself saw the heaven he wished to point out to
      others.
    </p>
    <p>
      SARAH JONES.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     [For the facts contained in this brief Memoir, I am indebted
     to St. Pierre's own works, to the "Biographie Universelle,"
     to the "Essai sur la Vie et les Ouvrages de Bernardin de St.
     Pierre," by M. Aime Martin, and to the very excellent and
     interesting "Notice Historique et Litteraire," of M. Sainte-
     Beauve.]
</pre>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
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    <h2>
      PAUL AND VIRGINIA
    </h2>
    <p>
      Situated on the eastern side of the mountain which rises above Port Louis,
      in the Mauritius, upon a piece of land bearing the marks of former
      cultivation, are seen the ruins of two small cottages. These ruins are not
      far from the centre of a valley, formed by immense rocks, and which opens
      only towards the north. On the left rises the mountain called the Height
      of Discovery, whence the eye marks the distant sail when it first touches
      the verge of the horizon, and whence the signal is given when a vessel
      approaches the island. At the foot of this mountain stands the town of
      Port Louis. On the right is formed the road which stretches from Port
      Louis to the Shaddock Grove, where the church bearing that name lifts its
      head, surrounded by its avenues of bamboo, in the middle of a spacious
      plain; and the prospect terminates in a forest extending to the furthest
      bounds of the island. The front view presents the bay, denominated the Bay
      of the Tomb; a little on the right is seen the Cape of Misfortune; and
      beyond rolls the expanded ocean, on the surface of which appear a few
      uninhabited islands; and, among others, the Point of Endeavour, which
      resembles a bastion built upon the flood.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the entrance of the valley which presents these various objects, the
      echoes of the mountain incessantly repeat the hollow murmurs of the winds
      that shake the neighbouring forests, and the tumultuous dashing of the
      waves which break at a distance upon the cliffs; but near the ruined
      cottages all is calm and still, and the only objects which there meet the
      eye are rude steep rocks, that rise like a surrounding rampart. Large
      clumps of trees grow at their base, on their rifted sides, and even on
      their majestic tops, where the clouds seem to repose. The showers, which
      their bold points attract, often paint the vivid colours of the rainbow on
      their green and brown declivities, and swell the sources of the little
      river which flows at their feet, called the river of Fan-Palms. Within
      this inclosure reigns the most profound silence. The waters, the air, all
      the elements are at peace. Scarcely does the echo repeat the whispers of
      the palm-trees spreading their broad leaves, the long points of which are
      gently agitated by the winds. A soft light illumines the bottom of this
      deep valley, on which the sun shines only at noon. But, even at the break
      of day, the rays of light are thrown on the surrounding rocks; and their
      sharp peaks, rising above the shadows of the mountain, appear like tints
      of gold and purple gleaming upon the azure sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      To this scene I loved to resort, as I could here enjoy at once the
      richness of an unbounded landscape, and the charm of uninterrupted
      solitude. One day, when I was seated at the foot of the cottages, and
      contemplating their ruins, a man, advanced in years, passed near the spot.
      He was dressed in the ancient garb of the island, his feet were bare, and
      he leaned upon a staff of ebony; his hair was white, and the expression of
      his countenance was dignified and interesting. I bowed to him with
      respect; he returned the salutation; and, after looking at me with some
      earnestness, came and placed himself upon the hillock on which I was
      seated. Encouraged by this mark of confidence I thus addressed him:
      "Father, can you tell me to whom those cottages once belonged?"&mdash;"My
      son," replied the old man, "those heaps of rubbish, and that untilled
      land, were, twenty years ago, the property of two families, who then found
      happiness in this solitude. Their history is affecting; but what European,
      pursuing his way to the Indies, will pause one moment to interest himself
      in the fate of a few obscure individuals? What European can picture
      happiness to his imagination amidst poverty and neglect? The curiosity of
      mankind is only attracted by the history of the great, and yet from that
      knowledge little use can be derived."&mdash;"Father," I rejoined, "from
      your manner and your observations, I perceive that you have acquired much
      experience of human life. If you have leisure, relate to me, I beseech
      you, the history of the ancient inhabitants of this desert; and be
      assured, that even the men who are most perverted by the prejudices of the
      world, find a soothing pleasure in contemplating that happiness which
      belongs to simplicity and virtue." The old man, after a short silence,
      during which he leaned his face upon his hands, as if he were trying to
      recall the images of the past, thus began his narration:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur de la Tour, a young man who was a native of Normandy, after
      having in vain solicited a commission in the French army, or some support
      from his own family, at length determined to seek his fortune in this
      island, where he arrived in 1726. He brought hither a young woman, whom he
      loved tenderly, and by whom he was no less tenderly beloved. She belonged
      to a rich and ancient family of the same province: but he had married her
      secretly and without fortune, and in opposition to the will of her
      relations, who refused their consent because he was found guilty of being
      descended from parents who had no claims to nobility. Monsieur de la Tour,
      leaving his wife at Port Louis, embarked for Madagascar, in order to
      purchase a few slaves, to assist him in forming a plantation on this
      island. He landed at Madagascar during that unhealthy season which
      commences about the middle of October; and soon after his arrival died of
      the pestilential fever, which prevails in that island six months of the
      year, and which will forever baffle the attempts of the European nations
      to form establishments on that fatal soil. His effects were seized upon by
      the rapacity of strangers, as commonly happens to persons dying in foreign
      parts; and his wife, who was pregnant, found herself a widow in a country
      where she had neither credit nor acquaintance, and no earthly possession,
      or rather support, but one negro woman. Too delicate to solicit protection
      or relief from any one else after the death of him whom alone she loved,
      misfortune armed her with courage, and she resolved to cultivate, with her
      slave, a little spot of ground, and procure for herself the means of
      subsistence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Desert as was the island, and the ground left to the choice of the
      settler, she avoided those spots which were most fertile and most
      favorable to commerce: seeking some nook of the mountain, some secret
      asylum where she might live solitary and unknown, she bent her way from
      the town towards these rocks, where she might conceal herself from
      observation. All sensitive and suffering creatures, from a sort of common
      instinct, fly for refuge amidst their pains to haunts the most wild and
      desolate; as if rocks could form a rampart against misfortune&mdash;as if
      the calm of Nature could hush the tumults of the soul. That Providence,
      which lends its support when we ask but the supply of our necessary wants,
      had a blessing in reserve for Madame de la Tour, which neither riches nor
      greatness can purchase:&mdash;this blessing was a friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      The spot to which Madame de la Tour had fled had already been inhabited
      for a year by a young woman of a lively, good-natured and affectionate
      disposition. Margaret (for that was her name) was born in Brittany, of a
      family of peasants, by whom she was cherished and beloved, and with whom
      she might have passed through life in simple rustic happiness, if, misled
      by the weakness of a tender heart, she had not listened to the passion of
      a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who promised her marriage. He soon
      abandoned her, and adding inhumanity to seduction, refused to insure a
      provision for the child of which she was pregnant. Margaret then
      determined to leave forever her native village, and retire, where her
      fault might be concealed, to some colony distant from that country where
      she had lost the only portion of a poor peasant girl&mdash;her reputation.
      With some borrowed money she purchased an old negro slave, with whom she
      cultivated a little corner of this district.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour, followed by her negro woman, came to this spot, where
      she found Margaret engaged in suckling her child. Soothed and charmed by
      the sight of a person in a situation somewhat similar to her own, Madame
      de la Tour related, in a few words, her past condition and her present
      wants. Margaret was deeply affected by the recital; and more anxious to
      merit confidence than to create esteem, she confessed without disguise,
      the errors of which she had been guilty. "As for me," said she, "I deserve
      my fate: but you, madam&mdash;you! at once virtuous and unhappy"&mdash;and,
      sobbing, she offered Madame de la Tour both her hut and her friendship.
      That lady, affected by this tender reception, pressed her in her arms, and
      exclaimed,&mdash;"Ah surely Heaven has put an end to my misfortunes, since
      it inspires you, to whom I am a stranger, with more goodness towards me
      than I have ever experienced from my own relations!"
    </p>
    <p>
      I was acquainted with Margaret: and, although my habitation is a league
      and a half from hence, in the woods behind that sloping mountain, I
      considered myself as her neighbour. In the cities of Europe, a street,
      even a simple wall, frequently prevents members of the same family from
      meeting for years; but in new colonies we consider those persons as
      neighbours from whom we are divided only by woods and mountains; and above
      all at that period, when this island had little intercourse with the
      Indies, vicinity alone gave a claim to friendship, and hospitality towards
      strangers seemed less a duty than a pleasure. No sooner was I informed
      that Margaret had found a companion, than I hastened to her, in the hope
      of being useful to my neighbour and her guest. I found Madame de la Tour
      possessed of all those melancholy graces which, by blending sympathy with
      admiration give to beauty additional power. Her countenance was
      interesting, expressive at once of dignity and dejection. She appeared to
      be in the last stage of her pregnancy. I told the two friends that for the
      future interests of their children, and to prevent the intrusion of any
      other settler, they had better divide between them the property of this
      wild, sequestered valley, which is nearly twenty acres in extent. They
      confided that task to me, and I marked out two equal portions of land. One
      included the higher part of this enclosure, from the cloudy pinnacle of
      that rock, whence springs the river of Fan-Palms, to that precipitous
      cleft which you see on the summit of the mountain, and which, from its
      resemblance in form to the battlement of a fortress, is called the
      Embrasure. It is difficult to find a path along this wild portion of the
      enclosure, the soil of which is encumbered with fragments of rock, or worn
      into channels formed by torrents; yet it produces noble trees, and
      innumerable springs and rivulets. The other portion of land comprised the
      plain extending along the banks of the river of Fan-Palms, to the opening
      where we are now seated, whence the river takes its course between these
      two hills, until it falls into the sea. You may still trace the vestiges
      of some meadow land; and this part of the common is less rugged, but not
      more valuable than the other; since in the rainy season it becomes marshy,
      and in dry weather is so hard and unyielding, that it will almost resist
      the stroke of the pickaxe. When I had thus divided the property, I
      persuaded my neighbours to draw lots for their respective possessions. The
      higher portion of land, containing the source of the river of Fan-Palms,
      became the property of Madame de la Tour; the lower, comprising the plain
      on the banks of the river, was allotted to Margaret; and each seemed
      satisfied with her share. They entreated me to place their habitations
      together, that they might at all times enjoy the soothing intercourse of
      friendship, and the consolation of mutual kind offices. Margaret's cottage
      was situated near the centre of the valley, and just on the boundary of
      her own plantation. Close to that spot I built another cottage for the
      residence of Madame de la Tour; and thus the two friends, while they
      possessed all the advantages of neighbourhood lived on their own property.
      I myself cut palisades from the mountain, and brought leaves of fan-palms
      from the sea-shore in order to construct those two cottages, of which you
      can now discern neither the entrance nor the roof. Yet, alas! there still
      remains but too many traces for my remembrance! Time, which so rapidly
      destroys the proud monuments of empires, seems in this desert to spare
      those of friendship, as if to perpetuate my regrets to the last hour of my
      existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the second cottage was finished, Madame de la Tour was
      delivered of a girl. I had been the godfather of Margaret's child, who was
      christened by the name of Paul. Madame de la Tour desired me to perform
      the same office for her child also, together with her friend, who gave her
      the name of Virginia. "She will be virtuous," cried Margaret, "and she
      will be happy. I have only known misfortune by wandering from virtue."
    </p>
    <p>
      About the time Madame de la Tour recovered, these two little estates had
      already begun to yield some produce, perhaps in a small degree owing to
      the care which I occasionally bestowed on their improvement, but far more
      to the indefatigable labours of the two slaves. Margaret's slave, who was
      called Domingo, was still healthy and robust, though advanced in years: he
      possessed some knowledge, and a good natural understanding. He cultivated
      indiscriminately, on both plantations, the spots of ground that seemed
      most fertile, and sowed whatever grain he thought most congenial to each
      particular soil. Where the ground was poor, he strewed maize; where it was
      most fruitful, he planted wheat; and rice in such spots as were marshy. He
      threw the seeds of gourds and cucumbers at the foot of the rocks, which
      they loved to climb and decorate with their luxuriant foliage. In dry
      spots he cultivated the sweet potatoe; the cotton-tree flourished upon the
      heights, and the sugar-cane grew in the clayey soil. He reared some plants
      of coffee on the hills, where the grain, although small, is excellent. His
      plantain-trees, which spread their grateful shade on the banks of the
      river, and encircled the cottages, yielded fruit throughout the year. And
      lastly, Domingo, to soothe his cares, cultivated a few plants of tobacco.
      Sometimes he was employed in cutting wood for firing from the mountain,
      sometimes in hewing pieces of rock within the enclosure, in order to level
      the paths. The zeal which inspired him enabled him to perform all these
      labours with intelligence and activity. He was much attached to Margaret,
      and not less to Madame de la Tour, whose negro woman, Mary, he had married
      on the birth of Virginia; and he was passionately fond of his wife. Mary
      was born at Madagascar, and had there acquired the knowledge of some
      useful arts. She could weave baskets, and a sort of stuff, with long grass
      that grows in the woods. She was active, cleanly, and, above all,
      faithful. It was her care to prepare their meals, to rear the poultry, and
      go sometimes to Port Louis, to sell the superfluous produce of these
      little plantations, which was not however, very considerable. If you add
      to the personages already mentioned two goats, which were brought up with
      the children, and a great dog, which kept watch at night, you will have a
      complete idea of the household, as well as of the productions of these two
      little farms.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour and her friend were constantly employed in spinning
      cotton for the use of their families. Destitute of everything which their
      own industry could not supply, at home they went bare-footed: shoes were a
      convenience reserved for Sunday, on which day, at an early hour, they
      attended mass at the church of the Shaddock Grove, which you see yonder.
      That church was more distant from their homes than Port Louis; but they
      seldom visited the town, lest they should be treated with contempt on
      account of their dress, which consisted simply of the coarse blue linen of
      Bengal, usually worn by slaves. But is there, in that external deference
      which fortune commands, a compensation for domestic happiness? If these
      interesting women had something to suffer from the world, their homes on
      that very account became more dear to them. No sooner did Mary and
      Domingo, from this elevated spot, perceive their mistresses on the road of
      the Shaddock Grove, than they flew to the foot of the mountain in order to
      help them to ascend. They discerned in the looks of their domestics the
      joy which their return excited. They found in their retreat neatness,
      independence, all the blessings which are the recompense of toil, and they
      received the zealous services which spring from affection. United by the
      tie of similar wants, and the sympathy of similar misfortunes, they gave
      each other the tender names of companion, friend, sister. They had but one
      will, one interest, one table. All their possessions were in common. And
      if sometimes a passion more ardent than friendship awakened in their
      hearts the pang of unavailing anguish, a pure religion, united with chaste
      manners, drew their affections towards another life: as the trembling
      flame rises towards heaven, when it no longer finds any ailment on earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      The duties of maternity became a source of additional happiness to these
      affectionate mothers, whose mutual friendship gained new strength at the
      sight of their children, equally the offspring of an ill-fated attachment.
      They delighted in washing their infants together in the same bath, in
      putting them to rest in the same cradle, and in changing the maternal
      bosom at which they received nourishment. "My friend," cried Madame de la
      Tour, "we shall each of us have two children, and each of our children
      will have two mothers." As two buds which remain on different trees of the
      same kind, after the tempest has broken all their branches, produce more
      delicious fruit, if each, separated from the maternal stem, be grafted on
      the neighbouring tree, so these two infants, deprived of all their other
      relations, when thus exchanged for nourishment by those who had given them
      birth, imbibed feelings of affection still more tender than those of son
      and daughter, brother and sister. While they were yet in their cradles,
      their mothers talked of their marriage. They soothed their own cares by
      looking forward to the future happiness of their children; but this
      contemplation often drew forth their tears. The misfortunes of one mother
      had arisen from having neglected marriage; those of the other from having
      submitted to its laws. One had suffered by aiming to rise above her
      condition, the other by descending from her rank. But they found
      consolation in reflecting that their more fortunate children, far from the
      cruel prejudices of Europe, would enjoy at once the pleasures of love and
      the blessings of equality.
    </p>
    <p>
      Rarely, indeed, has such an attachment been seen as that which the two
      children already testified for each other. If Paul complained of anything,
      his mother pointed to Virginia: at her sight he smiled, and was appeased.
      If any accident befel Virginia, the cries of Paul gave notice of the
      disaster; but the dear little creature would suppress her complaints if
      she found that he was unhappy. When I came hither, I usually found them
      quite naked, as is the custom of the country, tottering in their walk, and
      holding each other by the hands and under the arms, as we see represented
      in the constellation of the Twins. At night these infants often refused to
      be separated, and were found lying in the same cradle, their cheeks, their
      bosoms pressed close together, their hands thrown round each other's neck,
      and sleeping, locked in one another's arms.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they first began to speak, the first name they learned to give each
      other were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer
      appellation. Their education, by directing them ever to consider each
      other's wants, tended greatly to increase their affection. In a short
      time, all the household economy, the care of preparing their rural
      repasts, became the task of Virginia, whose labours were always crowned
      with the praises and kisses of her brother. As for Paul, always in motion,
      he dug the garden with Domingo, or followed him with a little hatchet into
      the woods; and if, in his rambles he espied a beautiful flower, any
      delicious fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of the tree, he would
      climb up and bring the spoil to his sister. When you met one of these
      children, you might be sure the other was not far off.
    </p>
    <p>
      One day as I was coming down that mountain, I saw Virginia at the end of
      the garden running towards the house with her petticoat thrown over her
      head, in order to screen herself from a shower of rain. At a distance, I
      thought she was alone; but as I hastened towards her in order to help her
      on, I perceived she held Paul by the arm, almost entirely enveloped in the
      same canopy, and both were laughing heartily at their being sheltered
      together under an umbrella of their own invention. Those two charming
      faces in the middle of a swelling petticoat, recalled to my mind the
      children of Leda, enclosed in the same shell.
    </p>
    <p>
      Their sole study was how they could please and assist one another; for of
      all other things they were ignorant, and indeed could neither read nor
      write. They were never disturbed by inquiries about past times, nor did
      their curiosity extend beyond the bounds of their mountain. They believed
      the world ended at the shores of their own island, and all their ideas and
      all their affections were confined within its limits. Their mutual
      tenderness, and that of their mothers, employed all the energies of their
      minds. Their tears had never been called forth by tedious application to
      useless sciences. Their minds had never been wearied by lessons of
      morality, superfluous to bosoms unconscious of ill. They had never been
      taught not to steal, because every thing with them was in common: or not
      to be intemperate, because their simple food was left to their own
      discretion; or not to lie, because they had nothing to conceal. Their
      young imaginations had never been terrified by the idea that God has
      punishment in store for ungrateful children, since, with them, filial
      affection arose naturally from maternal tenderness. All they had been
      taught of religion was to love it, and if they did not offer up long
      prayers in the church, wherever they were, in the house, in the fields, in
      the woods, they raised towards heaven their innocent hands, and hearts
      purified by virtuous affections.
    </p>
    <p>
      All their early childhood passed thus, like a beautiful dawn, the prelude
      of a bright day. Already they assisted their mothers in the duties of the
      household. As soon as the crowing of the wakeful cock announced the first
      beam of the morning, Virginia arose, and hastened to draw water from a
      neighbouring spring: then returning to the house she prepared the
      breakfast. When the rising sun gilded the points of the rocks which
      overhang the enclosure in which they lived, Margaret and her child
      repaired to the dwelling of Madame de la Tour, where they offered up their
      morning prayer together. This sacrifice of thanksgiving always preceded
      their first repast, which they often took before the door of the cottage,
      seated upon the grass, under a canopy of plantain: and while the branches
      of that delicious tree afforded a grateful shade, its fruit furnished a
      substantial food ready prepared for them by nature, and its long glossy
      leaves, spread upon the table, supplied the place of linen. Plentiful and
      wholesome nourishment gave early growth and vigour to the persons of these
      children, and their countenances expressed the purity and the peace of
      their souls. At twelve years of age the figure of Virginia was in some
      degree formed: a profusion of light hair shaded her face, to which her
      blue eyes and coral lips gave the most charming brilliancy. Her eyes
      sparkled with vivacity when she spoke; but when she was silent they were
      habitually turned upwards, with an expression of extreme sensibility, or
      rather of tender melancholy. The figure of Paul began already to display
      the graces of youthful beauty. He was taller than Virginia: his skin was
      of a darker tint; his nose more aquiline; and his black eyes would have
      been too piercing, if the long eye-lashes by which they were shaded, had
      not imparted to them an expression of softness. He was constantly in
      motion, except when his sister appeared, and then, seated by her side, he
      became still. Their meals often passed without a word being spoken; and
      from their silence, the simple elegance of their attitudes, and the beauty
      of their naked feet, you might have fancied you beheld an antique group of
      white marble, representing some of the children of Niobe, but for the
      glances of their eyes, which were constantly seeking to meet, and their
      mutual soft and tender smiles, which suggested rather the idea of happy
      celestial spirits, whose nature is love, and who are not obliged to have
      recourse to words for the expression of their feelings.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime Madame de la Tour, perceiving every day some unfolding
      grace, some new beauty, in her daughter, felt her maternal anxiety
      increase with her tenderness. She often said to me, "If I were to die,
      what would become of Virginia without fortune?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour had an aunt in France, who was a woman of quality, rich,
      old, and a complete devotee. She had behaved with so much cruelty towards
      her niece upon her marriage, that Madame de la Tour had determined no
      extremity of distress should ever compel her to have recourse to her
      hard-hearted relation. But when she became a mother, the pride of
      resentment was overcome by the stronger feelings of maternal tenderness.
      She wrote to her aunt, informing her of the sudden death of her husband,
      the birth of her daughter, and the difficulties in which she was involved,
      burthened as she was with an infant, and without means of support. She
      received no answer; but notwithstanding the high spirit natural to her
      character, she no longer feared exposing herself to mortification; and,
      although she knew her aunt would never pardon her for having married a man
      who was not of noble birth, however estimable, she continued to write to
      her, with the hope of awakening her compassion for Virginia. Many years,
      however passed without receiving any token of her remembrance.
    </p>
    <p>
      At length, in 1738, three years after the arrival of Monsieur de la
      Bourdonnais in this island, Madame de la Tour was informed that the
      Governor had a letter to give her from her aunt. She flew to Port Louis;
      maternal joy raised her mind above all trifling considerations, and she
      was careless on this occasion of appearing in her homely attire. Monsieur
      de la Bourdonnais gave her a letter from her aunt, in which she informed
      her, that she deserved her fate for marrying an adventurer and a
      libertine: that the passions brought with them their own punishment; that
      the premature death of her husband was a just visitation from Heaven; that
      she had done well in going to a distant island, rather than dishonour her
      family by remaining in France; and that, after all, in the colony where
      she had taken refuge, none but the idle failed to grow rich. Having thus
      censured her niece, she concluded by eulogizing herself. To avoid, she
      said, the almost inevitable evils of marriage, she had determined to
      remain single. In fact, as she was of a very ambitious disposition she had
      resolved to marry none but a man of high rank; but although she was very
      rich, her fortune was not found a sufficient bribe, even at court, to
      counterbalance the malignant dispositions of her mind, and the
      disagreeable qualities of her person.
    </p>
    <p>
      After mature deliberations, she added, in a postscript, that she had
      strongly recommended her niece to Monsieur de la Bourdonnais. This she had
      indeed done, but in a manner of late too common which renders a patron
      perhaps even more to be feared than a declared enemy; for, in order to
      justify herself for her harshness, she had cruelly slandered her niece,
      while she affected to pity her misfortunes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour, whom no unprejudiced person could have seen without
      feelings of sympathy and respect, was received with the utmost coolness by
      Monsieur de la Bourdonnais, biased as he was against her. When she painted
      to him her own situation and that of her child, he replied in abrupt
      sentences,&mdash;"We shall see what can be done&mdash;there are so many to
      relieve&mdash;all in good time&mdash;why did you displease your aunt?&mdash;you
      have been much to blame."
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour returned to her cottage, her heart torn with grief, and
      filled with all the bitterness of disappointment. When she arrived, she
      threw her aunt's letter on the table, and exclaimed to her friend,&mdash;"There
      is the fruit of eleven years of patient expectation!" Madame de la Tour
      being the only person in the little circle who could read, she again took
      up the letter, and read it aloud. Scarcely had she finished, when Margaret
      exclaimed, "What have we to do with your relations? Has God then forsaken
      us? He only is our father! Have we not hitherto been happy? Why then this
      regret? You have no courage." Seeing Madame de la Tour in tears, she threw
      herself upon her neck, and pressing her in her arms,&mdash;"My dear
      friend!" cried she, "my dear friend!"&mdash;but her emotion choked her
      utterance. At this sight Virginia burst into tears, and pressed her
      mother's and Margaret's hand alternately to her lips and heart; while
      Paul, his eyes inflamed with anger, cried, clasped his hands together, and
      stamped his foot, not knowing whom to blame for this scene of misery. The
      noise soon brought Domingo and Mary to the spot, and the little habitation
      resounded with cries of distress,&mdash;"Ah, madame!&mdash;My good
      mistress!&mdash;My dear mother!&mdash;Do not weep!" These tender proofs of
      affections at length dispelled the grief of Madame de la Tour. She took
      Paul and Virginia in her arms, and, embracing them, said, "You are the
      cause of my affliction, my children, but you are also my only source of
      delight! Yes, my dear children, misfortune has reached me, but only from a
      distance: here, I am surrounded with happiness." Paul and Virginia did not
      understand this reflection; but, when they saw that she was calm, they
      smiled, and continued to caress her. Tranquillity was thus restored in
      this happy family, and all that had passed was but a storm in the midst of
      fine weather, which disturbs the serenity of the atmosphere but for a
      short time, and then passes away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The amiable disposition of these children unfolded itself daily. One
      Sunday, at day-break, their mothers having gone to mass at the church of
      Shaddock Grove, the children perceived a negro woman beneath the plantains
      which surrounded their habitation. She appeared almost wasted to a
      skeleton, and had no other garment than a piece of coarse cloth thrown
      around her. She threw herself at the feet of Virginia, who was preparing
      the family breakfast, and said, "My good young lady, have pity on a poor
      runaway slave. For a whole month I have wandered among these mountains,
      half dead with hunger, and often pursued by the hunters and their dogs. I
      fled from my master, a rich planter of the Black River, who has used me as
      you see;" and she showed her body marked with scars from the lashes she
      had received. She added, "I was going to drown myself, but hearing you
      lived here, I said to myself, since there are still some good white people
      in this country, I need not die yet." Virginia answered with emotion,&mdash;"Take
      courage, unfortunate creature! here is something to eat;" and she gave her
      the breakfast she had been preparing, which the slave in a few minutes
      devoured. When her hunger was appeased, Virginia said to her,&mdash;"Poor
      woman! I should like to go and ask forgiveness for you of your master.
      Surely the sight of you will touch him with pity. Will you show me the
      way?"&mdash;"Angel of heaven!" answered the poor negro woman, "I will
      follow you where you please!" Virginia called her brother, and begged him
      to accompany her. The slave led the way, by winding and difficult paths,
      through the woods, over mountains, which they climbed with difficulty, and
      across rivers, through which they were obliged to wade. At length, about
      the middle of the day, they reached the foot of a steep descent upon the
      borders of the Black River. There they perceived a well-built house,
      surrounded by extensive plantations, and a number of slaves employed in
      their various labours. Their master was walking among them with a pipe in
      his mouth, and a switch in his hand. He was a tall thin man, of a brown
      complexion; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows were
      joined in one. Virginia, holding Paul by the hand, drew near, and with
      much emotion begged him, for the love of God, to pardon his poor slave,
      who stood trembling a few paces behind. The planter at first paid little
      attention to the children, who, he saw, were meanly dressed. But when he
      observed the elegance of Virginia's form, and the profusion of her
      beautiful light tresses which had escaped from beneath her blue cap; when
      he heard the soft tone of her voice, which trembled, as well as her whole
      frame, while she implored his compassion; he took his pipe from his mouth,
      and lifting up his stick, swore, with a terrible oath, that he pardoned
      his slave, not for the love of Heaven, but of her who asked his
      forgiveness. Virginia made a sign to the slave to approach her master; and
      instantly sprang away followed by Paul.
    </p>
    <p>
      They climbed up the steep they had descended; and having gained the
      summit, seated themselves at the foot of a tree, overcome with fatigue,
      hunger and thirst. They had left their home fasting, and walked five
      leagues since sunrise. Paul said to Virginia,&mdash;"My dear sister, it is
      past noon, and I am sure you are thirsty and hungry: we shall find no
      dinner here; let us go down the mountain again, and ask the master of the
      poor slave for some food."&mdash;"Oh, no," answered Virginia, "he
      frightens me too much. Remember what mamma sometimes says, 'The bread of
      the wicked is like stones in the mouth.' "&mdash;"What shall we do then,"
      said Paul; "these trees produce no fruit fit to eat; and I shall not be
      able to find even a tamarind or a lemon to refresh you."&mdash;"God will
      take care of us," replied Virginia; "he listens to the cry even of the
      little birds when they ask him for food." Scarcely had she pronounced
      these words when they heard the noise of water falling from a neighbouring
      rock. They ran thither and having quenched their thirst at this crystal
      spring, they gathered and ate a few cresses which grew on the border of
      the stream. Soon afterwards while they were wandering backwards and
      forwards in search of more solid nourishment, Virginia perceived in the
      thickest part of the forest, a young palm-tree. The kind of cabbage which
      is found at the top of the palm, enfolded within its leaves, is well
      adapted for food; but, although the stock of the tree is not thicker than
      a man's leg, it grows to above sixty feet in height. The wood of the tree,
      indeed, is composed only of very fine filaments; but the bark is so hard
      that it turns the edge of the hatchet, and Paul was not furnished even
      with a knife. At length he thought of setting fire to the palm-tree; but a
      new difficulty occurred: he had no steel with which to strike fire; and
      although the whole island is covered with rocks, I do not believe it is
      possible to find a single flint. Necessity, however, is fertile in
      expedients, and the most useful inventions have arisen from men placed in
      the most destitute situations. Paul determined to kindle a fire after the
      manner of the negroes. With the sharp end of a stone he made a small hole
      in the branch of a tree that was quite dry, and which he held between his
      feet: he then, with the edge of the same stone, brought to a point another
      dry branch of a different sort of wood, and, afterwards, placing the piece
      of pointed wood in the small hole of the branch which he held with his
      feet and turning it rapidly between his hands, in a few minutes smoke and
      sparks of fire issued from the point of contact. Paul then heaped together
      dried grass and branches, and set fire to the foot of the palm-tree, which
      soon fell to the ground with a tremendous crash. The fire was further
      useful to him in stripping off the long, thick, and pointed leaves, within
      which the cabbage was inclosed. Having thus succeeded in obtaining this
      fruit, they ate part of it raw, and part dressed upon the ashes, which
      they found equally palatable. They made this frugal repast with delight,
      from the remembrances of the benevolent action they had performed in the
      morning: yet their joy was embittered by the thoughts of the uneasiness
      which their long absence from home would occasion their mothers. Virginia
      often recurred to this subject; but Paul, who felt his strength renewed by
      their meal, assured her, that it would not be long before they reached
      home, and, by the assurance of their safety, tranquillized the minds of
      their parents.
    </p>
    <p>
      After dinner they were much embarrassed by the recollection that they had
      now no guide, and that they were ignorant of the way. Paul, whose spirit
      was not subdued by difficulties, said to Virginia,&mdash;"The sun shines
      full upon our huts at noon: we must pass, as we did this morning, over
      that mountain with its three points, which you see yonder. Come, let us be
      moving." This mountain was that of the Three Breasts, so called from the
      form of its three peaks. They then descended the steep bank of the Black
      River, on the northern side; and arrived, after an hour's walk, on the
      banks of a large river, which stopped their further progress. This large
      portion of the island, covered as it is with forests, is even now so
      little known that many of its rivers and mountains have not yet received a
      name. The stream, on the banks of which Paul and Virginia were now
      standing, rolls foaming over a bed of rocks. The noise of the water
      frightened Virginia, and she was afraid to wade through the current: Paul
      therefore took her up in his arms, and went thus loaded over the slippery
      rocks, which formed the bed of the river, careless of the tumultuous noise
      of its waters. "Do not be afraid," cried he to Virginia; "I feel very
      strong with you. If that planter at the Black River had refused you the
      pardon of his slave, I would have fought with him."&mdash;"What!" answered
      Virginia, "with that great wicked man? To what have I exposed you!
      Gracious heaven! how difficult it is to do good! and yet it is so easy to
      do wrong."
    </p>
    <p>
      When Paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue the journey
      carrying his sister: and he flattered himself that he could ascend in that
      way the mountain of the Three Breasts, which was still at the distance of
      half a league; but his strength soon failed, and he was obliged to set
      down his burthen, and to rest himself by her side. Virginia then said to
      him, "My dear brother, the sun is going down; you have still some strength
      left, but mine has quite failed: do leave me here, and return home alone
      to ease the fears of our mothers."&mdash;"Oh no," said Paul, "I will not
      leave you if night overtakes us in this wood, I will light a fire, and
      bring down another palm-tree: you shall eat the cabbage, and I will form a
      covering of the leaves to shelter you." In the meantime, Virginia being a
      little rested, she gathered from the trunk of an old tree, which overhung
      the bank of the river, some long leaves of the plant called hart's tongue,
      which grew near its root. Of these leaves she made a sort of buskin, with
      which she covered her feet, that were bleeding from the sharpness of the
      stony paths; for in her eager desire to do good, she had forgotten to put
      on her shoes. Feeling her feet cooled by the freshness of the leaves, she
      broke off a branch of bamboo, and continued her walk, leaning with one
      hand on the staff, and with the other on Paul.
    </p>
    <p>
      They walked on in this manner slowly through the woods; but from the
      height of the trees, and the thickness of their foliage, they soon lost
      sight of the mountain of the Three Breasts, by which they had hitherto
      directed their course, and also of the sun, which was now setting. At
      length they wandered, without perceiving it, from the beaten path in which
      they had hitherto walked, and found themselves in a labyrinth of trees,
      underwood, and rocks, whence there appeared to be no outlet. Paul made
      Virginia sit down, while he ran backwards and forwards, half frantic, in
      search of a path which might lead them out of this thick wood; but he
      fatigued himself to no purpose. He then climbed to the top of a lofty
      tree, whence he hoped at least to perceive the mountain of the Three
      Breasts: but he could discern nothing around him but the tops of trees,
      some of which were gilded with the last beams of the setting sun. Already
      the shadows of the mountains were spreading over the forests in the
      valleys. The wind lulled, as is usually the case at sunset. The most
      profound silence reigned in those awful solitudes, which was only
      interrupted by the cry of the deer, who came to their lairs in that
      unfrequented spot. Paul, in the hope that some hunter would hear his
      voice, called out as loud as he was able,&mdash;"Come, come to the help of
      Virginia." But the echoes of the forest alone answered his call, and
      repeated again and again, "Virginia&mdash;Virginia."
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and
      vexation. He looked around in order to make some arrangement for passing
      the night in that desert; but he could find neither fountain, nor
      palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry wood fit for kindling a fire. He was
      then impressed, by experience, with the sense of his own weakness, and
      began to weep. Virginia said to him,&mdash;"Do not weep, my dear brother,
      or I shall be overwhelmed with grief. I am the cause of all your sorrow,
      and of all that our mothers are suffering at this moment. I find we ought
      to do nothing, not even good, without consulting our parents. Oh, I have
      been very imprudent!"&mdash;and she began to shed tears. "Let us pray to
      God, my dear brother," she again said, "and he will hear us." They had
      scarcely finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a dog. "It
      must be the dog of some hunter," said Paul, "who comes here at night, to
      lie in wait for the deer." Soon after, the dog began barking again with
      increased violence. "Surely," said Virginia, "it is Fidele, our own dog:
      yes,&mdash;now I know his bark. Are we then so near home?&mdash;at the
      foot of our own mountain?" A moment after, Fidele was at their feet,
      barking, howling, moaning, and devouring them with his caresses. Before
      they could recover from their surprise, they saw Domingo running towards
      them. At the sight of the good old negro, who wept for joy, they began to
      weep too, but had not the power to utter a syllable. When Domingo had
      recovered himself a little,&mdash;"Oh, my dear children," said he, "how
      miserable have you made your mothers! How astonished they were when they
      returned with me from mass, on not finding you at home. Mary, who was at
      work at a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. I ran
      backwards and forwards in the plantation, not knowing where to look for
      you. At last I took some of your old clothes, and showing them to Fidele,
      the poor animal, as if he understood me, immediately began to scent your
      path; and conducted me, wagging his tail all the while, to the Black
      River. I there saw a planter, who told me you had brought back a Maroon
      negro woman, his slave, and that he had pardoned her at your request. But
      what a pardon! he showed her to me with her feet chained to a block of
      wood, and an iron collar with three hooks fastened round her neck! After
      that, Fidele, still on the scent, led me up the steep bank of the Black
      River, where he again stopped, and barked with all his might. This was on
      the brink of a spring, near which was a fallen palm-tree, and a fire,
      still smoking. At last he led me to this very spot. We are now at the foot
      of the mountain of the Three Breasts, and still a good four leagues from
      home. Come, eat, and recover your strength." Domingo then presented them
      with a cake, some fruit, and a large gourd, full of beverage composed of
      wine, water, lemon-juice, sugar, and nutmeg, which their mothers had
      prepared to invigorate and refresh them. Virginia sighed at the
      recollection of the poor slave, and at the uneasiness they had given their
      mothers. She repeated several times&mdash;"Oh, how difficult it is to do
      good!" While she and Paul were taking refreshment, it being already night,
      Domingo kindled a fire: and having found among the rocks a particular kind
      of twisted wood, called bois de ronde, which burns when quite green, and
      throws out a great blaze, he made a torch of it, which he lighted. But
      when they prepared to continue their journey, a new difficulty occurred;
      Paul and Virginia could no longer walk, their feet being violently swollen
      and inflamed. Domingo knew not what to do; whether to leave them and go in
      search of help, or remain and pass the night with them on that spot.
      "There was a time," said he, "when I could carry you both together in my
      arms! But now you are grown big, and I am grown old." When he was in this
      perplexity, a troop of Maroon negroes appeared at a short distance from
      them. The chief of the band, approaching Paul and Virginia, said to them,&mdash;"Good
      little white people, do not be afraid. We saw you pass this morning, with
      a negro woman of the Black River. You went to ask pardon for her of her
      wicked master; and we, in return for this, will carry you home upon our
      shoulders." He then made a sign, and four of the strongest negroes
      immediately formed a sort of litter with the branches of trees and lianas,
      and having seated Paul and Virginia on it, carried them upon their
      shoulders. Domingo marched in front with his lighted torch, and they
      proceeded amidst the rejoicings of the whole troop, who overwhelmed them
      with their benedictions. Virginia, affected by this scene, said to Paul,
      with emotion,&mdash;"Oh, my dear brother! God never leaves a good action
      unrewarded."
    </p>
    <p>
      It was midnight when they arrived at the foot of their mountain, on the
      ridges of which several fires were lighted. As soon as they began to
      ascend, they heard voices exclaiming&mdash;"Is it you, my children?" They
      answered immediately, and the negroes also,&mdash;"Yes, yes, it is." A
      moment after they could distinguish their mothers and Mary coming towards
      them with lighted sticks in their hands. "Unhappy children," cried Madame
      de la Tour, "where have you been? What agonies you have made us suffer!"&mdash;"We
      have been," said Virginia, "to the Black River, where we went to ask
      pardon for a poor Maroon slave, to whom I gave our breakfast this morning,
      because she seemed dying of hunger; and these Maroon negroes have brought
      us home." Madame de la Tour embraced her daughter, without being able to
      speak; and Virginia, who felt her face wet with her mother's tears,
      exclaimed, "Now I am repaid for all the hardships I have suffered."
      Margaret, in a transport of delight, pressed Paul in her arms, exclaiming,
      "And you also, my dear child, you have done a good action." When they
      reached the cottages with their children, they entertained all the negroes
      with a plentiful repast, after which the latter returned to the woods,
      praying Heaven to shower down every description of blessing on those good
      white people.
    </p>
    <p>
      Every day was to these families a day of happiness and tranquillity.
      Neither ambition nor envy disturbed their repose. They did not seek to
      obtain a useless reputation out of doors, which may be procured by
      artifice and lost by calumny; but were contented to be the sole witnesses
      and judges of their own actions. In this island, where, as is the case in
      most colonies, scandal forms the principal topic of conversation, their
      virtues, and even their names were unknown. The passer-by on the road to
      Shaddock Grove, indeed, would sometimes ask the inhabitants of the plain,
      who lived in the cottages up there? and was always told, even by those who
      did not know them, "They are good people." The modest violet thus,
      concealed in thorny places sheds all unseen its delightful fragrance
      around.
    </p>
    <p>
      Slander, which, under an appearance of justice, naturally inclines the
      heart to falsehood or to hatred, was entirely banished from their
      conversation; for it is impossible not to hate men if we believe them to
      be wicked, or to live with the wicked without concealing that hatred under
      a false pretence of good feeling. Slander thus puts us ill at ease with
      others and with ourselves. In this little circle, therefore, the conduct
      of individuals was not discussed, but the best manner of doing good to
      all; and although they had but little in their power, their unceasing
      good-will and kindness of heart made them constantly ready to do what they
      could for others. Solitude, far from having blunted these benevolent
      feelings, had rendered their dispositions even more kindly. Although the
      petty scandals of the day furnished no subject of conversation to them,
      yet the contemplation of nature filled their minds with enthusiastic
      delight. They adored the bounty of that Providence, which, by their
      instrumentality, had spread abundance and beauty amid these barren rocks,
      and had enabled them to enjoy those pure and simple pleasures, which are
      ever grateful and ever new.
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul, at twelve years of age, was stronger and more intelligent than most
      European youths are at fifteen; and the plantations, which Domingo merely
      cultivated, were embellished by him. He would go with the old negro into
      the neighbouring woods, where he would root up the young plants of lemon,
      orange, and tamarind trees, the round heads of which are so fresh a green,
      together with date-palm trees, which produce fruit filled with a sweet
      cream, possessing the fine perfume of the orange flower. These trees,
      which had already attained to a considerable size, he planted round their
      little enclosure. He had also sown the seed of many trees which the second
      year bear flowers or fruit; such as the agathis, encircled with long
      clusters of white flowers which hang from it like the crystal pendants of
      a chandelier; the Persian lilac, which lifts high in air its gray
      flax-coloured branches; the pappaw tree, the branchless trunk of which
      forms a column studded with green melons, surmounted by a capital of broad
      leaves similar to those of the fig-tree.
    </p>
    <p>
      The seeds and kernels of the gum tree, terminalia, mango, alligator pear,
      the guava, the bread-fruit tree, and the narrow-leaved rose-apple, were
      also planted by him with profusion: and the greater number of these trees
      already afforded their young cultivator both shade and fruit. His
      industrious hands diffused the riches of nature over even the most barren
      parts of the plantation. Several species of aloes, the Indian fig, adorned
      with yellow flowers spotted with red, and the thorny torch thistle, grew
      upon the dark summits of the rocks, and seemed to aim at reaching the long
      lianas, which, laden with blue or scarlet flowers, hung scattered over the
      steepest parts of the mountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      I loved to trace the ingenuity he had exercised in the arrangement of
      these trees. He had so disposed them that the whole could be seen at a
      single glance. In the middle of the hollow he had planted shrubs of the
      lowest growth; behind grew the more lofty sorts; then trees of the
      ordinary height; and beyond and above all, the venerable and lofty groves
      which border the circumference. Thus this extensive enclosure appeared,
      from its centre, like a verdant amphitheatre decorated with fruits and
      flowers, containing a variety of vegetables, some strips of meadow land,
      and fields of rice and corn. But, in arranging these vegetable productions
      to his own taste, he wandered not too far from the designs of Nature.
      Guided by her suggestions, he had thrown upon the elevated spots such
      seeds as the winds would scatter about, and near the borders of the
      springs those which float upon the water. Every plant thus grew in its
      proper soil, and every spot seemed decorated by Nature's own hand. The
      streams which fell from the summits of the rocks formed in some parts of
      the valley sparkling cascades, and in others were spread into broad
      mirrors, in which were reflected, set in verdure, the flowering trees, the
      overhanging rocks, and the azure heavens.
    </p>
    <p>
      Notwithstanding the great irregularity of the ground, these plantations
      were, for the most part, easy of access. We had, indeed, all given him our
      advice and assistance, in order to accomplish this end. He had conducted
      one path entirely round the valley, and various branches from it led from
      the circumference to the centre. He had drawn some advantage from the most
      rugged spots, and had blended, in harmonious union, level walks with the
      inequalities of the soil, and trees which grow wild with the cultivated
      varieties. With that immense quantity of large pebbles which now block up
      these paths, and which are scattered over most of the ground of this
      island, he formed pyramidal heaps here and there, at the base of which he
      laid mould, and planted rose-bushes, the Barbadoes flower-fence, and other
      shrubs which love to climb the rocks. In a short time the dark and
      shapeless heaps of stones he had constructed were covered with verdure, or
      with the glowing tints of the most beautiful flowers. Hollow recesses on
      the borders of the streams shaded by the overhanging boughs of aged trees,
      formed rural grottoes, impervious to the rays of the sun, in which you
      might enjoy a refreshing coolness during the mid-day heats. One path led
      to a clump of forest trees, in the centre of which sheltered from the
      wind, you found a fruit-tree, laden with produce. Here was a corn-field;
      there, an orchard; from one avenue you had a view of the cottages; from
      another, of the inaccessible summit of the mountain. Beneath one tufted
      bower of gum trees, interwoven with lianas, no object whatever could be
      perceived: while the point of the adjoining rock, jutting out from the
      mountain, commanded a view of the whole enclosure, and of the distant
      ocean, where, occasionally, we could discern the distant sail, arriving
      from Europe, or bound thither. On this rock the two families frequently
      met in the evening, and enjoyed in silence the freshness of the flowers,
      the gentle murmurs of the fountain, and the last blended harmonies of
      light and shade.
    </p>
    <p>
      Nothing could be more charming than the names which were bestowed upon
      some of the delightful retreats of this labyrinth. The rock of which I
      have been speaking, whence they could discern my approach at a
      considerable distance, was called the Discovery of Friendship. Paul and
      Virginia had amused themselves by planting a bamboo on that spot; and
      whenever they saw me coming, they hoisted a little white handkerchief, by
      way of signal of my approach, as they had seen a flag hoisted on the
      neighbouring mountain on the sight of a vessel at sea. The idea struck me
      of engraving an inscription on the stalk of this reed; for I never, in the
      course of my travels, experienced any thing like the pleasure in seeing a
      statue or other monument of ancient art, as in reading a well-written
      inscription. It seems to me as if a human voice issued from the stone,
      and, making itself heard after the lapse of ages, addressed man in the
      midst of a desert, to tell him that he is not alone, and that other men,
      on that very spot, had felt, and thought, and suffered like himself. If
      the inscription belongs to an ancient nation, which no longer exists, it
      leads the soul through infinite space, and strengthens the consciousness
      of its immortality, by demonstrating that a thought has survived the ruins
      of an empire.
    </p>
    <p>
      I inscribed then, on the little staff of Paul and Virginia's flag, the
      following lines of Horace:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Fratres Helenae, lucida sidera,
     Ventorumque regat pater,
     Obstrictis, aliis, praeter Iapiga.
</pre>
    <p>
      "May the brothers of Helen, bright stars like you, and the Father of the
      winds, guide you; and may you feel only the breath of the zephyr."
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a gum-tree, under the shade of which Paul was accustomed to sit,
      to contemplate the sea when agitated by storms. On the bark of this tree,
      I engraved the following lines from Virgil:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes!
</pre>
    <p>
      "Happy are thou, my son, in knowing only the pastoral divinities."
    </p>
    <p>
      And over the door of Madame de la Tour's cottage where the families so
      frequently met, I placed this line:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     At secura quies, et nescia fallere vita.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Here dwell a calm conscience, and a life that knows not deceit."
    </p>
    <p>
      But Virginia did not approve of my Latin: she said, that what I had placed
      at the foot of her flagstaff was too long and too learned. "I should have
      liked better," added she, "to have seen inscribed, EVER AGITATED, YET
      CONSTANT."&mdash;"Such a motto," I answered, "would have been still more
      applicable to virtue." My reflection made her blush.
    </p>
    <p>
      The delicacy of sentiment of these happy families was manifested in every
      thing around them. They gave the tenderest names to objects in appearance
      the most indifferent. A border of orange, plantain and rose-apple trees,
      planted round a green sward where Virginia and Paul sometimes danced,
      received the name of Concord. An old tree, beneath the shade of which
      Madame de la Tour and Margaret used to recount their misfortunes, was
      called the Burial-place of Tears. They bestowed the names of Brittany and
      Normandy on two little plots of ground, where they had sown corn,
      strawberries, and peas. Domingo and Mary, wishing, in imitation of their
      mistresses, to recall to mind Angola and Foullepoint, the places of their
      birth in Africa, gave those names to the little fields where the grass was
      sown with which they wove their baskets, and where they had planted a
      calabash-tree. Thus, by cultivating the productions of their respective
      climates, these exiled families cherished the dear illusions which bind us
      to our native country, and softened their regrets in a foreign land. Alas!
      I have seen these trees, these fountains, these heaps of stones, which are
      now so completely overthrown,&mdash;which now, like the desolated plains
      of Greece, present nothing but masses of ruin and affecting remembrances,
      all called into life by the many charming appellations thus bestowed upon
      them!
    </p>
    <p>
      But perhaps the most delightful spot of this enclosure was that called
      Virginia's resting-place. At the foot of the rock which bore the name of
      The Discovery of Friendship, is a small crevice, whence issues a fountain,
      forming, near its source, a little spot of marshy soil in the middle of a
      field of rich grass. At the time of Paul's birth I had made Margaret a
      present of an Indian cocoa which had been given me, and which she planted
      on the border of this fenny ground, in order that the tree might one day
      serve to mark the epoch of her son's birth. Madame de la Tour planted
      another cocoa with the same view, at the birth of Virginia. These nuts
      produced two cocoa-trees, which formed the only records of the two
      families; one was called Paul's tree, the other, Virginia's. Their growth
      was in the same proportion as that of the two young persons, not exactly
      equal: but they rose, at the end of twelve years, above the roofs of the
      cottages. Already their tender stalks were interwoven, and clusters of
      young cocoas hung from them over the basin of the fountain. With the
      exception of these two trees, this nook of the rock was left as it had
      been decorated by nature. On its embrowned and moist sides broad plants of
      maiden-hair glistened with their green and dark stars; and tufts of
      wave-leaved hart's tongue, suspended like long ribands of purpled green,
      floated on the wind. Near this grew a chain of the Madagascar periwinkle,
      the flowers of which resemble the red gilliflower; and the long-podded
      capsicum, the seed-vessels of which are of the colour of blood, and more
      resplendent than coral. Near them, the herb balm, with its heart-shaped
      leaves, and the sweet basil, which has the odour of the clove, exhaled the
      most delicious perfumes. From the precipitous side of the mountain hung
      the graceful lianas, like floating draperies, forming magnificent canopies
      of verdure on the face of the rocks. The sea-birds, allured by the
      stillness of these retreats, resorted here to pass the night. At the hour
      of sunset we could perceive the curlew and the stint skimming along the
      seashore; the frigate-bird poised high in air; and the white bird of the
      tropic, which abandons, with the star of day, the solitudes of the Indian
      ocean. Virginia took pleasure in resting herself upon the border of this
      fountain, decorated with wild and sublime magnificence. She often went
      thither to wash the linen of the family beneath the shade of the two
      cocoa-trees, and thither too she sometimes led her goats to graze. While
      she was making cheeses of their milk, she loved to see them browse on the
      maiden-hair fern which clothes the steep sides of the rock, and hung
      suspended by one of its cornices, as on a pedestal. Paul, observing that
      Virginia was fond of this spot, brought thither, from the neighbouring
      forest, a great variety of bird's nests. The old birds following their
      young, soon established themselves in this new colony. Virginia, at stated
      times, distributed amongst them grains of rice, millet, and maize. As soon
      as she appeared, the whistling blackbird, the amadavid bird, whose note is
      so soft, the cardinal, with its flame coloured plumage, forsook their
      bushes; the parroquet, green as an emerald, descended from the
      neighbouring fan-palms, the partridge ran along the grass; all advanced
      promiscuously towards her, like a brood of chickens: and she and Paul
      found an exhaustless source of amusement in observing their sports, their
      repasts, and their loves.
    </p>
    <p>
      Amiable children! thus passed your earlier days in innocence, and in
      obeying the impulses of kindness. How many times, on this very spot, have
      your mothers, pressing you in their arms, blessed Heaven for the
      consolation your unfolding virtues prepared for their declining years,
      while they at the same time enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing you begin
      life under the happiest auspices! How many times, beneath the shade of
      those rocks, have I partaken with them of your rural repasts, which never
      cost any animal its life! Gourds full of milk, fresh eggs, cakes of rice
      served up on plantain leaves, with baskets of mangoes, oranges, dates,
      pomegranates, pineapples, furnished a wholesome repast, the most agreeable
      to the eye, as well as delicious to the taste, that can possibly be
      imagined.
    </p>
    <p>
      Like the repast, the conversation was mild, and free from every thing
      having a tendency to do harm. Paul often talked of the labours of the day
      and of the morrow. He was continually planning something for the
      accommodation of their little society. Here he discovered that the paths
      were rugged; there, that the seats were uncomfortable: sometimes the young
      arbours did not afford sufficient shade, and Virginia might be better
      pleased elsewhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the rainy season the two families met together in the cottage, and
      employed themselves in weaving mats of grass, and baskets of bamboo.
      Rakes, spades, and hatchets, were ranged along the walls in the most
      perfect order; and near these instruments of agriculture were heaped its
      products,&mdash;bags of rice, sheaves of corn, and baskets of plantains.
      Some degree of luxury usually accompanies abundance; and Virginia was
      taught by her mother and Margaret to prepare sherbert and cordials from
      the juice of the sugar-cane, the lemon and the citron.
    </p>
    <p>
      When night came, they all supped together by the light of a lamp; after
      which Madame de la Tour or Margaret related some story of travellers
      benighted in those woods of Europe that are still infested by banditti; or
      told a dismal tale of some shipwrecked vessel, thrown by the tempest upon
      the rocks of a desert island. To these recitals the children listened with
      eager attention, and earnestly hoped that Heaven would one day grant them
      the joy of performing the rites of hospitality towards such unfortunate
      persons. When the time for repose arrived, the two families separated and
      retired for the night, eager to meet again the following morning.
      Sometimes they were lulled to repose by the beating of the rains, which
      fell in torrents upon the roofs of their cottages, and sometimes by the
      hollow winds, which brought to their ear the distant roar of the waves
      breaking upon the shore. They blessed God for their own safety, the
      feeling of which was brought home more forcibly to their minds by the
      sound of remote danger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour occasionally read aloud some affecting history of the
      Old or New Testament. Her auditors reasoned but little upon these sacred
      volumes, for their theology centred in a feeling of devotion towards the
      Supreme Being, like that of nature: and their morality was an active
      principle, like that of the Gospel. These families had no particular days
      devoted to pleasure, and others to sadness. Every day was to them a
      holyday, and all that surrounded them one holy temple, in which they ever
      adored the Infinite Intelligence, the Almighty God, the Friend of human
      kind. A feeling of confidence in his supreme power filled their minds with
      consolation for the past, with fortitude under present trials, and with
      hope in the future. Compelled by misfortune to return almost to a state of
      nature, these excellent women had thus developed in their own and their
      children's bosoms the feelings most natural to the human mind, and its
      best support under affliction.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, as clouds sometimes arise, and cast a gloom over the best regulated
      tempers, so whenever any member of this little society appeared to be
      labouring under dejection, the rest assembled around, and endeavoured to
      banish her painful thoughts by amusing the mind rather than by grave
      arguments against them. Each performed this kind office in their own
      appropriate manner: Margaret, by her gaiety; Madame de la Tour, by the
      gentle consolations of religion; Virginia, by her tender caresses; Paul,
      by his frank and engaging cordiality. Even Mary and Domingo hastened to
      offer their succour, and to weep with those that wept. Thus do weak plants
      interweave themselves with each other, in order to withstand the fury of
      the tempest.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the fine season, they went every Sunday to the church of the
      Shaddock Grove, the steeple of which you see yonder upon the plain. Many
      wealthy members of the congregation, who came to church in palanquins,
      sought the acquaintance of these united families, and invited them to
      parties of pleasure. But they always repelled these overtures with
      respectful politeness, as they were persuaded that the rich and powerful
      seek the society of persons in an inferior station only for the sake of
      surrounding themselves with flatterers, and that every flatterer must
      applaud alike all the actions of his patron, whether good or bad. On the
      other hand, they avoided, with equal care, too intimate an acquaintance
      with the lower class, who are ordinarily jealous, calumniating, and gross.
      They thus acquired, with some, the character of being timid, and with
      others, of pride: but their reserve was accompanied with so much obliging
      politeness, above all towards the unfortunate and the unhappy, that they
      insensibly acquired the respect of the rich and the confidence of the
      poor.
    </p>
    <p>
      After service, some kind office was often required at their hands by their
      poor neighbours. Sometimes a person troubled in mind sought their advice;
      sometimes a child begged them to its sick mother, in one of the adjoining
      hamlets. They always took with them a few remedies for the ordinary
      diseases of the country, which they administered in that soothing manner
      which stamps a value upon the smallest favours. Above all, they met with
      singular success in administrating to the disorders of the mind, so
      intolerable in solitude, and under the infirmities of a weakened frame.
      Madame de la Tour spoke with such sublime confidence of the Divinity, that
      the sick, while listening to her, almost believed him present. Virginia
      often returned home with her eyes full of tears, and her heart overflowing
      with delight, at having had an opportunity of doing good; for to her
      generally was confided the task of preparing and administering the
      medicines,&mdash;a task which she fulfilled with angelic sweetness. After
      these visits of charity, they sometimes extended their walk by the Sloping
      Mountain, till they reached my dwelling, where I used to prepare dinner
      for them on the banks of the little rivulet which glides near my cottage.
      I procured for these occasions a few bottles of old wine, in order to
      heighten the relish of our Oriental repast by the more genial productions
      of Europe. At other times we met on the sea-shore, at the mouth of some
      little river, or rather mere brook. We brought from home the provisions
      furnished us by our gardens, to which we added those supplied us by the
      sea in abundant variety. We caught on these shores the mullet, the roach,
      and the sea-urchin, lobsters, shrimps, crabs, oysters, and all other kinds
      of shell-fish. In this way, we often enjoyed the most tranquil pleasures
      in situations the most terrific. Sometimes, seated upon a rock, under the
      shade of the velvet sunflower-tree, we saw the enormous waves of the
      Indian Ocean break beneath our feet with a tremendous noise. Paul, who
      could swim like a fish, would advance on the reefs to meet the coming
      billows; then, at their near approach, would run back to the beach,
      closely pursued by the foaming breakers, which threw themselves, with a
      roaring noise, far on the sands. But Virginia, at this sight, uttered
      piercing cries, and said that such sports frightened her too much.
    </p>
    <p>
      Other amusements were not wanting on these festive occasions. Our repasts
      were generally followed by the songs and dances of the two young people.
      Virginia sang the happiness of pastoral life, and the misery of those who
      were impelled by avarice to cross the raging ocean, rather than cultivate
      the earth, and enjoy its bounties in peace. Sometimes she performed a
      pantomime with Paul, after the manner of the negroes. The first language
      of man is pantomime: it is known to all nations, and is so natural and
      expressive, that the children of the European inhabitants catch it with
      facility from the negroes. Virginia, recalling, from among the histories
      which her mother had read to her, those which had affected her most,
      represented the principal events in them with beautiful simplicity.
      Sometimes at the sound of Domingo's tantam she appeared upon the green
      sward, bearing a pitcher upon her head, and advanced with a timid step
      towards the source of a neighbouring fountain, to draw water. Domingo and
      Mary, personating the shepherds of Midian forbade her to approach, and
      repulsed her sternly. Upon this Paul flew to her succour, beat away the
      shepherds, filled Virginia's pitcher, and placing it upon her heard, bound
      her brows at the same time with a wreath of the red flowers of the
      Madagascar periwinkle, which served to heighten the delicacy of her
      complexion. Then joining in their sports, I took upon myself the part of
      Raguel, and bestowed upon Paul, my daughter Zephora in marriage.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another time Virginia would represent the unhappy Ruth, returning poor and
      widowed with her mother-in-law, who, after so prolonged an absence, found
      herself as unknown as in a foreign land. Domingo and Mary personated the
      reapers. The supposed daughter of Naomi followed their steps, gleaning
      here and there a few ears of corn. When interrogated by Paul,&mdash;a part
      which he performed with the gravity of a patriarch,&mdash;she answered his
      questions with a faltering voice. He then, touched with compassion,
      granted an asylum to innocence, and hospitality to misfortune. He filled
      her lap with plenty; and, leading her towards us as before the elders of
      the city, declared his purpose to take her in marriage. At this scene,
      Madame de la Tour, recalling the desolate situation in which she had been
      left by her relations, her widowhood, and the kind reception she had met
      with from Margaret, succeeded now by the soothing hope of a happy union
      between their children, could not forbear weeping; and these mixed
      recollections of good and evil caused us all to unite with her in shedding
      tears of sorrow and of joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      These dramas were performed with such an air of reality that you might
      have fancied yourself transported to the plains of Syria or of Palestine.
      We were not unfurnished with decorations, lights, or an orchestra,
      suitable to the representation. The scene was generally placed in an open
      space of the forest, the diverging paths from which formed around us
      numerous arcades of foliage, under which we were sheltered from the heat
      all the middle of the day; but when the sun descended towards the horizon,
      its rays, broken by the trunks of the trees, darted amongst the shadows of
      the forest in long lines of light, producing the most magnificent effect.
      Sometimes its broad disk appeared at the end of an avenue, lighting it up
      with insufferable brightness. The foliage of the trees, illuminated from
      beneath by its saffron beams, glowed with the lustre of the topaz and the
      emerald. Their brown and mossy trunks appeared transformed into columns of
      antique bronze; and the birds, which had retired in silence to their leafy
      shades to pass the night, surprised to see the radiance of a second
      morning, hailed the star of day all together with innumerable carols.
    </p>
    <p>
      Night often overtook us during these rural entertainments; but the purity
      of the air and the warmth of the climate, admitted of our sleeping in the
      woods, without incurring any danger by exposure to the weather, and no
      less secure from the molestations of robbers. On our return the following
      day to our respective habitations, we found them in exactly the same state
      in which they had been left. In this island, then unsophisticated by the
      pursuits of commerce, such were the honesty and primitive manners of the
      population, that the doors of many houses were without a key, and even a
      lock itself was an object of curiosity to not a few of the native
      inhabitants.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were, however, some days in the year celebrated by Paul and Virginia
      in a more peculiar manner; these were the birth-days of their mothers.
      Virginia never failed the day before to prepare some wheaten cakes, which
      she distributed among a few poor white families, born in the island, who
      had never eaten European bread. These unfortunate people, uncared for by
      the blacks, were reduced to live on tapioca in the woods; and as they had
      neither the insensibility which is the result of slavery, nor the
      fortitude which springs from a liberal education, to enable them to
      support their poverty, their situation was deplorable. These cakes were
      all that Virginia had it in her power to give away, but she conferred the
      gift in so delicate a manner as to add tenfold to its value. In the first
      place, Paul was commissioned to take the cakes himself to these families,
      and get their promise to come and spend the next day at Madame de la
      Tour's. Accordingly, mothers of families, with two or three thin, yellow,
      miserable looking daughters, so timid that they dared not look up, made
      their appearance. Virginia soon put them at their ease; she waited upon
      them with refreshments, the excellence of which she endeavoured to
      heighten by relating some particular circumstance which in her own
      estimation, vastly improved them. One beverage had been prepared by
      Margaret; another, by her mother: her brother himself had climbed some
      lofty tree for the very fruit she was presenting. She would then get Paul
      to dance with them, nor would she leave them till she saw that they were
      happy. She wished them to partake of the joy of her own family. "It is
      only," she said, "by promoting the happiness of others, that we can secure
      our own." When they left, she generally presented them with some little
      article they seemed to fancy, enforcing their acceptance of it by some
      delicate pretext, that she might not appear to know they were in want. If
      she remarked that their clothes were much tattered, she obtained her
      mother's permission to give them some of her own, and then sent Paul to
      leave them, secretly at their cottage doors. She thus followed the divine
      precept,&mdash;concealing the benefactor, and revealing only the benefit.
    </p>
    <p>
      You Europeans, whose minds are imbued from infancy with prejudices at
      variance with happiness, cannot imagine all the instruction and pleasure
      to be derived from nature. Your souls, confined to a small sphere of
      intelligence, soon reach the limit of its artificial enjoyments: but
      nature and the heart are inexhaustible. Paul and Virginia had neither
      clock, nor almanack, nor books of chronology, history or philosophy. The
      periods of their lives were regulated by those of the operations of
      nature, and their familiar conversation had a reference to the changes of
      the seasons. They knew the time of day by the shadows of the trees; the
      seasons, by the times when those trees bore flowers or fruit; and the
      years, by the number of their harvests. These soothing images diffused an
      inexpressible charm over their conversation. "It is time to dine," said
      Virginia, "the shadows of the plantain-trees are at their roots:" or,
      "Night approaches, the tamarinds are closing their leaves." "When will you
      come and see us?" inquired some of her companions in the neighbourhood.
      "At the time of the sugar-canes," answered Virginia. "Your visit will be
      then still more delightful," resumed her young acquaintances. When she was
      asked what was her own age and that of Paul,&mdash;"My brother," said she,
      "is as old as the great cocoa-tree of the fountain; and I am as old as the
      little one: the mangoes have bore fruit twelve times and the orange-trees
      have flowered four-and-twenty times, since I came into the world." Their
      lives seemed linked to that of the trees, like those of Fauns or Dryads.
      They knew no other historical epochs than those of the lives of their
      mothers, no other chronology than that of doing good, and resigning
      themselves to the will of Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      What need, indeed, had these young people of riches or learning such as
      ours? Even their necessities and their ignorance increased their
      happiness. No day passed in which they were not of some service to one
      another, or in which they did not mutually impart some instruction. Yes,
      instruction; for if errors mingled with it, they were, at least, not of a
      dangerous character. A pure-minded being has none of that description to
      fear. Thus grew these children of nature. No care had troubled their
      peace, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no misplaced passion had
      depraved their hearts. Love, innocence, and piety, possessed their souls;
      and those intellectual graces were unfolding daily in their features,
      their attitudes, and their movements. Still in the morning of life, they
      had all its blooming freshness: and surely such in the garden of Eden
      appeared our first parents, when coming from the hands of God, they first
      saw, and approached each other, and conversed together, like brother and
      sister. Virginia was gentle, modest, and confiding as Eve; and Paul, like
      Adam, united the stature of manhood with the simplicity of a child.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sometimes, if alone with Virginia, he has a thousand times told me, he
      used to say to her, on his return from labour,&mdash;"When I am wearied,
      the sight of you refreshes me. If from the summit of the mountain I
      perceive you below in the valley, you appear to me in the midst of our
      orchard like a blooming rose-bud. If you go towards our mother's house,
      the partridge, when it runs to meet its young, has a shape less beautiful,
      and a step less light. When I lose sight of you through the trees, I have
      no need to see you in order to find you again. Something of you, I know
      not how, remains for me in the air through which you have passed, on the
      grass where you have been seated. When I come near you, you delight all my
      senses. The azure of the sky is less charming than the blue of your eyes,
      and the song of the amadavid bird less soft than the sound of your voice.
      If I only touch you with the tip of my finger, my whole frame trembles
      with pleasure. Do you remember the day when we crossed over the great
      stones of the river of the Three Breasts? I was very tired before we
      reached the bank: but, as soon as I had taken you in my arms, I seemed to
      have wings like a bird. Tell me by what charm you have thus enchanted me!
      Is it by your wisdom?&mdash;Our mothers have more than either of us. Is it
      by your caresses?&mdash;They embrace me much oftener than you. I think it
      must be by your goodness. I shall never forget how you walked bare-footed
      to the Black River, to ask pardon for the poor run-away slave. Here, my
      beloved, take this flowering branch of a lemon-tree, which I have gathered
      in the forest: you will let it remain at night near your bed. Eat this
      honey-comb too, which I have taken for you from the top of a rock. But
      first lean on my bosom, and I shall be refreshed."
    </p>
    <p>
      Virginia would answer him,&mdash;"Oh, my dear brother, the rays of the sun
      in the morning on the tops of the rocks give me less joy than the sight of
      you. I love my mother,&mdash;I love yours; but when they call you their
      son, I love them a thousand times more. When they caress you, I feel it
      more sensibly than when I am caressed myself. You ask me what makes you
      love me. Why, all creatures that are brought up together love one another.
      Look at our birds; reared up in the same nests, they love each other as we
      do; they are always together like us. Hark! how they call and answer from
      one tree to another. So when the echoes bring to my ears the air which you
      play on your flute on the top of the mountain, I repeat the words at the
      bottom of the valley. You are dear to me more especially since the day
      when you wanted to fight the master of the slave for me. Since that time
      how often have I said to myself, 'Ah, my brother has a good heart; but for
      him, I should have died of terror.' I pray to God every day for my mother
      and for yours; for you, and for our poor servants; but when I pronounce
      your name, my devotion seems to increase;&mdash;I ask so earnestly of God
      that no harm may befall you! Why do you go so far, and climb so high, to
      seek fruits and flowers for me? Have we not enough in our garden already?
      How much you are fatigued,&mdash;you look so warm!"&mdash;and with her
      little white handkerchief she would wipe the damps from his face, and then
      imprint a tender kiss on his forehead.
    </p>
    <p>
      For some time past, however, Virginia had felt her heart agitated by new
      sensations. Her beautiful blue eyes lost their lustre, her cheek its
      freshness, and her frame was overpowered with a universal langour.
      Serenity no longer sat upon her brow, nor smiles played upon her lips. She
      would become all at once gay without cause for joy, and melancholy without
      any subject for grief. She fled her innocent amusements, her gentle toils,
      and even the society of her beloved family; wandering about the most
      unfrequented parts of the plantations, and seeking every where the rest
      which she could no where find. Sometimes, at the sight of Paul, she
      advanced sportively to meet him; but, when about to accost him, was
      overcome by a sudden confusion; her pale cheeks were covered with blushes,
      and her eyes no longer dared to meet those of her brother. Paul said to
      her,&mdash;"The rocks are covered with verdure, our birds begin to sing
      when you approach, everything around you is gay, and you only are
      unhappy." He then endeavoured to soothe her by his embraces, but she
      turned away her head, and fled, trembling towards her mother. The caresses
      of her brother excited too much emotion in her agitated heart, and she
      sought, in the arms of her mother, refuge from herself. Paul, unused to
      the secret windings of the female heart, vexed himself in vain in
      endeavouring to comprehend the meaning of these new and strange caprices.
      Misfortunes seldom come alone, and a serious calamity now impended over
      these families.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of those summers, which sometimes desolate the countries situated
      between the tropics, now began to spread its ravages over this island. It
      was near the end of December, when the sun, in Capricorn, darts over the
      Mauritius, during the space of three weeks, its vertical fires. The
      southeast wind, which prevails throughout almost the whole year, no longer
      blew. Vast columns of dust arose from the highways, and hung suspended in
      the air; the ground was every where broken into clefts; the grass was
      burnt up; hot exhalations issued from the sides of the mountains, and
      their rivulets, for the most part, became dry. No refreshing cloud ever
      arose from the sea: fiery vapours, only, during the day, ascended from the
      plains, and appeared, at sunset, like the reflection of a vast
      conflagration. Night brought no coolness to the heated atmosphere; and the
      red moon rising in the misty horizon, appeared of supernatural magnitude.
      The drooping cattle, on the sides of the hills, stretching out their necks
      towards heaven, and panting for breath, made the valleys re-echo with
      their melancholy lowings: even the Caffre by whom they were led threw
      himself upon the earth, in search of some cooling moisture: but his hopes
      were vain; the scorching sun had penetrated the whole soil, and the
      stifling atmosphere everywhere resounded with the buzzing noise of
      insects, seeking to allay their thirst with the blood of men and of
      animals.
    </p>
    <p>
      During this sultry season, Virginia's restlessness and disquietude were
      much increased. One night, in particular, being unable to sleep, she arose
      from her bed, sat down, and returned to rest again; but could find in no
      attitude either slumber or repose. At length she bent her way, by the
      light of the moon, towards her fountain, and gazed at its spring, which,
      notwithstanding the drought, still trickled, in silver threads down the
      brown sides of the rock. She flung herself into the basin: its coolness
      reanimated her spirits, and a thousand soothing remembrances came to her
      mind. She recollected that in her infancy her mother and Margaret had
      amused themselves by bathing her with Paul in this very spot; that he
      afterwards, reserving this bath for her sole use, had hollowed out its
      bed, covered the bottom with sand, and sown aromatic herbs around its
      borders. She saw in the water, upon her naked arms and bosom, the
      reflection of the two cocoa trees which were planted at her own and her
      brother's birth, and which interwove above her head their green branches
      and young fruit. She thought of Paul's friendship, sweeter than the odour
      of the blossoms, purer than the waters of the fountain, stronger than the
      intertwining palm-tree, and she sighed. Reflecting on the hour of the
      night, and the profound solitude, her imagination became disturbed.
      Suddenly she flew, affrighted, from those dangerous shades, and those
      waters which seemed to her hotter than the tropical sunbeam, and ran to
      her mother for refuge. More than once, wishing to reveal her sufferings,
      she pressed her mother's hand within her own; more than once she was ready
      to pronounce the name of Paul: but her oppressed heart left her lips no
      power of utterance, and, leaning her head on her mother's bosom, she
      bathed it with her tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour, though she easily discerned the source of her
      daughter's uneasiness, did not think proper to speak to her on the
      subject. "My dear child," said she, "offer up your supplications to God,
      who disposes at his will of health and of life. He subjects you to trial
      now, in order to recompense you hereafter. Remember that we are only
      placed upon earth for the exercise of virtue."
    </p>
    <p>
      The excessive heat in the meantime raised vast masses of vapour from the
      ocean, which hung over the island like an immense parasol, and gathered
      round the summits of the mountains. Long flakes of fire issued from time
      to time from these mist-embosomed peaks. The most awful thunder soon after
      re-echoed through the woods, the plains, and the valleys: the rains fell
      from the skies in cataracts; foaming torrents rushed down the sides of
      this mountain; the bottom of the valley became a sea, and the elevated
      platform on which the cottages were built, a little island. The
      accumulated waters, having no other outlet, rushed with violence through
      the narrow gorge which leads into the valley, tossing and roaring, and
      bearing along with them a mingled wreck of soil, trees, and rocks.
    </p>
    <p>
      The trembling families meantime addressed their prayers to God all
      together in the cottage of Madame de la Tour, the roof of which cracked
      fearfully from the force of the winds. So incessant and vivid were the
      lightnings, that although the doors and window-shutters were securely
      fastened, every object without could be distinctly seen through the joints
      in the wood-work! Paul, followed by Domingo, went with intrepidity from
      one cottage to another, notwithstanding the fury of the tempest; here
      supporting a partition with a buttress, there driving in a stake; and only
      returning to the family to calm their fears, by the expression of a hope
      that the storm was passing away. Accordingly, in the evening the rains
      ceased, the trade-winds of the southeast pursued their ordinary course,
      the tempestuous clouds were driven away to the northward, and the setting
      sun appeared in the horizon.
    </p>
    <p>
      Virginia's first wish was to visit the spot called her Resting-place. Paul
      approached her with a timid air, and offered her the assistance of his
      arm; she accepted it with a smile, and they left the cottage together. The
      air was clear and fresh: white vapours arose from the ridges of the
      mountain, which was furrowed here and there by the courses of torrents,
      marked in foam, and now beginning to dry up on all sides. As for the
      garden, it was completely torn to pieces by deep water-courses, the roots
      of most of the fruit trees were laid bare, and vast heaps of sand covered
      the borders of the meadows, and had choked up Virginia's bath. The two
      cocoa trees, however, were still erect, and still retained their
      freshness; but they were no longer surrounded by turf, or arbours, or
      birds, except a few amadavid birds, which, upon the points of the
      neighbouring rocks, were lamenting, in plaintive notes, the loss of their
      young.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the sight of this general desolation, Virginia exclaimed to Paul,&mdash;"You
      brought birds hither, and the hurricane has killed them. You planted this
      garden, and it is now destroyed. Every thing then upon earth perishes, and
      it is only Heaven that is not subject to change."&mdash;"Why," answered
      Paul, "cannot I give you something that belongs to Heaven? but I have
      nothing of my own even upon the earth." Virginia with a blush replied,
      "You have the picture of Saint Paul." As soon as she had uttered the
      words, he flew in quest of it to his mother's cottage. This picture was a
      miniature of Paul the Hermit, which Margaret, who viewed it with feelings
      of great devotion, had worn at her neck while a girl, and which, after she
      became a mother, she had placed round her child's. It had even happened,
      that being, while pregnant, abandoned by all the world, and constantly
      occupied in contemplating the image of this benevolent recluse, her
      offspring had contracted some resemblance to this revered object. She
      therefore bestowed upon him the name of Paul, giving him for his patron a
      saint who had passed his life far from mankind by whom he had been first
      deceived and then forsaken. Virginia, on receiving this little present
      from the hands of Paul, said to him, with emotion, "My dear brother, I
      will never part with this while I live; nor will I ever forget that you
      have given me the only thing you have in the world." At this tone of
      friendship,&mdash;this unhoped for return of familiarity and tenderness,
      Paul attempted to embrace her; but, light as a bird, she escaped him, and
      fled away, leaving him astonished, and unable to account for conduct so
      extraordinary.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile Margaret said to Madame de la Tour, "Why do we not unite our
      children by marriage? They have a strong attachment for each other, and
      though my son hardly understands the real nature of his feelings, yet
      great care and watchfulness will be necessary. Under such circumstances,
      it will be as well not to leave them too much together." Madame de la Tour
      replied, "They are too young and too poor. What grief would it occasion us
      to see Virginia bring into the world unfortunate children, whom she would
      not perhaps have sufficient strength to rear! Your negro, Domingo, is
      almost too old to labor; Mary is infirm. As for myself, my dear friend, at
      the end of fifteen years, I find my strength greatly decreased; the
      feebleness of age advances rapidly in hot climates, and, above all, under
      the pressure of misfortune. Paul is our only hope: let us wait till he
      comes to maturity, and his increased strength enables him to support us by
      his labour: at present you well know that we have only sufficient to
      supply the wants of the day: but were we to send Paul for a short time to
      the Indies, he might acquire, by commerce, the means of purchasing some
      slaves; and at his return we could unite him to Virginia; for I am
      persuaded no one on earth would render her so happy as your son. We will
      consult our neighbour on this subject."
    </p>
    <p>
      They accordingly asked my advice, which was in accordance with Madame de
      la Tour's opinion. "The Indian seas," I observed to them, "are calm, and,
      in choosing a favourable time of the year, the voyage out is seldom longer
      than six weeks; and the same time may be allowed for the return home. We
      will furnish Paul with a little venture from my neighbourhood, where he is
      much beloved. If we were only to supply him with some raw cotton, of which
      we make no use for want of mills to work it, some ebony, which is here so
      common that it serves us for firing, and some rosin, which is found in our
      woods, he would be able to sell those articles, though useless here, to
      good advantage in the Indies."
    </p>
    <p>
      I took upon myself to obtain permission from Monsieur de la Bourdonnais to
      undertake this voyage; and I determined previously to mention the affair
      to Paul. But what was my surprise, when this young man said to me, with a
      degree of good sense above his age, "And why do you wish me to leave my
      family for this precarious pursuit of fortune? Is there any commerce in
      the world more advantageous than the culture of the ground, which yields
      sometimes fifty or a hundred-fold? If we wish to engage in commerce, can
      we not do so by carrying our superfluities to the town without my
      wandering to the Indies? Our mothers tell me, that Domingo is old and
      feeble; but I am young, and gather strength every day. If any accident
      should happen during my absence, above all to Virginia, who already
      suffers&mdash;Oh, no, no!&mdash;I cannot resolve to leave them."
    </p>
    <p>
      So decided an answer threw me into great perplexity, for Madame de la Tour
      had not concealed from me the cause of Virginia's illness and want of
      spirits, and her desire of separating these young people till they were a
      few years older. I took care, however, not to drop any thing which could
      lead Paul to suspect the existence of these motives.
    </p>
    <p>
      About this period a ship from France brought Madame de la Tour a letter
      from her aunt. The fear of death, without which hearts as insensible as
      hers would never feel, had alarmed her into compassion. When she wrote she
      was recovering from a dangerous illness, which had, however, left her
      incurably languid and weak. She desired her niece to return to France: or,
      if her health forbade her to undertake so long a voyage, she begged her to
      send Virginia, on whom she promised to bestow a good education, to procure
      for her a splendid marriage, and to leave her heiress of her whole
      fortune. She concluded by enjoining strict obedience to her will, in
      gratitude, she said, for her great kindness.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the perusal of this letter general consternation spread itself through
      the whole assembled party. Domingo and Mary began to weep. Paul,
      motionless with surprise, appeared almost ready to burst with indignation;
      while Virginia, fixing her eyes anxiously upon her mother, had not power
      to utter a single word. "And can you now leave us?" cried Margaret to
      Madame de la Tour. "No, my dear friend, no, my beloved children," replied
      Madame de la Tour; "I will never leave you. I have lived with you, and
      with you I will die. I have known no happiness but in your affection. If
      my health be deranged, my past misfortunes are the cause. My heart has
      been deeply wounded by the cruelty of my relations, and by the loss of my
      beloved husband. But I have since found more consolation and more real
      happiness with you in these humble huts, than all the wealth of my family
      could now lead me to expect in my country."
    </p>
    <p>
      At this soothing language every eye overflowed with tears of delight.
      Paul, pressing Madame de la Tour in his arms, exclaimed,&mdash;"Neither
      will I leave you! I will not go to the Indies. We will all labour for you,
      dear mamma; and you shall never feel any want with us." But of the whole
      society, the person who displayed the least transport, and who probably
      felt the most, was Virginia; and during the remainder of the day, the
      gentle gaiety which flowed from her heart, and proved that her peace of
      mind was restored, completed the general satisfaction.
    </p>
    <p>
      At sun-rise the next day, just as they had concluded offering up, as
      usual, their morning prayer before breakfast, Domingo came to inform them
      that a gentleman on horseback, followed by two slaves, was coming towards
      the plantation. It was Monsieur de la Bourdonnais. He entered the cottage,
      where he found the family at breakfast. Virginia had prepared, according
      to the custom of the country, coffee, and rice boiled in water. To these
      she had added hot yams, and fresh plantains. The leaves of the
      plantain-tree, supplied the want of table-linen; and calabash shells,
      split in two, served for cups. The governor exhibited, at first, some
      astonishment at the homeliness of the dwelling; then, addressing himself
      to Madame de la Tour, he observed, that although public affairs drew his
      attention too much from the concerns of individuals, she had many claims
      on his good offices. "You have an aunt at Paris, madam," he added, "a
      woman of quality, and immensely rich, who expects that you will hasten to
      see her, and who means to bestow upon you her whole fortune." Madame de la
      Tour replied, that the state of her health would not permit her to
      undertake so long a voyage. "At least," resumed Monsieur de la
      Bourdonnais, "you cannot without injustice, deprive this amiable young
      lady, your daughter, of so noble an inheritance. I will not conceal from
      you, that your aunt has made use of her influence to secure your daughter
      being sent to her; and that I have received official letters, in which I
      am ordered to exert my authority, if necessary, to that effect. But as I
      only wish to employ my power for the purpose of rendering the inhabitants
      of this country happy, I expect from your good sense the voluntary
      sacrifice of a few years, upon which your daughter's establishment in the
      world, and the welfare of your whole life depends. Wherefore do we come to
      these islands? Is it not to acquire a fortune? And will it not be more
      agreeable to return and find it in your own country?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He then took a large bag of piastres from one of his slaves, and placed it
      upon the table. "This sum," he continued, "is allotted by your aunt to
      defray the outlay necessary for the equipment of the young lady for her
      voyage." Gently reproaching Madame de la Tour for not having had recourse
      to him in her difficulties, he extolled at the same time her noble
      fortitude. Upon this Paul said to the governor,&mdash;"My mother did apply
      to you, sir, and you received her ill."&mdash;"Have you another child,
      madam?" said Monsieur de la Bourdonnais to Madame de la Tour. "No, Sir,"
      she replied; "this is the son of my friend; but he and Virginia are
      equally dear to us, and we mutually consider them both as our own
      children." "Young man," said the governor to Paul, "when you have acquired
      a little more experience of the world, you will know that it is the
      misfortune of people in place to be deceived, and bestow, in consequence,
      upon intriguing vice, that which they would wish to give to modest merit."
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur de la Bourdonnais, at the request of Madame de la Tour, placed
      himself next to her at table, and breakfasted after the manner of the
      Creoles, upon coffee, mixed with rice boiled in water. He was delighted
      with the order and cleanliness which prevailed in the little cottage, the
      harmony of the two interesting families, and the zeal of their old
      servants. "Here," he exclaimed, "I discern only wooden furniture; but I
      find serene countenances and hearts of gold." Paul, enchanted with the
      affability of the governor, said to him,&mdash;"I wish to be your friend:
      for you are a good man." Monsieur de la Bourdonnais received with pleasure
      this insular compliment, and, taking Paul by the hand, assured him he
      might rely upon his friendship.
    </p>
    <p>
      After breakfast, he took Madame de la Tour aside and informed her that an
      opportunity would soon offer itself of sending her daughter to France, in
      a ship which was going to sail in a short time; that he would put her
      under the charge of a lady, one of the passengers, who was a relation of
      his own; and that she must not think of renouncing an immense fortune, on
      account of the pain of being separated from her daughter for a brief
      interval. "Your aunt," he added, "cannot live more than two years; of this
      I am assured by her friends. Think of it seriously. Fortune does not visit
      us every day. Consult your friends. I am sure that every person of good
      sense will be of my opinion." She answered, "that, as she desired no other
      happiness henceforth in the world than in promoting that of her daughter,
      she hoped to be allowed to leave her departure for France to her own
      inclination."
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour was not sorry to find an opportunity of separating Paul
      and Virginia for a short time, and provide by this means, for their mutual
      felicity at a future period. She took her daughter aside, and said to her,&mdash;"My
      dear child, our servants are now old. Paul is still very young, Margaret
      is advanced in years, and I am already infirm. If I should die what would
      become of you, without fortune, in the midst of these deserts? You would
      then be left alone, without any person who could afford you much
      assistance, and would be obliged to labour without ceasing, as a hired
      servant, in order to support your wretched existence. This idea overcomes
      me with sorrow." Virginia answered,&mdash;"God has appointed us to labour,
      and to bless him every day. Up to this time he has never forsaken us, and
      he never will forsake us in time to come. His providence watches most
      especially over the unfortunate. You have told me this very often, my dear
      mother! I cannot resolve to leave you." Madame de la Tour replied, with
      much emotion,&mdash;"I have no other aim than to render you happy, and to
      marry you one day to Paul, who is not really your brother. Remember then
      that his fortune depends upon you."
    </p>
    <p>
      A young girl who is in love believes that every one else is ignorant of
      her passion; she throws over her eyes the veil with which she covers the
      feelings of her heart; but when it is once lifted by a friendly hand, the
      hidden sorrows of her attachment escape as through a newly-opened barrier,
      and the sweet outpourings of unrestrained confidence succeed to her former
      mystery and reserve. Virginia, deeply affected by this new proof of her
      mother's tenderness, related to her the cruel struggles she had undergone,
      of which heaven alone had been witness; she saw, she said, the hand of
      Providence in the assistance of an affectionate mother, who approved of
      her attachment; and would guide her by her counsels; and as she was now
      strengthened by such support, every consideration led her to remain with
      her mother, without anxiety for the present, and without apprehension for
      the future.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour, perceiving that this confidential conversation had
      produced an effect altogether different from that which she expected,
      said,&mdash;"My dear child, I do not wish to constrain you; think over it
      at leisure, but conceal your affection from Paul. It is better not to let
      a man know that the heart of his mistress is gained."
    </p>
    <p>
      Virginia and her mother were sitting together by themselves the same
      evening, when a tall man, dressed in a blue cassock, entered their
      cottage. He was a missionary priest and the confessor of Madame de la Tour
      and her daughter, who had now been sent to them by the governor. "My
      children," he exclaimed as he entered, "God be praised! you are now rich.
      You can now attend to the kind suggestions of your benevolent hearts, and
      do good to the poor. I know what Monsieur de la Bourdonnais has said to
      you, and what you have said in reply. Your health, dear madam, obliges you
      to remain here; but you, young lady, are without excuse. We must obey our
      aged relations, even when they are unjust. A sacrifice is required of you;
      but it is the will of God. Our Lord devoted himself for you; and you in
      imitation of his example, must give up something for the welfare of your
      family. Your voyage to France will end happily. You will surely consent to
      go, my dear young lady."
    </p>
    <p>
      Virginia, with downcast eyes, answered, trembling, "If it is the command
      of God, I will not presume to oppose it. Let the will of God be done!" As
      she uttered these words, she wept.
    </p>
    <p>
      The priest went away, in order to inform the governor of the success of
      his mission. In the meantime Madame de la Tour sent Domingo to request me
      to come to her, that she might consult me respecting Virginia's departure.
      I was not at all of opinion that she ought to go. I consider it as a fixed
      principle of happiness, that we ought to prefer the advantages of nature
      to those of fortune, and never go in search of that at a distance, which
      we may find at home,&mdash;in our own bosoms. But what could be expected
      from my advice, in opposition to the illusions of a splendid fortune?&mdash;or
      from my simple reasoning, when in competition with the prejudices of the
      world, and an authority held sacred by Madame de la Tour? This lady indeed
      only consulted me out of politeness; she had ceased to deliberate since
      she had heard the decision of her confessor. Margaret herself, who,
      notwithstanding the advantages she expected for her son from the
      possession of Virginia's fortune, had hitherto opposed her departure, made
      no further objections. As for Paul, in ignorance of what had been
      determined, but alarmed at the secret conversations which Virginia had
      been holding with her mother, he abandoned himself to melancholy. "They
      are plotting something against me," cried he, "for they conceal every
      thing from me."
    </p>
    <p>
      A report having in the meantime been spread in the island that fortune had
      visited these rocks, merchants of every description were seen climbing
      their steep ascent. Now, for the first time, were seen displayed in these
      humble huts the richest stuffs of India; the fine dimity of Gondelore; the
      handkerchiefs of Pellicate and Masulipatan; the plain, striped, and
      embroidered muslins of Dacca, so beautifully transparent: the delicately
      white cottons of Surat, and linens of all colours. They also brought with
      them the gorgeous silks of China, satin damasks, some white, and others
      grass-green and bright red; pink taffetas, with the profusion of satins
      and gauze of Tonquin, both plain and decorated with flowers; soft pekins,
      downy as cloth; and white and yellow nankeens, and the calicoes of
      Madagascar.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour wished her daughter to purchase whatever she liked; she
      only examined the goods, and inquired the price, to take care that the
      dealers did not cheat her. Virginia made choice of everything she thought
      would be useful or agreeable to her mother, or to Margaret and her son.
      "This," said she, "will be wanted for furnishing the cottage, and that
      will be very useful to Mary and Domingo." In short, the bag of piastres
      was almost emptied before she even began to consider her own wants; and
      she was obliged to receive back for her own use a share of the presents
      which she had distributed among the family circle.
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul, overcome with sorrow at the sight of these gifts of fortune, which
      he felt were a presage of Virginia's departure, came a few days after to
      my dwelling. With an air of deep despondency he said to me&mdash;"My
      sister is going away; she is already making preparations for her voyage. I
      conjure you to come and exert your influence over her mother and mine, in
      order to detain her here." I could not refuse the young man's
      solicitations, although well convinced that my representations would be
      unavailing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Virginia had ever appeared to me charming when clad in the coarse cloth of
      Bengal, with a red handkerchief tied round her head: you may therefore
      imagine how much her beauty was increased, when she was attired in the
      graceful and elegant costume worn by the ladies of this country! She had
      on a white muslin dress, lined with pink taffeta. Her somewhat tall and
      slender figure was shown to advantage in her new attire, and the simple
      arrangement of her hair accorded admirably with the form of her head. Her
      fine blue eyes were filled with an expression of melancholy; and the
      struggles of passion, with which her heart was agitated, imparted a flush
      to her cheek, and to her voice a tone of deep emotion. The contrast
      between her pensive look and her gay habiliments rendered her more
      interesting than ever, nor was it possible to see or hear her unmoved.
      Paul became more and more melancholy; and at length Margaret, distressed
      at the situation of her son, took him aside and said to him,&mdash;"Why,
      my dear child, will you cherish vain hopes, which will only render your
      disappointment more bitter? It is time for me to make known to you the
      secret of your life and of mine. Mademoiselle de la Tour belongs, by her
      mother's side, to a rich and noble family, while you are but the son of a
      poor peasant girl; and what is worse you are illegitimate."
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul, who had never heard this last expression before, inquired with
      eagerness its meaning. His mother replied, "I was not married to your
      father. When I was a girl, seduced by love, I was guilty of a weakness of
      which you are the offspring. The consequence of my fault is, that you are
      deprived of the protection of a father's family, and by my flight from
      home you have also lost that of your mother's. Unfortunate child! you have
      no relations in the world but me!"&mdash;and she shed a flood of tears.
      Paul, pressing her in his arms, exclaimed, "Oh, my dear mother! since I
      have no relation in the world but you, I will love you all the more. But
      what a secret have you just disclosed to me! I now see the reason why
      Mademoiselle de la Tour has estranged herself so much from me for the last
      two months, and why she has determined to go to France. Ah! I perceive too
      well that she despises me!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The hour of supper being arrived, we gathered round the table; but the
      different sensations with which we were agitated left us little
      inclination to eat, and the meal, if such it may be called, passed in
      silence. Virginia was the first to rise; she went out, and seated herself
      on the very spot where we now are. Paul hastened after her, and sat down
      by her side. Both of them, for some time, kept a profound silence. It was
      one of those delicious nights which are so common between the tropics, and
      to the beauty of which no pencil can do justice. The moon appeared in the
      midst of the firmament, surrounded by a curtain of clouds, which was
      gradually unfolded by her beams. Her light insensibly spread itself over
      the mountains of the island, and their distant peaks glistened with a
      silvery green. The winds were perfectly still. We heard among the woods,
      at the bottom of the valleys, and on the summits of the rocks, the piping
      cries and the soft notes of the birds, wantoning in their nests, and
      rejoicing in the brightness of the night and the serenity of the
      atmosphere. The hum of insects was heard in the grass. The stars sparkled
      in the heavens, and their lurid orbs were reflected, in trembling
      sparkles, from the tranquil bosom of the ocean. Virginia's eye wandered
      distractedly over its vast and gloomy horizon, distinguishable from the
      shore of the island only by the red fires in the fishing boats. She
      perceived at the entrance of the harbour a light and a shadow; these were
      the watchlight and the hull of the vessel in which she was to embark for
      Europe, and which, all ready for sea, lay at anchor, waiting for a breeze.
      Affected at this sight, she turned away her head, in order to hide her
      tears from Paul.
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour, Margaret, and I, were seated at a little distance,
      beneath the plantain-trees; and, owing to the stillness of the night, we
      distinctly heard their conversation, which I have not forgotten.
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul said to her,&mdash;"You are going away from us, they tell me, in
      three days. You do not fear then to encounter the danger of the sea, at
      the sight of which you are so much terrified?" "I must perform my duty,"
      answered Virginia, "by obeying my parent." "You leave us," resumed Paul,
      "for a distant relation, whom you have never seen." "Alas!" cried
      Virginia, "I would have remained here my whole life, but my mother would
      not have it so. My confessor, too, told me it was the will of God that I
      should go, and that life was a scene of trials!&mdash;and Oh! this is
      indeed a severe one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What!" exclaimed Paul, "you could find so many reasons for going, and not
      one for remaining here! Ah! there is one reason for your departure that
      you have not mentioned. Riches have great attractions. You will soon find
      in the new world to which you are going, another, to whom you will give
      the name of brother, which you bestow on me no more. You will choose that
      brother from amongst persons who are worthy of you by their birth, and by
      a fortune which I have not to offer. But where can you go to be happier?
      On what shore will you land, and find it dearer to you than the spot which
      gave you birth?&mdash;and where will you form around you a society more
      delightful to you than this, by which you are so much accustomed? What
      will become of her, already advanced in years, when she no longer sees you
      at her side at table, in the house, in the walks, where she used to lean
      upon you? What will become of my mother, who loves you with the same
      affection? What shall I say to comfort them when I see them weeping for
      your absence? Cruel Virginia! I say nothing to you of myself; but what
      will become of me, when in the morning I shall no more see you; when the
      evening will come, and not reunite us?&mdash;when I shall gaze on these
      two palm trees, planted at our birth, and so long the witnesses of our
      mutual friendship? Ah! since your lot is changed,&mdash;since you seek in
      a far country other possessions than the fruits of my labour, let me go
      with you in the vessel in which you are about to embark. I will sustain
      your spirits in the midst of those tempests which terrify you so much even
      on shore. I will lay my head upon your bosom: I will warm your heart upon
      my own; and in France, where you are going in search of fortune and of
      grandeur, I will wait upon you as your slave. Happy only in your
      happiness, you will find me, in those palaces where I shall see you
      receiving the homage and adoration of all, rich and noble enough to make
      you the greatest of all sacrifices, by dying at your feet."
    </p>
    <p>
      The violence of his emotions stopped his utterance, and we then heard
      Virginia, who, in a voice broken by sobs, uttered these words:&mdash;"It
      is for you that I go,&mdash;for you whom I see tired to death every day by
      the labour of sustaining two helpless families. If I have accepted this
      opportunity of becoming rich, it is only to return a thousand-fold the
      good which you have done us. Can any fortune be equal to your friendship?
      Why do you talk about your birth? Ah! if it were possible for me still to
      have a brother, should I make choice of any other than you? Oh, Paul,
      Paul! you are far dearer to me than a brother! How much has it cost me to
      repulse you from me! Help me to tear myself from what I value more than
      existence, till Heaven shall bless our union. But I will stay or go,&mdash;I
      will live or die,&mdash;dispose of me as you will. Unhappy that I am! I
      could have repelled your caresses; but I cannot support your affliction."
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words Paul seized her in his arms, and, holding her pressed close
      to his bosom, cried, in a piercing tone, "I will go with her,&mdash;nothing
      shall ever part us." We all ran towards him; and Madame de la Tour said to
      him, "My son, if you go, what will become of us?"
    </p>
    <p>
      He, trembling, repeated after her the words,&mdash;"My son!&mdash;my son!
      You my mother!" cried he; "you, who would separate the brother from the
      sister! We have both been nourished at your bosom; we have both been
      reared upon your knees; we have learnt of you to love another; we have
      said so a thousand times; and now you would separate her from me!&mdash;you
      would send her to Europe, that inhospitable country which refused you an
      asylum, and to relations by whom you yourself were abandoned. You will
      tell me that I have no right over her, and that she is not my sister. She
      is everything to me;&mdash;my riches, my birth, my family,&mdash;all that
      I have! I know no other. We have had but one roof,&mdash;one cradle,&mdash;and
      we will have but one grave! If she goes, I will follow her. The governor
      will prevent me! Will he prevent me from flinging myself into the sea?&mdash;will
      he prevent me from following her by swimming? The sea cannot be more fatal
      to me than the land. Since I cannot live with her, at least I will die
      before her eyes, far from you. Inhuman mother!&mdash;woman without
      compassion!&mdash;may the ocean, to which you trust her, restore her to
      you no more! May the waves, rolling back our bodies amid the shingles of
      this beach, give you in the loss of your two children, an eternal subject
      of remorse!"
    </p>
    <p>
      At these words, I seized him in my arms, for despair had deprived him of
      reason. His eyes sparkled with fire, the perspiration fell in great drops
      from his face; his knees trembled, and I felt his heart beat violently
      against his burning bosom.
    </p>
    <p>
      Virginia, alarmed, said to him,&mdash;"Oh, my dear Paul, I call to witness
      the pleasures of our early age, your griefs and my own, and every thing
      that can for ever bind two unfortunate beings to each other, that if I
      remain at home, I will live but for you; that if I go, I will one day
      return to be yours. I call you all to witness;&mdash;you who have reared
      me from my infancy, who dispose of my life, and who see my tears. I swear
      by that Heaven which hears me, by the sea which I am going to pass, by the
      air I breathe, and which I never sullied by a falsehood."
    </p>
    <p>
      As the sun softens and precipitates an icy rock from the summit of one of
      the Appenines, so the impetuous passions of the young man were subdued by
      the voice of her he loved. He bent his head, and a torrent of tears fell
      from his eyes. His mother, mingling her tears with his, held him in her
      arms, but was unable to speak. Madame de la Tour, half distracted, said to
      me, "I can bear this no longer. My heart is quite broken. This unfortunate
      voyage shall not take place. Do take my son home with you. Not one of us
      has had any rest the whole week."
    </p>
    <p>
      I said to Paul, "My dear friend, your sister shall remain here. To-morrow
      we will talk to the governor about it; leave your family to take some
      rest, and come and pass the night with me. It is late; it is midnight; the
      southern cross is just above the horizon."
    </p>
    <p>
      He suffered himself to be led away in silence; and, after a night of great
      agitation, he arose at break of day, and returned home.
    </p>
    <p>
      But why should I continue any longer to you the recital of this history?
      There is but one aspect of human pleasure. Like the globe upon which we
      revolve, the fleeting course of life is but a day; and if one part of that
      day be visited by light, the other is thrown into darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My father," I answered, "finish, I conjure you, the history which you
      have begun in a manner so interesting. If the images of happiness are the
      most pleasing, those of misfortune are the more instructive. Tell me what
      became of the unhappy young man."
    </p>
    <p>
      The first object beheld by Paul in his way home was the negro woman Mary,
      who, mounted on a rock, was earnestly looking towards the sea. As soon as
      he perceived her, he called to her from a distance,&mdash;"Where is
      Virginia?" Mary turned her head towards her young master, and began to
      weep. Paul, distracted, retracing his steps, ran to the harbour. He was
      there informed, that Virginia had embarked at the break of day, and that
      the vessel had immediately set sail, and was now out of sight. He
      instantly returned to the plantation, which he crossed without uttering a
      word.
    </p>
    <p>
      Quite perpendicular as appears the wall of rocks behind us, those green
      platforms which separate their summits are so many stages, by means of
      which you may reach, through some difficult paths, that cone of sloping
      and inaccessible rocks, which is called The Thumb. At the foot of that
      cone is an extended slope of ground, covered with lofty trees, and so
      steep and elevated that it looks like a forest in the air, surrounded by
      tremendous precipices. The clouds, which are constantly attracted round
      the summit of the Thumb, supply innumerable rivulets, which fall to so
      great a depth in the valley situated on the other side of the mountain,
      that from this elevated point the sound of their cataracts cannot be
      heard. From that spot you can discern a considerable part of the island,
      diversified by precipices and mountain peaks, and amongst others,
      Peter-Booth, and the Three Breasts, with their valleys full of woods. You
      also command an extensive view of the ocean, and can even perceive the
      Isle of Bourbon, forty leagues to the westward. From the summit of that
      stupendous pile of rocks Paul caught sight of the vessel which was bearing
      away Virginia, and which now, ten leagues out at sea, appeared like a
      black spot in the midst of the ocean. He remained a great part of the day
      with his eyes fixed upon this object: when it had disappeared, he still
      fancied he beheld it; and when, at length, the traces which clung to his
      imagination were lost in the mists of the horizon, he seated himself on
      that wild point, forever beaten by the winds, which never cease to agitate
      the tops of the cabbage and gum trees, and the hoarse and moaning murmurs
      of which, similar to the distant sound of organs, inspire a profound
      melancholy. On this spot I found him, his head reclined on the rock, and
      his eyes fixed upon the ground. I had followed him from the earliest dawn,
      and, after much importunity, I prevailed on him to descend from the
      heights, and return to his family. I went home with him, where the first
      impulse of his mind, on seeing Madame de la Tour, was to reproach her
      bitterly for having deceived him. She told us that a favourable wind
      having sprung up at three o'clock in the morning, and the vessel being
      ready to sail, the governor, attended by some of his staff and the
      missionary, had come with a palanquin to fetch her daughter; and that,
      notwithstanding Virginia's objections, her own tears and entreaties, and
      the lamentations of Margaret, every body exclaiming all the time that it
      was for the general welfare, they had carried her away almost dying. "At
      least," cried Paul, "if I had bid her farewell, I should now be more calm.
      I would have said to her,&mdash;'Virginia, if, during the time we have
      lived together, one word may have escaped me which has offended you,
      before you leave me forever, tell me that you forgive me.' I would have
      said to her,&mdash;'Since I am destined to see you no more, farewell, my
      dear Virginia, farewell! Live far from me, contented and happy!'" When he
      saw that his mother and Madame de la Tour were weeping,&mdash;"You must
      now," said he, "seek some other hand to wipe away your tears;" and then,
      rushing out of the house, and groaning aloud, he wandered up and down the
      plantation. He hovered in particular about those spots which had been most
      endeared to Virginia. He said to the goats, and their little ones, which
      followed him, bleating,&mdash;"What do you want of me? You will see with
      me no more her who used to feed you with her own hand." He went to the
      bower called Virginia's Resting-place, and, as the birds flew around him,
      exclaimed, "Poor birds! you will fly no more to meet her who cherished
      you!"&mdash;and observing Fidele running backwards and forwards in search
      of her, he heaved a deep sigh, and cried,&mdash;"Ah! you will never find
      her again." At length he went and seated himself upon a rock where he had
      conversed with her the preceding evening; and at the sight of the ocean
      upon which he had seen the vessel disappear which had borne her away, his
      heart overflowed with anguish, and he wept bitterly.
    </p>
    <p>
      We continually watched his movements, apprehensive of some fatal
      consequence from the violent agitation of his mind. His mother and Madame
      de la Tour conjured him, in the most tender manner, not to increase their
      affliction by his despair. At length the latter soothed his mind by
      lavishing upon him epithets calculated to awaken his hopes,&mdash;calling
      him her son, her dear son, her son-in-law, whom she destined for her
      daughter. She persuaded him to return home, and to take some food. He
      seated himself next to the place which used to be occupied by the
      companion of his childhood; and, as if she had still been present, he
      spoke to her, and made as though he would offer her whatever he knew as
      most agreeable to her taste: then, starting from this dream of fancy, he
      began to weep. For some days he employed himself in gathering together
      every thing which had belonged to Virginia, the last nosegays she had
      worn, the cocoa-shell from which she used to drink; and after kissing a
      thousand times these relics of his beloved, to him the most precious
      treasures which the world contained, he hid them in his bosom. Amber does
      not shed so sweet a perfume as the veriest trifles touched by those we
      love. At length, perceiving that the indulgence of his grief increased
      that of his mother and Madame de la Tour, and that the wants of the family
      demanded continual labour, he began, with the assistance of Domingo, to
      repair the damage done to the garden.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, soon after, this young man, hitherto indifferent as a Creole to every
      thing that was passing in the world, begged of me to teach him to read and
      write, in order that he might correspond with Virginia. He afterwards
      wished to obtain a knowledge of geography, that he might form some idea of
      the country where she would disembark; and of history, that he might know
      something of the manners of the society in which she would be placed. The
      powerful sentiment of love, which directed his present studies, had
      already instructed him in agriculture, and in the art of laying out
      grounds with advantage and beauty. It must be admitted, that to the fond
      dreams of this restless and ardent passion, mankind are indebted for most
      of the arts and sciences, while its disappointments have given birth to
      philosophy, which teaches us to bear up under misfortune. Love, thus, the
      general link of all beings, becomes the great spring of society, by
      inciting us to knowledge as well as to pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul found little satisfaction in the study of geography, which, instead
      of describing the natural history of each country, gave only a view of its
      political divisions and boundaries. History, and especially modern
      history, interested him little more. He there saw only general and
      periodical evils, the causes of which he could not discover; wars without
      either motive or reason; uninteresting intrigues; with nations destitute
      of principle, and princes void of humanity. To this branch of reading he
      preferred romances, which, being chiefly occupied by the feelings and
      concerns of men, sometimes represented situations similar to his own.
      Thus, no book gave him so much pleasure as Telemachus, from the pictures
      it draws of pastoral life, and of the passions which are most natural to
      the human breast. He read aloud to his mother and Madame de la Tour, those
      parts which affected him most sensibly; but sometimes, touched by the most
      tender remembrances, his emotion would choke his utterance, and his eyes
      be filled with tears. He fancied he had found in Virginia the dignity and
      wisdom of Antiope, united to the misfortunes and the tenderness of
      Eucharis. With very different sensations he perused our fashionable
      novels, filled with licentious morals and maxims, and when he was informed
      that these works drew a tolerably faithful picture of European society, he
      trembled, and not without some appearance of reason, lest Virginia should
      become corrupted by it, and forget him.
    </p>
    <p>
      More than a year and a half, indeed, passed away before Madame de la Tour
      received any tidings of her aunt or her daughter. During that period she
      only accidently heard that Virginia had safely arrived in France. At
      length, however, a vessel which stopped here on its way to the Indies
      brought a packet to Madame de la Tour, and a letter written by Virginia's
      own hand. Although this amiable and considerate girl had written in a
      guarded manner that she might not wound her mother's feelings, it appeared
      evident enough that she was unhappy. The letter painted so naturally her
      situation and her character, that I have retained it almost word for word.
    </p>
    <p>
      "MY DEAR AND BELOVED MOTHER,
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have already sent you several letters, written by my own hand, but
      having received no answer, I am afraid they have not reached you. I have
      better hopes for this, from the means I have now gained of sending you
      tidings of myself, and of hearing from you.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I have shed many tears since our separation, I who never used to weep,
      but for the misfortunes of others! My aunt was much astonished, when,
      having, upon my arrival, inquired what accomplishments I possessed, I told
      her that I could neither read nor write. She asked me what then I had
      learnt, since I came into the world; and when I answered that I had been
      taught to take care of the household affairs, and to obey your will, she
      told me that I had received the education of a servant. The next day she
      placed me as a boarder in a great abbey near Paris, where I have masters
      of all kinds, who teach me, among other things, history, geography,
      grammar, mathematics, and riding on horseback. But I have so little
      capacity for all these sciences, that I fear I shall make but small
      progress with my masters. I feel that I am a very poor creature, with very
      little ability to learn what they teach. My aunt's kindness, however, does
      not decrease. She gives me new dresses every season; and she had placed
      two waiting women with me, who are dressed like fine ladies. She has made
      me take the title of countess; but has obliged me to renounce the name of
      LA TOUR, which is as dear to me as it is to you, from all you have told me
      of the sufferings my father endured in order to marry you. She has given
      me in place of your name that of your family, which is also dear to me,
      because it was your name when a girl. Seeing myself in so splendid a
      situation, I implored her to let me send you something to assist you. But
      how shall I repeat her answer! Yet you have desired me always to tell you
      the truth. She told me then that a little would be of no use to you, and
      that a great deal would only encumber you in the simple life you led. As
      you know I could not write, I endeavoured upon my arrival, to send you
      tidings of myself by another hand; but, finding no person here in whom I
      could place confidence, I applied night and day to learn to read and
      write, and Heaven, who saw my motive for learning, no doubt assisted my
      endeavours, for I succeeded in both in a short time. I entrusted my first
      letters to some of the ladies here, who, I have reason to think, carried
      them to my aunt. This time I have recourse to a boarder, who is my friend.
      I send you her direction, by means of which I shall receive your answer.
      My aunt has forbid me holding any correspondence whatever, with any one,
      lest, she says, it should occasion an obstacle to the great views she has
      for my advantage. No person is allowed to see me at the grate but herself,
      and an old nobleman, one of her friends, who, she says is much pleased
      with me. I am sure I am not at all so with him, nor should I, even if it
      were possible for me to be pleased with any one at present.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I live in all the splendour of affluence, and have not a sous at my
      disposal. They say I might make an improper use of money. Even my clothes
      belong to my femmes de chambre, who quarrel about them before I have left
      them off. In the midst of riches I am poorer than when I lived with you;
      for I have nothing to give away. When I found that the great
      accomplishments they taught me would not procure me the power of doing the
      smallest good, I had recourse to my needle, of which happily you had
      taught me the use. I send several pairs of stockings of my own making for
      you and my mamma Margaret, a cap for Domingo, and one of my red
      handkerchiefs for Mary. I also send with this packet some kernels, and
      seeds of various kinds of fruits which I gathered in the abbey park during
      my hours of recreation. I have also sent a few seeds of violets, daisies,
      buttercups, poppies and scabious, which I picked up in the fields. There
      are much more beautiful flowers in the meadows of this country than in
      ours, but nobody cares for them. I am sure that you and my mamma Margaret
      will be better pleased with this bag of seeds, than you were with the bag
      of piastres, which was the cause of our separation and of my tears. It
      will give me great delight if you should one day see apple trees growing
      by the side of our plantains, and elms blending their foliage with that of
      our cocoa trees. You will fancy yourself in Normandy, which you love so
      much.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You desired me to relate to you my joys and my griefs. I have no joys far
      from you. As far as my griefs, I endeavour to soothe them by reflecting
      that I am in the situation in which it was the will of God that you should
      place me. But my greatest affliction is, that no one here speaks to me of
      you, and that I cannot speak of you to any one. My femmes de chambre, or
      rather those of my aunt, for they belong more to her than to me, told me
      the other day, when I wished to turn the conversation upon the objects
      most dear to me: 'Remember, mademoiselle, that you are a French woman, and
      must forget that land of savages.' Ah! sooner will I forget myself, than
      forget the spot on which I was born and where you dwell! It is this
      country which is to me a land of savages, for I live alone, having no one
      to whom I can impart those feelings of tenderness for you which I shall
      bear with me to the grave. I am,
    </p>
    <p>
      "My dearest and beloved mother,
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your affectionate and dutiful daughter,
    </p>
    <p>
      "VIRGINIE DE LA TOUR."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I recommend to your goodness Mary and Domingo, who took so much care of
      my infancy; caress Fidele for me, who found me in the wood."
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul was astonished that Virginia had not said one word of him,&mdash;she,
      who had not forgotten even the house-dog. But he was not aware that,
      however long a woman's letter may be, she never fails to leave her dearest
      sentiments for the end.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a postscript, Virginia particularly recommended to Paul's attention two
      kinds of seed,&mdash;those of the violet and the scabious. She gave him
      some instructions upon the natural characters of these flowers, and the
      spots most proper for their cultivation. "The violet," she said, "produces
      a little flower of a dark purple colour, which delights to conceal itself
      beneath the bushes; but it is soon discovered by its wide-spreading
      perfume." She desired that these seeds might be sown by the border of the
      fountain, at the foot of her cocoa-tree. "The scabious," she added,
      "produces a beautiful flower of a pale blue, and a black ground spotted
      with white. You might fancy it was in mourning; and for this reason it is
      also called the widow's flower. It grows best in bleak spots, beaten by
      the winds." She begged him to sow this upon the rock where she had spoken
      to him at night for the last time, and that, in remembrance of her, he
      would henceforth give it the name of the Rock of Adieus.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had put these seeds into a little purse, the tissue of which was
      exceedingly simple; but which appeared above all price to Paul, when he
      saw on it a P and a V entwined together, and knew that the beautiful hair
      which formed the cypher was the hair of Virginia.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole family listened with tears to the reading of the letter of this
      amiable and virtuous girl. Her mother answered it in the name of the
      little society, desiring her to remain or to return as she thought proper;
      and assuring her, that happiness had left their dwelling since her
      departure, and that, for herself, she was inconsolable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul also sent her a very long letter, in which he assured her that he
      would arrange the garden in a manner agreeable to her taste, and mingle
      together in it the plants of Europe with those of Africa, as she had
      blended their initials together in her work. He sent her some fruit from
      the cocoa-trees of the fountain, now arrived at maturity telling her, that
      he would not add any of the other productions of the island, that the
      desire of seeing them again might hasten her return. He conjured her to
      comply as soon as possible with the ardent wishes of her family, and above
      all, with his own, since he could never hereafter taste happiness away
      from her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Paul sowed with a careful hand the European seeds, particularly the violet
      and the scabious, the flowers of which seemed to bear some analogy to the
      character and present situation of Virginia, by whom they had been so
      especially recommended; but either they were dried up in the voyage, or
      the climate of this part of the world is unfavourable to their growth, for
      a very small number of them even came up, and not one arrived at full
      perfection.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime, envy, which ever comes to embitter human happiness,
      particularly in the French colonies, spread some reports in the island
      which gave Paul much uneasiness. The passengers in the vessel which
      brought Virginia's letter, asserted that she was upon the point of being
      married, and named the nobleman of the court to whom she was engaged. Some
      even went so far as to declare that the union had already taken place, and
      that they themselves had witnessed the ceremony. Paul at first despised
      the report, brought by a merchant vessel, as he knew that they often
      spread erroneous intelligence in their passage; but some of the
      inhabitants of the island, with malignant pity, affecting to bewail the
      event, he was soon led to attach some degree of belief to this cruel
      intelligence. Besides, in some of the novels he had lately read, he had
      seen that perfidy was treated as a subject of pleasantry; and knowing that
      these books contained pretty faithful representations of European manners,
      he feared that the heart of Virginia was corrupted, and had forgotten its
      former engagements. Thus his new acquirements had already only served to
      render him more miserable; and his apprehensions were much increased by
      the circumstance, that though several ships touched here from Europe,
      within the six months immediately following the arrival of her letter, not
      one of them brought any tidings of Virginia.
    </p>
    <p>
      This unfortunate young man, with a heart torn by the most cruel agitation,
      often came to visit me, in the hope of confirming or banishing his
      uneasiness, by my experience of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      I live, as I have already told you, a league and a half from this point,
      upon the banks of a little river which glides along the Sloping Mountain:
      there I lead a solitary life, without wife, children, or slaves.
    </p>
    <p>
      After having enjoyed, and lost the rare felicity of living with a
      congenial mind, the state of life which appears the least wretched is
      doubtless that of solitude. Every man who has much cause of complaint
      against his fellow-creatures seeks to be alone. It is also remarkable that
      all those nations which have been brought to wretchedness by their
      opinions, their manners, or their forms of government, have produced
      numerous classes of citizens altogether devoted to solitude and celibacy.
      Such were the Egyptians in their decline, and the Greeks of the Lower
      Empire; and such in our days are the Indians, the Chinese, the modern
      Greeks, the Italians, and the greater part of the eastern and southern
      nations of Europe. Solitude, by removing men from the miseries which
      follow in the train of social intercourse, brings them in some degree back
      to the unsophisticated enjoyment of nature. In the midst of modern
      society, broken up by innumerable prejudices, the mind is in a constant
      turmoil of agitation. It is incessantly revolving in itself a thousand
      tumultuous and contradictory opinions, by which the members of an
      ambitious and miserable circle seek to raise themselves above each other.
      But in solitude the soul lays aside the morbid illusions which troubled
      her, and resumes the pure consciousness of herself, of nature, and of its
      Author, as the muddy water of a torrent which has ravaged the plains,
      coming to rest, and diffusing itself over some low grounds out of its
      course, deposits there the slime it has taken up, and, resuming its wonted
      transparency, reflects, with its own shores, the verdure of the earth and
      the light of heaven. Thus does solitude recruit the powers of the body as
      well as those of the mind. It is among hermits that are found the men who
      carry human existence to its extreme limits; such are the Bramins of
      India. In brief, I consider solitude so necessary to happiness, even in
      the world itself, that it appears to me impossible to derive lasting
      pleasure from any pursuit whatever, or to regulate our conduct by any
      pursuit whatever, or to regulate our conduct by any stable principle, if
      we do not create for ourselves a mental void, whence our own views rarely
      emerge, and into which the opinions of others never enter. I do not mean
      to say that man ought to live absolutely alone; he is connected by his
      necessities with all mankind; his labours are due to man: and he owes
      something too to the rest of nature. But, as God has given to each of us
      organs perfectly adapted to the elements of the globe on which we live,&mdash;feet
      for the soil, lungs for the air, eyes for the light, without the power of
      changing the use of any of these faculties, he has reserved for himself,
      as the Author of life, that which is its chief organ,&mdash;the heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      I thus passed my days far from mankind, whom I wished to serve, and by
      whom I have been persecuted. After having travelled over many countries of
      Europe, and some parts of America and Africa, I at length pitched my tent
      in this thinly-peopled island, allured by its mild climate and its
      solitudes. A cottage which I built in the woods, at the foot of a tree, a
      little field which I cleared with my own hands, a river which glides
      before my door, suffice for my wants and for my pleasures. I blend with
      these enjoyments the perusal of some chosen books, which teach me to
      become better. They make that world, which I have abandoned, still
      contribute something to my happiness. They lay before me pictures of those
      passions which render its inhabitants so miserable; and in the comparison
      I am thus led to make between their lot and my own, I feel a kind of
      negative enjoyment. Like a man saved from shipwreck, and thrown upon a
      rock, I contemplate, from my solitude, the storms which rage through the
      rest of the world; and my repose seems more profound from the distant
      sound of the tempest. As men have ceased to fall in my way, I no longer
      view them with aversion; I only pity them. If I sometimes fall in with an
      unfortunate being, I try to help him by my counsels, as a passer-by on the
      brink of a torrent extends his hand to save a wretch from drowning. But I
      have hardly ever found any but the innocent attentive to my voice. Nature
      calls the majority of men to her in vain. Each of them forms an image of
      her for himself, and invests her with his own passions. He pursues during
      the whole of his life this vain phantom, which leads him astray; and he
      afterwards complains to Heaven of the misfortunes which he has thus
      created for himself. Among the many children of misfortune whom I have
      endeavoured to lead back to the enjoyments of nature, I have not found one
      but was intoxicated with his own miseries. They have listened to me at
      first with attention, in the hope that I could teach them how to acquire
      glory or fortune, but when they found that I only wished to instruct them
      how to dispense with these chimeras, their attention has been converted
      into pity, because I did not prize their miserable happiness. They blamed
      my solitary life; they alleged that they alone were useful to men, and
      they endeavoured to draw me into their vortex. But if I communicate with
      all, I lay myself open to none. It is often sufficient for me to serve as
      a lesson to myself. In my present tranquillity, I pass in review the
      agitating pursuits of my past life, to which I formerly attached so much
      value,&mdash;patronage, fortune, reputation, pleasure, and the opinions
      which are ever at strife over all the earth. I compare the men whom I have
      seen disputing furiously over these vanities, and who are no more, to the
      tiny waves of my rivulet, which break in foam against its rocky bed, and
      disappear, never to return. As for me, I suffer myself to float calmly
      down the stream of time to the shoreless ocean of futurity; while, in the
      contemplation of the present harmony of nature, I elevate my soul towards
      its supreme Author, and hope for a more happy lot in another state of
      existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Although you cannot descry from my hermitage, situated in the midst of a
      forest, that immense variety of objects which this elevated spot presents,
      the grounds are disposed with peculiar beauty, at least to one who, like
      me, prefers the seclusion of a home scene to great and extensive
      prospects. The river which glides before my door passes in a straight line
      across the woods, looking like a long canal shaded by all kinds of trees.
      Among them are the gum tree, the ebony tree, and that which is here called
      bois de pomme, with olive and cinnamon-wood trees; while in some parts the
      cabbage-palm trees raise their naked stems more than a hundred feet high,
      their summits crowned with a cluster of leaves, and towering above the
      woods like one forest piled upon another. Lianas, of various foliage,
      intertwining themselves among the trees, form, here, arcades of foliage,
      there, long canopies of verdure. Most of these trees shed aromatic odours
      so powerful, that the garments of a traveller, who has passed through the
      forest, often retain for hours the most delicious fragrance. In the season
      when they produce their lavish blossoms, they appear as if half-covered
      with snow. Towards the end of summer, various kinds of foreign birds
      hasten, impelled by some inexplicable instinct, from unknown regions on
      the other side of immense oceans, to feed upon the grain and other
      vegetable productions of the island; and the brilliancy of their plumage
      forms a striking contrast to the more sombre tints of the foliage
      embrowned by the sun. Among these are various kinds of parroquets, and the
      blue pigeon, called here the pigeon of Holland. Monkeys, the domestic
      inhabitants of our forests, sport upon the dark branches of the trees,
      from which they are easily distinguished by their gray and greenish skin,
      and their black visages. Some hang, suspended by the tail, and swing
      themselves in air; others leap from branch to branch, bearing their young
      in their arms. The murderous gun has never affrighted these peaceful
      children of nature. You hear nothing but sounds of joy,&mdash;the
      warblings and unknown notes of birds from the countries of the south,
      repeated from a distance by the echoes of the forest. The river, which
      pours, in foaming eddies, over a bed of rocks, through the midst of the
      woods, reflects here and there upon its limpid waters their venerable
      masses of verdure and of shade, along with the sports of their happy
      inhabitants. About a thousand paces from thence it forms several cascades,
      clear as crystal in their fall, but broken at the bottom into frothy
      surges. Innumerable confused sounds issue from these watery tumults,
      which, borne by the winds across the forest, now sink in distance, now all
      at once swell out, booming on the ear like the bells of a cathedral. The
      air, kept ever in motion by the running water, preserves upon the banks of
      the river, amid all the summer heats, a freshness and verdure rarely found
      in this island, even on the summits of the mountains.
    </p>
    <p>
      At some distance from this place is a rock, placed far enough from the
      cascade to prevent the ear from being deafened with the noise of its
      waters, and sufficiently near for the enjoyment of seeing it, of feeling
      its coolness, and hearing its gentle murmurs. Thither, amidst the heats of
      summer, Madame de la Tour, Margaret, Virginia, Paul, and myself, sometimes
      repaired, to dine beneath the shadow of this rock. Virginia, who always,
      in her most ordinary actions, was mindful of the good of others, never ate
      of any fruit in the fields without planting the seed or kernel in the
      ground. "From this," said she, "trees will come, which will yield their
      fruit to some traveller, or at least to some bird." One day, having eaten
      of the papaw fruit at the foot of that rock, she planted the seeds on the
      spot. Soon after, several papaw trees sprang up, among which was one with
      female blossoms, that is to say, a fruit-bearing tree. This tree, at the
      time of Virginia's departure, was scarcely as high as her knee; but, as it
      is a plant of rapid growth, in the course of two years it had gained the
      height of twenty feet, and the upper part of its stem was encircled by
      several rows of ripe fruit. Paul, wandering accidentally to the spot, was
      struck with delight at seeing this lofty tree, which had been planted by
      his beloved; but the emotion was transient, and instantly gave place to a
      deep melancholy, at this evidence of her long absence. The objects which
      are habitually before us do not bring to our minds an adequate idea of the
      rapidity of life; they decline insensibly with ourselves: but it is those
      we behold again, that most powerfully impress us with a feeling of the
      swiftness with which the tide of life flows on. Paul was no less
      over-whelmed and affected at the sight of this great papaw tree, loaded
      with fruit, than is the traveller when, after a long absence from his own
      country, he finds his contemporaries no more, but their children, whom he
      left at the breast, themselves now become fathers of families. Paul
      sometimes thought of cutting down the tree, which recalled too sensibly
      the distracting remembrance of Virginia's prolonged absence. At other
      times, contemplating it as a monument of her benevolence, he kissed its
      trunk, and apostrophized it in terms of the most passionate regret.
      Indeed, I have myself gazed upon it with more emotion and more veneration
      than upon the triumphal arches of Rome. May nature, which every day
      destroys the monuments of kingly ambition, multiply in our forests those
      which testify the beneficence of a poor young girl!
    </p>
    <p>
      At the foot of this papaw tree I was always sure to meet with Paul when he
      came into our neighbourhood. One day, I found him there absorbed in
      melancholy and a conversation took place between us, which I will relate
      to you, if I do not weary you too much by my long digressions; they are
      perhaps pardonable to my age and to my last friendships. I will relate it
      to you in the form of a dialogue, that you may form some idea of the
      natural good sense of this young man. You will easily distinguish the
      speakers, from the character of his questions and of my answers.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;I am very unhappy. Mademoiselle de la Tour has now been
      gone two years and eight months and a half. She is rich, and I am poor;
      she has forgotten me. I have a great mind to follow her. I will go to
      France; I will serve the king; I will make my fortune; and then
      Mademoiselle de la Tour's aunt will bestow her niece upon me when I shall
      have become a great lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;But, my dear friend, have not you told me that
      you are not of noble birth?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;My mother has told me so; but, as for myself, I know
      not what noble birth means. I never perceived that I had less than others,
      or that others had more than I.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Obscure birth, in France, shuts every door of
      access to great employments; nor can you even be received among any
      distinguished body of men, if you labour under this disadvantage.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;You have often told me that it was one source of the
      greatness of France that her humblest subject might attain the highest
      honours; and you have cited to me many instances of celebrated men who,
      born in a mean condition, had conferred honour upon their country. It was
      your wish, then, by concealing the truth to stimulate my ardour?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Never, my son, would I lower it. I told you the
      truth with regard to the past; but now, every thing has undergone a great
      change. Every thing in France is now to be obtained by interest alone;
      every place and employment is now become as it were the patrimony of a
      small number of families, or is divided among public bodies. The king is a
      sun, and the nobles and great corporate bodies surround him like so many
      clouds; it is almost impossible for any of his rays to reach you.
      Formerly, under less exclusive administrations, such phenomena have been
      seen. Then talents and merit showed themselves every where, as newly
      cleared lands are always loaded with abundance. But great kings, who can
      really form a just estimate of men, and choose them with judgment, are
      rare. The ordinary race of monarchs allow themselves to be guided by the
      nobles and people who surround them.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;But perhaps I shall find one of these nobles to protect
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;To gain the protection of the great you must
      lend yourself to their ambition, and administer to their pleasures. You
      would never succeed; for, in addition to your obscure birth, you have too
      much integrity.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;But I will perform such courageous actions, I will be
      so faithful to my word, so exact in the performance of my duties, so
      zealous and so constant in my friendships, that I will render myself
      worthy to be adopted by some one of them. In the ancient histories, you
      have made me read, I have seen many examples of such adoptions.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Oh, my young friend! among the Greeks and
      Romans, even in their decline, the nobles had some respect for virtue; but
      out of all the immense number of men, sprung from the mass of the people,
      in France, who have signalized themselves in every possible manner, I do
      not recollect a single instance of one being adopted by any great family.
      If it were not for our kings, virtue, in our country, would be eternally
      condemned as plebeian. As I said before, the monarch sometimes, when he
      perceives it, renders to it due honour; but in the present day, the
      distinctions which should be bestowed on merit are generally to be
      obtained by money alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;If I cannot find a nobleman to adopt me, I will seek to
      please some public body. I will espouse its interests and its opinions: I
      will make myself beloved by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;You will act then like other men?&mdash;you will
      renounce your conscience to obtain a fortune?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Oh no! I will never lend myself to any thing but the
      truth.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Instead of making yourself beloved, you would
      become an object of dislike. Besides, public bodies have never taken much
      interest in the discovery of truth. All opinions are nearly alike to
      ambitious men, provided only that they themselves can gain their ends.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;How unfortunate I am! Every thing bars my progress. I
      am condemned to pass my life in ignoble toil, far from Virginia.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he said this he sighed deeply.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Let God be your patron, and mankind the public
      body you would serve. Be constantly attached to them both. Families,
      corporations, nations and kings have, all of them, their prejudices and
      their passions; it is often necessary to serve them by the practice of
      vice: God and mankind at large require only the exercise of the virtues.
    </p>
    <p>
      But why do you wish to be distinguished from other men? It is hardly a
      natural sentiment, for, if all men possessed it, every one would be at
      constant strife with his neighbour. Be satisfied with fulfilling your duty
      in the station in which Providence has placed you; be grateful for your
      lot, which permits you to enjoy the blessing of a quiet conscience, and
      which does not compel you, like the great, to let your happiness rest on
      the opinion of the little, or, like the little, to cringe to the great, in
      order to obtain the means of existence. You are now placed in a country
      and a condition in which you are not reduced to deceive or flatter any
      one, or debase yourself, as the greater part of those who seek their
      fortune in Europe are obliged to do; in which the exercise of no virtue is
      forbidden you; in which you may be, with impunity, good, sincere,
      well-informed, patient, temperate, chaste, indulgent to others' faults,
      pious and no shaft of ridicule be aimed at you to destroy your wisdom, as
      yet only in its bud. Heaven has given you liberty, health, a good
      conscience, and friends; kings themselves, whose favour you desire, are
      not so happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Ah! I only want to have Virginia with me: without her I
      have nothing,&mdash;with her, I should possess all my desire. She alone is
      to me birth, glory, and fortune. But, since her relations will only give
      her to some one with a great name, I will study. By the aid of study and
      of books, learning and celebrity are to be attained. I will become a man
      of science: I will render my knowledge useful to the service of my
      country, without injuring any one, or owning dependence on any one. I will
      become celebrated, and my glory shall be achieved only by myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;My son, talents are a gift yet more rare than
      either birth or riches, and undoubtedly they are a greater good than
      either, since they can never be taken away from us, and that they obtain
      for us every where public esteem. But they may be said to be worth all
      that they cost us. They are seldom acquired but by every species of
      privation, by the possession of exquisite sensibility, which often
      produces inward unhappiness, and which exposes us without to the malice
      and persecutions of our contemporaries. The lawyer envies not, in France,
      the glory of the soldier, nor does the soldier envy that of the naval
      officer; but they will all oppose you, and bar your progress to
      distinction, because your assumption of superior ability will wound the
      self-love of them all. You say that you will do good to men; but
      recollect, that he who makes the earth produce a single ear of corn more,
      renders them a greater service than he who writes a book.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Oh! she, then, who planted this papaw tree, has made a
      more useful and more grateful present to the inhabitants of these forests
      than if she had given them a whole library.
    </p>
    <p>
      So saying, he threw his arms around the tree, and kissed it with
      transport.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;The best of books,&mdash;that which preaches
      nothing but equality, brotherly love, charity, and peace,&mdash;the
      Gospel, has served as a pretext, during many centuries, for Europeans to
      let loose all their fury. How many tyrannies, both public and private, are
      still practised in its name on the face of the earth! After this, who will
      dare to flatter himself that any thing he can write will be of service to
      his fellow men? Remember the fate of most of the philosophers who have
      preached to them wisdom. Homer, who clothes it in such noble verse, asked
      for alms all his life. Socrates, whose conversation and example gave such
      admirable lessons to the Athenians, was sentenced by them to be poisoned.
      His sublime disciple, Plato was delivered over to slavery by the order of
      the very prince who protected him; and, before them, Pythagoras, whose
      humanity extended even to animals, was burned alive by the Crotoniates.
      What do I say?&mdash;many even of these illustrious names have descended
      to us disfigured by some traits of satire by which they became
      characterized, human ingratitude taking pleasure in thus recognising them;
      and if, in the crowd, the glory of some names is come down to us without
      spot or blemish, we shall find that they who have borne them have lived
      far from the society of their contemporaries; like those statues which are
      found entire beneath the soil in Greece and Italy, and which, by being
      hidden in the bosom of the earth, have escaped uninjured, from the fury of
      the barbarians.
    </p>
    <p>
      You see, then, that to acquire the glory which a turbulent literary career
      can give you, you must not only be virtuous, but ready, if necessary, to
      sacrifice life itself. But, after all, do not fancy that the great in
      France trouble themselves about such glory as this. Little do they care
      for literary men, whose knowledge brings them neither honours, nor power,
      nor even admission at court. Persecution, it is true, is rarely practised
      in this age, because it is habitually indifferent to every thing except
      wealth and luxury; but knowledge and virtue no longer lead to distinction,
      since every thing in the state is to be purchased with money. Formerly,
      men of letters were certain of reward by some place in the church, the
      magistracy, or the administration; now they are considered good for
      nothing but to write books. But this fruit of their minds, little valued
      by the world at large, is still worthy of its celestial origin. For these
      books is reserved the privilege of shedding lustre on obscure virtue, of
      consoling the unhappy, of enlightening nations, and of telling the truth
      even to kings. This is, unquestionably, the most august commission with
      which Heaven can honour a mortal upon this earth. Where is the author who
      would not be consoled for the injustice or contempt of those who are the
      dispensers of the ordinary gifts of fortune, when he reflects that his
      work may pass from age to age, from nation to nation, opposing a barrier
      to error and to tyranny; and that, from amidst the obscurity in which he
      has lived, there will shine forth a glory which will efface that of the
      common herd of monarchs, the monuments of whose deeds perish in oblivion,
      notwithstanding the flatterers who erect and magnify them?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Ah! I am only covetous of glory to bestow it on
      Virginia, and render her dear to the whole world. But can you, who know so
      much, tell me whether we shall ever be married? I should like to be a very
      learned man, if only for the sake of knowing what will come to pass.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Who would live, my son, if the future were
      revealed to him?&mdash;when a single anticipated misfortune gives us so
      much useless uneasiness&mdash;when the foreknowledge of one certain
      calamity is enough to embitter every day that precedes it! It is better
      not to pry too curiously, even into the things which surround us. Heaven,
      which has given us the power of reflection to foresee our necessities,
      gave us also those very necessities to set limits to its exercise.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;You tell me that with money people in Europe acquire
      dignities and honours. I will go, then, to enrich myself in Bengal, and
      afterwards proceed to Paris, and marry Virginia. I will embark at once.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;What! would you leave her mother and yours?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Why, you yourself have advised my going to the Indies.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Virginia was then here; but you are now the only
      means of support both of her mother and of your own.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Virginia will assist them by means of her rich
      relation.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;The rich care little for those, from whom no
      honour is reflected upon themselves in the world. Many of them have
      relations much more to be pitied than Madame de la Tour, who, for want of
      their assistance, sacrifice their liberty for bread, and pass their lives
      immured within the walls of a convent.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Oh, what a country is Europe! Virginia must come back
      here. What need has she of a rich relation? She was so happy in these
      huts; she looked so beautiful and so well dressed with a red handkerchief
      or a few flowers around her head! Return, Virginia! leave your sumptuous
      mansions and your grandeur, and come back to these rocks,&mdash;to the
      shade of these woods and of our cocoa trees. Alas! you are perhaps even
      now unhappy!"&mdash;and he began to shed tears. "My father," continued he,
      "hide nothing from me; if you cannot tell me whether I shall marry
      Virginia, tell me at least if she loves me still, surrounded as she is by
      noblemen who speak to the king, and who go to see her."
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Oh, my dear friend! I am sure, for many reasons,
      that she loves you; but above all, because she is virtuous. At these words
      he threw himself on my neck in a transport of joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;But do you think that the women of Europe are false, as
      they are represented in the comedies and books which you have lent me?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Women are false in those countries where men are
      tyrants. Violence always engenders a disposition to deceive.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;In what way can men tyrannize over women?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;In giving them in marriage without consulting
      their inclinations;&mdash;in uniting a young girl to an old man, or a
      woman of sensibility to a frigid and indifferent husband.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Why not join together those who are suited to each
      other,&mdash;the young to the young, and lovers to those they love?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Because few young men in France have property
      enough to support them when they are married, and cannot acquire it till
      the greater part of their life is passed. While young, they seduce the
      wives of others, and when they are old, they cannot secure the affections
      of their own. At first, they themselves are deceivers: and afterwards,
      they are deceived in their turn. This is one of the reactions of that
      eternal justice, by which the world is governed; an excess on one side is
      sure to be balanced by one on the other. Thus, the greater part of
      Europeans pass their lives in this twofold irregularity, which increases
      everywhere in the same proportion that wealth is accumulated in the hands
      of a few individuals. Society is like a garden, where shrubs cannot grow
      if they are overshadowed by lofty trees; but there is this wide difference
      between them,&mdash;that the beauty of a garden may result from the
      admixture of a small number of forest trees, while the prosperity of a
      state depends on the multitude and equality of its citizens, and not on a
      small number of very rich men.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;But where is the necessity of being rich in order to
      marry?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;In order to pass through life in abundance,
      without being obliged to work.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;But why not work? I am sure I work hard enough.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;In Europe, working with your hands is considered
      a degradation; it is compared to the labour performed by a machine. The
      occupation of cultivating the earth is the most despised of all. Even an
      artisan is held in more estimation than a peasant.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;What! do you mean to say that the art which furnishes
      food for mankind is despised in Europe? I hardly understand you.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Oh! it is impossible for a person educated
      according to nature to form an idea of the depraved state of society. It
      is easy to form a precise notion of order, but not of disorder. Beauty,
      virtue, happiness, have all their defined proportions; deformity, vice,
      and misery have none.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;The rich then are always very happy! They meet with no
      obstacles to the fulfilment of their wishes, and they can lavish happiness
      on those whom they love.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;Far from it, my son! They are, for the most part
      satiated with pleasure, for this very reason,&mdash;that it costs them no
      trouble. Have you never yourself experienced how much the pleasure of
      repose is increased by fatigue; that of eating, by hunger; or that of
      drinking, by thirst? The pleasure also of loving and being loved is only
      to be acquired by innumerable privations and sacrifices. Wealth, by
      anticipating all their necessities, deprives its possessors of all these
      pleasures. To this ennui, consequent upon satiety, may also be added the
      pride which springs from their opulence, and which is wounded by the most
      trifling privation, when the greatest enjoyments have ceased to charm. The
      perfume of a thousand roses gives pleasure but for a moment; but the pain
      occasioned by a single thorn endures long after the infliction of the
      wound. A single evil in the midst of their pleasures is to the rich like a
      thorn among flowers; to the poor, on the contrary, one pleasure amidst all
      their troubles is a flower among a wilderness of thorns; they have a most
      lively enjoyment of it. The effect of every thing is increased by
      contrast; nature has balanced all things. Which condition, after all, do
      you consider preferable,&mdash;to have scarcely any thing to hope, and
      every thing to fear, or to have every thing to hope and nothing to fear?
      The former condition is that of the rich, the latter, that of the poor.
      But either of these extremes is with difficulty supported by man, whose
      happiness consists in a middle station of life, in union with virtue.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;What do you understand by virtue?
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>The Old Man.</i>&mdash;To you, my son, who support your family by your
      labour, it need hardly be defined. Virtue consists in endeavouring to do
      all the good we can to others, with an ultimate intention of pleasing God
      alone.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Paul.</i>&mdash;Oh! how virtuous, then, is Virginia! Virtue led her to
      seek for riches, that she might practise benevolence. Virtue induced her
      to quit this island, and virtue will bring her back to it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The idea of her speedy return firing the imagination of this young man,
      all his anxieties suddenly vanished. Virginia, he was persuaded, had not
      written, because she would soon arrive. It took so little time to come
      from Europe with a fair wind! Then he enumerated the vessels which had
      made this passage of four thousand five hundred leagues in less than three
      months; and perhaps the vessel in which Virginia had embarked might not be
      more than two. Ship-builders were now so ingenious, and sailors were so
      expert! He then talked to me of the arrangements he intended to make for
      her reception, of the new house he would build for her, and of the
      pleasures and surprises which he would contrive for her every day, when
      she was his wife. His wife! The idea filled him with ecstasy. "At least,
      my dear father," said he, "you shall then do no more work than you please.
      As Virginia will be rich, we shall have plenty of negroes, and they shall
      work for you. You shall always live with us, and have no other care than
      to amuse yourself and be happy;"&mdash;and, his heart throbbing with joy,
      he flew to communicate these exquisite anticipations to his family.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a short time, however, these enchanting hopes were succeeded by the
      most cruel apprehensions. It is always the effect of violent passions to
      throw the soul into opposite extremes. Paul returned the next day to my
      dwelling, overwhelmed with melancholy, and said to me,&mdash;"I hear
      nothing from Virginia. Had she left Europe she would have written me word
      of her departure. Ah! the reports which I have heard concerning her are
      but too well founded. Her aunt has married her to some great lord. She,
      like others, has been undone by the love of riches. In those books which
      paint women so well, virtue is treated but as a subject of romance. If
      Virginia had been virtuous, she would never have forsaken her mother and
      me. I do nothing but think of her, and she has forgotten me. I am
      wretched, and she is diverting herself. The thought distracts me; I cannot
      bear myself! Would to Heaven that war were declared in India! I would go
      there and die."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My son," I answered, "that courage which prompts us to court death is but
      the courage of a moment, and is often excited by the vain applause of men,
      or by the hopes of posthumous renown. There is another description of
      courage, rarer and more necessary, which enables us to support, without
      witness and without applause, the vexations of life; this virtue is
      patience. Relying for support, not upon the opinions of others, or the
      impulse of the passions, but upon the will of God, patience is the courage
      of virtue."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah!" cried he, "I am then without virtue! Every thing overwhelms me and
      drives me to despair."&mdash;"Equal, constant, and invariable virtue," I
      replied, "belongs not to man. In the midst of the many passions which
      agitate us, our reason is disordered and obscured: but there is an
      everburning lamp, at which we can rekindle its flame; and that is,
      literature.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Literature, my dear son, is the gift of Heaven, a ray of that wisdom by
      which the universe is governed, and which man, inspired by a celestial
      intelligence, has drawn down to earth. Like the rays of the sun, it
      enlightens us, it rejoices us, it warms us with a heavenly flame, and
      seems, in some sort, like the element of fire, to bend all nature to our
      use. By its means we are enabled to bring around us all things, all
      places, all men, and all times. It assists us to regulate our manners and
      our life. By its aid, too, our passions are calmed, vice is suppressed,
      and virtue encouraged by the memorable examples of great and good men
      which it has handed down to us, and whose time-honoured images it ever
      brings before our eyes. Literature is a daughter of Heaven who has
      descended upon earth to soften and to charm away all the evils of the
      human race. The greatest writers have ever appeared in the worst times,&mdash;in
      times in which society can hardly be held together,&mdash;the times of
      barbarism and every species of depravity. My son, literature has consoled
      an infinite number of men more unhappy than yourself: Xenophon, banished
      from his country after having saved to her ten thousand of her sons;
      Scipio Africanus, wearied to death by the calumnies of the Romans;
      Lucullus, tormented by their cabals; and Catinat, by the ingratitude of a
      court. The Greeks, with their never-failing ingenuity, assigned to each of
      the Muses a portion of the great circle of human intelligence for her
      especial superintendence; we ought in the same manner, to give up to them
      the regulation of our passions, to bring them under proper restraint.
      Literature in this imaginative guise, would thus fulfil, in relation to
      the powers of the soul, the same functions as the Hours, who yoked and
      conducted the chariot of the Sun.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have recourse to your books, then, my son. The wise who have written
      before our days are travellers who have preceded us in the paths of
      misfortune, and who stretch out a friendly hand towards us, and invite us
      to join in their society, when we are abandoned by every thing else. A
      good book is a good friend."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah!" cried Paul, "I stood in no need of books when Virginia was here, and
      she had studied as little as myself; but when she looked at me, and called
      me her friend, I could not feel unhappy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Undoubtedly," said I, "there is no friend so agreeable as a mistress by
      whom we are beloved. There is, moreover, in woman a liveliness and gaiety,
      which powerfully tend to dissipate the melancholy feelings of a man; her
      presence drives away the dark phantoms of imagination produced by
      over-reflection. Upon her countenance sit soft attraction and tender
      confidence. What joy is not heightened when it is shared by her? What brow
      is not unbent by her smiles? What anger can resist her tears? Virginia
      will return with more philosophy than you, and will be quite surprised to
      find the garden so unfinished;&mdash;she who could think of its
      embellishments in spite of all the persecutions of her aunt, and when far
      from her mother and from you."
    </p>
    <p>
      The idea of Virginia's speedy return reanimated the drooping spirits of
      her lover, and he resumed his rural occupations, happy amidst his toils,
      in the reflection that they would soon find a termination so dear to the
      wishes of his heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning, at break of day, (it was the 24th of December, 1744,) Paul,
      when he arose, perceived a white flag hoisted upon the Mountain of
      Discovery. This flag he knew to be the signal of a vessel descried at sea.
      He instantly flew to the town to learn if this vessel brought any tidings
      of Virginia, and waited there till the return of the pilot, who was gone,
      according to custom, to board the ship. The pilot did not return till the
      evening, when he brought the governor information that the signalled
      vessel was the Saint-Geran, of seven hundred tons burthen, and commanded
      by a captain of the name of Aubin; that she was now four leagues out at
      sea, but would probably anchor at Port Louis the following afternoon, if
      the wind became fair: at present there was a calm. The pilot then handed
      to the governor a number of letters which the Saint-Geran had brought from
      France, among which was one addressed to Madame de la Tour, in the
      hand-writing of Virginia. Paul seized upon the letter, kissed it with
      transport, and placing it in his bosom, flew to the plantation. No sooner
      did he perceive from a distance the family, who were awaiting his return
      upon the rock of Adieus than he waved the letter aloft in the air, without
      being able to utter a word. No sooner was the seal broken, than they all
      crowded round Madame de la Tour, to hear the letter read. Virginia
      informed her mother that she had experienced much ill-usage from her aunt,
      who, after having in vain urged her to a marriage against her inclination,
      had disinherited her, and had sent her back at a time when she would
      probably reach the Mauritius during the hurricane season. In vain, she
      added, had she endeavoured to soften her aunt, by representing what she
      owed to her mother, and to her early habits; she was treated as a romantic
      girl, whose head had been turned by novels. She could now only think of
      the joy of again seeing and embracing her beloved family, and would have
      gratified her ardent desire at once, by landing in the pilot's boat, if
      the captain had allowed her: but that he had objected, on account of the
      distance, and of a heavy swell, which, notwithstanding the calm, reigned
      in the open sea.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the letter was finished, the whole of the family, transported
      with joy, repeatedly exclaimed, "Virginia is arrived!" and mistresses and
      servants embraced each other. Madame de la Tour said to Paul,&mdash;"My
      son, go and inform our neighbour of Virginia's arrival." Domingo
      immediately lighted a torch of bois de ronde, and he and Paul bent their
      way towards my dwelling.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about ten o'clock at night, and I was just going to extinguish my
      lamp, and retire to rest, when I perceived, through the palisades round my
      cottage, a light in the woods. Soon after, I heard the voice of Paul
      calling me. I instantly arose, and had hardly dressed myself, when Paul,
      almost beside himself, and panting for breath, sprang on my neck, crying,&mdash;"Come
      along, come along. Virginia is arrived. Let us go to the port; the vessel
      will anchor at break of day."
    </p>
    <p>
      Scarcely had he uttered the words, when we set off. As we were passing
      through the woods of the Sloping Mountain, and were already on the road
      which leads from the Shaddock Grove to the port, I heard some one walking
      behind us. It proved to be a negro, and he was advancing with hasty steps.
      When he had reached us, I asked him whence he came, and whither he was
      going with such expedition. He answered, "I come from that part of the
      island called Golden Dust; and am sent to the port, to inform the governor
      that a ship from France has anchored under the Isle of Amber. She is
      firing guns of distress, for the sea is very rough." Having said this, the
      man left us, and pursued his journey without any further delay.
    </p>
    <p>
      I then said to Paul,&mdash;"Let us go towards the quarter of the Golden
      Dust, and meet Virginia there. It is not more than three leagues from
      hence." We accordingly bent our course towards the northern part of the
      island. The heat was suffocating. The moon had risen, and was surrounded
      by three large black circles. A frightful darkness shrouded the sky; but
      the frequent flashes of lightning discovered to us long rows of thick and
      gloomy clouds, hanging very low, and heaped together over the centre of
      the island, being driven in with great rapidity from the ocean, although
      not a breath of air was perceptible upon the land. As we walked along, we
      thought we heard peals of thunder; but, on listening more attentively, we
      perceived that it was the sound of cannon at a distance, repeated by the
      echoes. These ominous sounds, joined to the tempestuous aspect of the
      heavens, made me shudder. I had little doubt of their being signals of
      distress from a ship in danger. In about half an hour the firing ceased,
      and I found the silence still more appalling than the dismal sounds which
      had preceded it.
    </p>
    <p>
      We hastened on without uttering a word, or daring to communicate to each
      other our mutual apprehensions. At midnight, by great exertion, we arrived
      at the sea shore, in that part of the island called Golden Dust. The
      billows were breaking against the bench with a horrible noise, covering
      the rocks and the strand with foam of a dazzling whiteness, blended with
      sparks of fire. By these phosphoric gleams we distinguished,
      notwithstanding the darkness, a number of fishing canoes, drawn up high
      upon the beach.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the entrance of a wood, a short distance from us, we saw a fire, round
      which a party of the inhabitants were assembled. We repaired thither, in
      order to rest ourselves till the morning. While we were seated near the
      fire, one of the standers-by related, that late in the afternoon he had
      seen a vessel in the open sea, driven towards the island by the currents;
      that the night had hidden it from his view; and that two hours after
      sunset he had heard the firing of signal guns of distress, but that the
      surf was so high, that it was impossible to launch a boat to go off to
      her; that a short time after, he thought he perceived the glimmering of
      the watch-lights on board the vessel, which, he feared, by its having
      approached so near the coast, had steered between the main land and the
      little island of Amber, mistaking the latter for the Point of Endeavour,
      near which vessels pass in order to gain Port Louis; and that, if this
      were the case, which, however, he would not take upon himself to be
      certain of, the ship, he thought, was in very great danger. Another
      islander informed us, that he had frequently crossed the channel which
      separates the isle of Amber from the coast, and had sounded it, that the
      anchorage was very good, and that the ship would there lie as safely as in
      the best harbour. "I would stake all I am worth upon it," said he, "and if
      I were on board, I should sleep as sound as on shore." A third bystander
      declared that it was impossible for the ship to enter that channel, which
      was scarcely navigable for a boat. He was certain, he said, that he had
      seen the vessel at anchor beyond the isle of Amber; so that, if the wind
      rose in the morning, she would either put to sea, or gain the harbour.
      Other inhabitants gave different opinions upon this subject, which they
      continued to discuss in the usual desultory manner of the indolent
      Creoles. Paul and I observed a profound silence. We remained on this spot
      till break of day, but the weather was too hazy to admit of our
      distinguishing any object at sea, every thing being covered with fog. All
      we could descry to seaward was a dark cloud, which they told us was the
      isle of Amber, at the distance of a quarter of a league from the coast. On
      this gloomy day we could only discern the point of land on which we were
      standing, and the peaks of some inland mountains, which started out
      occasionally from the midst of the clouds that hung around them.
    </p>
    <p>
      At about seven in the morning we heard the sound of drums in the woods: it
      announced the approach of the governor, Monsieur de la Bourdonnais, who
      soon after arrived on horseback, at the head of a detachment of soldiers
      armed with muskets, and a crowd of islanders and negroes. He drew up his
      soldiers upon the beach, and ordered them to make a general discharge.
      This was no sooner done, than we perceived a glimmering light upon the
      water which was instantly followed by the report of a cannon. We judged
      that the ship was at no great distance and all ran towards that part
      whence the light and sound proceeded. We now discerned through the fog the
      hull and yards of a large vessel. We were so near to her, that
      notwithstanding the tumult of the waves, we could distinctly hear the
      whistle of the boatswain, and the shouts of the sailors, who cried out
      three times, VIVE LE ROI! this being the cry of the French in extreme
      danger, as well as in exuberant joy;&mdash;as though they wished to call
      their princes to their aid, or to testify to him that they are prepared to
      lay down their lives in his service.
    </p>
    <p>
      As soon as the Saint-Geran perceived that we were near enough to render
      her assistance, she continued to fire guns regularly at intervals of three
      minutes. Monsieur de la Bourdonnais caused great fires to be lighted at
      certain distances upon the strand, and sent to all the inhabitants of the
      neighbourhood, in search of provisions, planks, cables, and empty barrels.
      A number of people soon arrived, accompanied by their negroes loaded with
      provisions and cordage, which they had brought from the plantations of
      Golden Dust, from the district of La Flaque, and from the river of the Ram
      part. One of the most aged of these planters, approaching the governor,
      said to him,&mdash;"We have heard all night hollow noises in the mountain;
      in the woods, the leaves of the trees are shaken, although there is no
      wind; the sea-birds seek refuge upon the land: it is certain that all
      these signs announce a hurricane." "Well, my friends," answered the
      governor, "we are prepared for it, and no doubt the vessel is also."
    </p>
    <p>
      Every thing, indeed, presaged the near approach of the hurricane. The
      centre of the clouds in the zenith was of a dismal black, while their
      skirts were tinged with a copper-coloured hue. The air resounded with the
      cries of the tropic-birds, petrels, frigate-birds, and innumerable other
      sea-fowl, which notwithstanding the obscurity of the atmosphere, were seen
      coming from every point of the horizon, to seek for shelter in the island.
    </p>
    <p>
      Towards nine in the morning we heard in the direction of the ocean the
      most terrific noise, like the sound of thunder mingled with that of
      torrents rushing down the steeps of lofty mountains. A general cry was
      heard of, "There is the hurricane!" and the next moment a frightful gust
      of wind dispelled the fog which covered the isle of Amber and its channel.
      The Saint-Geran then presented herself to our view, her deck crowded with
      people, her yards and topmasts lowered down, and her flag half-mast high,
      moored by four cables at her bow and one at her stern. She had anchored
      between the isle of Amber and the main land, inside the chain of reefs
      which encircles the island, and which she had passed through in a place
      where no vessel had ever passed before. She presented her head to the
      waves that rolled in from the open sea, and as each billow rushed into the
      narrow strait where she lay, her bow lifted to such a degree as to show
      her keel; and at the same moment her stern, plunging into the water,
      disappeared altogether from our sight, as if it were swallowed up by the
      surges. In this position, driven by the winds and waves towards the shore,
      it was equally impossible for her to return by the passage through which
      she had made her way; or, by cutting her cables, to strand herself upon
      the beach, from which she was separated by sandbanks and reefs of rocks.
      Every billow which broke upon the coast advanced roaring to the bottom of
      the bay, throwing up heaps of shingle to the distance of fifty feet upon
      the land; then, rushing back, laid bare its sandy bed, from which it
      rolled immense stones, with a hoarse and dismal noise. The sea, swelled by
      the violence of the wind, rose higher every moment; and the whole channel
      between this island and the isle of Amber was soon one vast sheet of white
      foam, full of yawning pits of black and deep billows. Heaps of this foam,
      more than six feet high, were piled up at the bottom of the bay; and the
      winds which swept its surface carried masses of it over the steep
      sea-bank, scattering it upon the land to the distance of half a league.
      These innumerable white flakes, driven horizontally even to the very foot
      of the mountains, looked like snow issuing from the bosom of the ocean.
      The appearance of the horizon portended a lasting tempest; the sky and the
      water seemed blended together. Thick masses of clouds, of a frightful
      form, swept across the zenith with the swiftness of birds, while others
      appeared motionless as rocks. Not a single spot of blue sky could be
      discerned in the whole firmament; and a pale yellow gleam only lightened
      up all the objects of the earth, the sea, and the skies.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the violent rolling of the ship, what we all dreaded happened at
      last. The cables which held her bow were torn away: she then swung to a
      single hawser, and was instantly dashed upon the rocks, at the distance of
      half a cable's length from the shore. A general cry of horror issued from
      the spectators. Paul rushed forward to throw himself into the sea, when,
      seizing him by the arm, "My son," I exclaimed, "would you perish?"&mdash;"Let
      me go to save her," he cried, "or let me die!" Seeing that despair had
      deprived him of reason, Domingo and I, in order to preserve him, fastened
      a long cord around his waist, and held it fast by the end. Paul then
      precipitated himself towards the Saint-Geran, now swimming, and now
      walking upon the rocks. Sometimes he had hopes of reaching the vessel,
      which the sea, by the reflux of its waves, had left almost dry, so that
      you could have walked round it on foot; but suddenly the billows,
      returning with fresh fury, shrouded it beneath mountains of water, which
      then lifted it upright upon its keel. The breakers at the same moment
      threw the unfortunate Paul far upon the beach, his legs bathed in blood,
      his bosom wounded, and himself half dead. The moment he had recovered the
      use of his senses, he arose, and returned with new ardour towards the
      vessel, the parts of which now yawned asunder from the violent strokes of
      the billows. The crew then, despairing of their safety, threw themselves
      in crowds into the sea, upon yards, planks, hen-coops, tables, and
      barrels. At this moment we beheld an object which wrung our hearts with
      grief and pity; a young lady appeared in the stern-gallery of the
      Saint-Geran, stretching out her arms towards him who was making so many
      efforts to join her. It was Virginia. She had discovered her lover by his
      intrepidity. The sight of this amiable girl, exposed to such horrible
      danger, filled us with unutterable despair. As for Virginia, with a firm
      and dignified mien, she waved her hand, as if bidding us an eternal
      farewell. All the sailors had flung themselves into the sea, except one,
      who still remained upon the deck, and who was naked, and strong as
      Hercules. This man approached Virginia with respect, and, kneeling at her
      feet, attempted to force her to throw off her clothes; but she repulsed
      him with modesty, and turned away her head. Then were heard redoubled
      cries from the spectators, "Save her!&mdash;save her!&mdash;do not leave
      her!" But at that moment a mountain billow, of enormous magnitude,
      ingulfed itself between the isle of Amber and the coast, and menaced the
      shattered vessel, towards which it rolled bellowing, with its black sides
      and foaming head. At this terrible sight the sailor flung himself into the
      sea; and Virginia, seeing death inevitable, crossed her hands upon her
      breast, and raising upwards her serene and beauteous eyes, seemed an angel
      prepared to take her flight to Heaven.
    </p>
    <p>
      Oh, day of horror! Alas! every thing was swallowed up by the relentless
      billows. The surge threw some of the spectators, whom an impulse of
      humanity had prompted to advance towards Virginia, far upon the beach, and
      also the sailor who had endeavoured to save her life. This man, who had
      escaped from almost certain death, kneeling on the sand, exclaimed,&mdash;"Oh,
      my God! thou hast saved my life, but I would have given it willingly for
      that excellent young lady, who had persevered in not undressing herself as
      I had done." Domingo and I drew the unfortunate Paul to the ashore. He was
      senseless, and blood was flowing from his mouth and ears. The governor
      ordered him to be put into the hands of a surgeon, while we, on our part,
      wandered along the beach, in hopes that the sea would throw up the corpse
      of Virginia. But the wind having suddenly changed, as it frequently
      happens during hurricanes, our search was in vain; and we had the grief of
      thinking that we should not be able to bestow on this sweet and
      unfortunate girl the last sad duties. We retired from the spot overwhelmed
      with dismay, and our minds wholly occupied by one cruel loss, although
      numbers had perished in the wreck. Some of the spectators seemed tempted,
      from the fatal destiny of this virtuous girl, to doubt the existence of
      Providence: for there are in life such terrible, such unmerited evils,
      that even the hope of the wise is sometimes shaken.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the meantime Paul, who began to recover his senses, was taken to a
      house in the neighbourhood, till he was in a fit state to be removed to
      his own home. Thither I bent my way with Domingo, to discharge the
      melancholy duty of preparing Virginia's mother and her friend for the
      disastrous event which had happened. When we had reached the entrance of
      the valley of the river of Fan-Palms, some negroes informed us that the
      sea had thrown up many pieces of the wreck in the opposite bay. We
      descended towards it and one of the first objects that struck my sight
      upon the beach was the corpse of Virginia. The body was half covered with
      sand, and preserved the attitude in which we had seen her perish. Her
      features were not sensibly changed, her eyes were closed, and her
      countenance was still serene; but the pale purple hues of death were
      blended on her cheek with the blush of virgin modesty. One of her hands
      was placed upon her clothes: and the other, which she held on her heart,
      was fast closed, and so stiffened, that it was with difficulty that I took
      from its grasp a small box. How great was my emotion when I saw that it
      contained the picture of Paul, which she had promised him never to part
      with while she lived! As for Domingo, he beat his breast, and pierced the
      air with his shrieks. With heavy hearts we then carried the body of
      Virginia to a fisherman's hut, and gave it in charge of some poor Malabar
      women, who carefully washed away the sand.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were employed in this melancholy office, we ascended the hill
      with trembling steps to the plantation. We found Madame de la Tour and
      Margaret at prayer; hourly expecting to have tidings from the ship. As
      soon as Madame de la Tour saw me coming, she eagerly cried,&mdash;"Where
      is my daughter&mdash;my dear daughter&mdash;my child?" My silence and my
      tears apprised her of her misfortune. She was instantly seized with a
      convulsive stopping of the breath and agonizing pains, and her voice was
      only heard in sighs and groans. Margaret cried, "Where is my son? I do not
      see my son!" and fainted. We ran to her assistance. In a short time she
      recovered, and being assured that Paul was safe, and under the care of the
      governor, she thought of nothing but of succouring her friend, who
      recovered from one fainting fit only to fall into another. Madame de la
      Tour passed the whole night in these cruel sufferings, and I became
      convinced that there was no sorrow like that of a mother. When she
      recovered her senses, she cast a fixed, unconscious look towards heaven.
      In vain her friend and myself pressed her hands in ours: in vain we called
      upon her by the most tender names; she appeared wholly insensible to these
      testimonials of our affection, and no sound issued from her oppressed
      bosom, but deep and hollow moans.
    </p>
    <p>
      During the morning Paul was carried home in a palanquin. He had now
      recovered the use of his reason, but was unable to utter a word. His
      interview with his mother and Madame de la Tour, which I had dreaded,
      produced a better effect than all my cares. A ray of consolation gleamed
      on the countenances of the two unfortunate mothers. They pressed close to
      him, clasped him in their arms, and kissed him: their tears, which excess
      of anguish had till now dried up at the source, began to flow. Paul mixed
      his tears with theirs; and nature having thus found relief, a long stupor
      succeeded the convulsive pangs they had suffered, and afforded them a
      lethargic repose, which was in truth, like that of death.
    </p>
    <p>
      Monsieur de la Bourdonnais sent to apprise me secretly that the corpse of
      Virginia had been borne to the town by his order, from whence it was to be
      transferred to the church of the Shaddock Grove. I immediately went down
      to Port Louis, where I found a multitude assembled from all parts of the
      island, in order to be present at the funeral solemnity, as if the isle
      had lost that which was nearest and dearest to it. The vessels in the
      harbour had their yards crossed, their flags half-mast, and fired guns at
      long intervals. A body of grenadiers led the funeral procession, with
      their muskets reversed, their muffled drums sending forth slow and dismal
      sounds. Dejection was depicted in the countenance of these warriors, who
      had so often braved death in battle without changing colour. Eight young
      ladies of considerable families of the island, dressed in white, and
      bearing palm-branches in their hands, carried the corpse of their amiable
      companion, which was covered with flowers. They were followed by a chorus
      of children, chanting hymns, and by the governor, his field officers, all
      the principal inhabitants of the island, and an immense crowd of people.
    </p>
    <p>
      This imposing funeral solemnity had been ordered by the administration of
      the country, which was desirous of doing honour to the virtues of
      Virginia. But when the mournful procession arrived at the foot of this
      mountain, within sight of those cottages of which she had been so long an
      inmate and an ornament, diffusing happiness all around them, and which her
      loss had now filled with despair, the funeral pomp was interrupted, the
      hymns and anthems ceased, and the whole plain resounded with sighs and
      lamentations. Numbers of young girls ran from the neighbouring
      plantations, to touch the coffin of Virginia with their handkerchiefs, and
      with chaplets and crowns of flowers, invoking her as a saint. Mothers
      asked of heaven a child like Virginia; lovers, a heart as faithful; the
      poor, as tender a friend; and the slaves as kind a mistress.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the procession had reached the place of interment, some negresses of
      Madagascar and Caffres of Mozambique placed a number of baskets of fruit
      around the corpse, and hung pieces of stuff upon the adjoining trees,
      according to the custom of their several countries. Some Indian women from
      Bengal also, and from the coast of Malabar, brought cages full of small
      birds, which they set at liberty upon her coffin. Thus deeply did the loss
      of this amiable being affect the natives of different countries, and thus
      was the ritual of various religions performed over the tomb of unfortunate
      virtue.
    </p>
    <p>
      It became necessary to place guards round her grave, and to employ gentle
      force in removing some of the daughters of the neighbouring villagers, who
      endeavoured to throw themselves into it, saying that they had no longer
      any consolation to hope for in this world, and that nothing remained for
      them but to die with their benefactress.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the western side of the church of the Shaddock Grove is a small copse
      of bamboos, where, in returning from mass with her mother and Margaret,
      Virginia loved to rest herself, seated by the side of him whom she then
      called her brother. This was the spot selected for her interment.
    </p>
    <p>
      At his return from the funeral solemnity, Monsieur de la Bourdonnais came
      up here, followed by part of his numerous retinue. He offered Madame de la
      Tour and her friend all the assistance it was in his power to bestow.
      After briefly expressing his indignation at the conduct of her unnatural
      aunt, he advanced to Paul, and said every thing which he thought most
      likely to soothe and console him. "Heaven is my witness," said he, "that I
      wished to insure your happiness, and that of your family. My dear friend,
      you must go to France; I will obtain a commission for you, and during your
      absence I will take the same care of your mother as if she were my own."
      He then offered him his hand; but Paul drew away and turned his head
      aside, unable to bear his sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      I remained for some time at the plantation of my unfortunate friends, that
      I might render to them and Paul those offices of friendship that were in
      my power, and which might alleviate, though they could not heal the wounds
      of calamity. At the end of three weeks Paul was able to walk; but his mind
      seemed to droop in proportion as his body gathered strength. He was
      insensible to every thing; his look was vacant; and when asked a question,
      he made no reply. Madame de la Tour, who was dying said to him often,&mdash;"My
      son, while I look at you, I think I see my dear Virginia." At the name of
      Virginia he shuddered, and hastened away from her, notwithstanding the
      entreaties of his mother, who begged him to come back to her friend. He
      used to go alone into the garden, and seat himself at the foot of
      Virginia's cocoa-tree, with his eyes fixed upon the fountain. The
      governor's surgeon, who had shown the most humane attention to Paul and
      the whole family, told us that in order to cure the deep melancholy which
      had taken possession of his mind, we must allow him to do whatever he
      pleased, without contradiction: this, he said, afforded the only chance of
      overcoming the silence in which he persevered.
    </p>
    <p>
      I resolved to follow this advice. The first use which Paul made of his
      returning strength was to absent himself from the plantation. Being
      determined not to lose sight of him I set out immediately, and desired
      Domingo to take some provisions and accompany us. The young man's strength
      and spirits seemed renewed as he descended the mountain. He first took the
      road to the Shaddock Grove, and when he was near the church, in the Alley
      of Bamboos, he walked directly to the spot where he saw some earth fresh
      turned up; kneeling down there, and raising his eyes to heaven, he offered
      up a long prayer. This appeared to me a favourable symptom of the return
      of his reason; since this mark of confidence in the Supreme Being showed
      that his mind was beginning to resume its natural functions. Domingo and
      I, following his example, fell upon our knees, and mingled our prayers
      with his. When he arose, he bent his way, paying little attention to us,
      towards the northern part of the island. As I knew that he was not only
      ignorant of the spot where the body of Virginia had been deposited, but
      even of the fact that it had been recovered from the waves, I asked him
      why he had offered up his prayer at the foot of those bamboos. He
      answered,&mdash;"We have been there so often."
    </p>
    <p>
      He continued his course until we reached the borders of the forest, when
      night came on. I set him the example of taking some nourishment, and
      prevailed on him to do the same; and we slept upon the grass, at the foot
      of a tree. The next day I thought he seemed disposed to retrace his steps;
      for, after having gazed a considerable time from the plain upon the church
      of the Shaddock Grove, with its long avenues of bamboos, he made a
      movement as if to return home; but suddenly plunging into the forest, he
      directed his course towards the north. I guessed what was his design, and
      I endeavoured, but in vain, to dissuade him from it. About noon we arrived
      at the quarter of Golden Dust. He rushed down to the sea-shore, opposite
      to the spot where the Saint-Geran had been wrecked. At the sight of the
      isle of Amber, and its channel, when smooth as a mirror, he exclaimed,&mdash;"Virginia!
      oh my dear Virginia!" and fell senseless. Domingo and I carried him into
      the woods, where we had some difficulty in recovering him. As soon as he
      regained his senses, he wished to return to the sea-shore; but we conjured
      him not to renew his own anguish and ours by such cruel remembrances, and
      he took another direction. During a whole week he sought every spot where
      he had once wandered with the companion of his childhood. He traced the
      path by which she had gone to intercede for the slave of the Black River.
      He gazed again upon the banks of the river of the Three Breasts, where she
      had rested herself when unable to walk further, and upon that part of the
      wood where they had lost their way. All the haunts, which recalled to his
      memory the anxieties, the sports, the repasts, the benevolence of her he
      loved,&mdash;the river of the Sloping Mountain, my house, the neighbouring
      cascade, the papaw tree she had planted, the grassy fields in which she
      loved to run, the openings of the forest where she used to sing, all in
      succession called forth his tears; and those very echoes which had so
      often resounded with their mutual shouts of joy, now repeated only these
      accents of despair,&mdash;"Virginia! oh, my dear Virginia!"
    </p>
    <p>
      During this savage and wandering life, his eyes became sunk and hollow,
      his skin assumed a yellow tint, and his health rapidly declined. Convinced
      that our present sufferings are rendered more acute by the bitter
      recollection of bygone pleasures, and that the passions gather strength in
      solitude, I resolved to remove my unfortunate friend from those scenes
      which recalled the remembrance of his loss, and to lead him to a more busy
      part of the island. With this view, I conducted him to the inhabited part
      of the elevated quarter of Williams, which he had never visited, and where
      the busy pursuits of agriculture and commerce ever occasioned much bustle
      and variety. Numbers of carpenters were employed in hewing down and
      squaring trees, while others were sawing them into planks; carriages were
      continually passing and repassing on the roads; numerous herds of oxen and
      troops of horses were feeding on those wide-spread meadows, and the whole
      country was dotted with the dwellings of man. On some spots the elevation
      of the soil permitted the culture of many of the plants of Europe: the
      yellow ears of ripe corn waved upon the plains; strawberry plants grew in
      the openings of the woods, and the roads were bordered by hedges of
      rose-trees. The freshness of the air, too, giving tension to the nerves,
      was favourable to the health of Europeans. From those heights, situated
      near the middle of the island, and surrounded by extensive forests,
      neither the sea, nor Port Louis, nor the church of the Shaddock Grove, nor
      any other object associated with the remembrance of Virginia could de
      discerned. Even the mountains, which present various shapes on the side of
      Port Louis, appear from hence like a long promontory, in a straight and
      perpendicular line, from which arise lofty pyramids of rock, whose summits
      are enveloped in the clouds.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conducting Paul to these scenes, I kept him continually in action, walking
      with him in rain and sunshine, by day and by night. I sometimes wandered
      with him into the depths of the forests, or led him over untilled grounds,
      hoping that change of scene and fatigue might divert his mind from its
      gloomy meditations. But the soul of a lover finds everywhere the traces of
      the beloved object. Night and day, the calm of solitude and the tumult of
      crowds, are to him the same; time itself, which casts the shade of
      oblivion over so many other remembrances, in vain would tear that tender
      and sacred recollection from the heart. The needle, when touched by the
      loadstone, however it may have been moved from its position, is no sooner
      left to repose, than it returns to the pole of its attraction. So, when I
      inquired of Paul, as we wandered amidst the plains of Williams,&mdash;"Where
      shall we now go?" he pointed to the north, and said, "Yonder are our
      mountains; let us return home."
    </p>
    <p>
      I now saw that all the means I took to divert him from his melancholy were
      fruitless, and that no resource was left but an attempt to combat his
      passion by the arguments which reason suggested I answered him,&mdash;"Yes,
      there are the mountains where once dwelt your beloved Virginia; and here
      is the picture you gave her, and which she held, when dying, to her heart&mdash;that
      heart, which even in its last moments only beat for you." I then presented
      to Paul the little portrait which he had given to Virginia on the borders
      of the cocoa-tree fountain. At this sight a gloomy joy overspread his
      countenance. He eagerly seized the picture with his feeble hands, and held
      it to his lips. His oppressed bosom seemed ready to burst with emotion,
      and his eyes were filled with tears which had no power to flow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My son," said I, "listen to one who is your friend, who was the friend of
      Virginia, and who, in the bloom of your hopes, has often endeavoured to
      fortify your mind against the unforeseen accidents of life. What do you
      deplore with so much bitterness? Is it your own misfortunes, or those of
      Virginia, which affect you so deeply?
    </p>
    <p>
      "Your own misfortunes are indeed severe. You have lost the most amiable of
      girls, who would have grown up to womanhood a pattern to her sex, one who
      sacrificed her own interests to yours: who preferred you to all that
      fortune could bestow, and considered you as the only recompense worthy of
      her virtues.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But might not this very object, from whom you expected the purest
      happiness, have proved to you a source of the most cruel distress? She had
      returned poor and disinherited; all you could henceforth have partaken
      with her was your labour. Rendered more delicate by her education, and
      more courageous by her misfortunes, you might have beheld her every day
      sinking beneath her efforts to share and lighten your fatigues. Had she
      brought you children, they would only have served to increase her
      anxieties and your own, from the difficulty of sustaining at once your
      aged parents and your infant family.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very likely you will tell me that the governor would have helped you; but
      how do you know that in a colony where governors are so frequently
      changed, you would have had others like Monsieur de la Bourdonnais?&mdash;that
      one might not have been sent destitute of good feeling and of morality?&mdash;that
      your young wife, in order, to procure some miserable pittance, might not
      have been obliged to seek his favour? Had she been weak you would have
      been to be pitied; and if she had remained virtuous, you would have
      continued poor: forced even to consider yourself fortunate if, on account
      of the beauty and virtue of your wife, you had not to endure persecution
      from those who had promised you protection.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It would have remained to you, you may say, to have enjoyed a pleasure
      independent of fortune,&mdash;that of protecting a loved being, who, in
      proportion to her own helplessness, had more attached herself to you. You
      may fancy that your pains and sufferings would have served to endear you
      to each other, and that your passion would have gathered strength from
      your mutual misfortunes. Undoubtedly virtuous love does find consolation
      even in such melancholy retrospects. But Virginia is no more; yet those
      persons still live, whom, next to yourself, she held most dear; her
      mother, and your own: your inconsolable affliction is bringing them both
      to the grave. Place your happiness, as she did hers, in affording them
      succour. My son, beneficence is the happiness of the virtuous: there is no
      greater or more certain enjoyment on the earth. Schemes of pleasure,
      repose, luxuries, wealth, and glory are not suited to man, weak,
      wandering, and transitory as he is. See how rapidly one step towards the
      acquisition of fortune has precipitated us all to the lowest abyss of
      misery! You were opposed to it, it is true; but who would not have thought
      that Virginia's voyage would terminate in her happiness and your own? an
      invitation from a rich and aged relation, the advice of a wise governor,
      the approbation of the whole colony, and the well-advised authority of her
      confessor, decided the lot of Virginia. Thus do we run to our ruin,
      deceived even by the prudence of those who watch over us: it would be
      better, no doubt, not to believe them, nor even to listen to the voice or
      lean on the hopes of a deceitful world. But all men,&mdash;those you see
      occupied in these plains, those who go abroad to seek their fortunes, and
      those in Europe who enjoy repose from the labours of others, are liable to
      reverses! not one is secure from losing, at some period, all that he most
      values,&mdash;greatness, wealth, wife, children, and friends. Most of
      these would have their sorrow increased by the remembrance of their own
      imprudence. But you have nothing with which you can reproach yourself. You
      have been faithful in your love. In the bloom of youth, by not departing
      from the dictates of nature, you evinced the wisdom of a sage. Your views
      were just, because they were pure, simple, and disinterested. You had,
      besides, on Virginia, sacred claims which nothing could countervail. You
      have lost her: but it is neither your own imprudence, nor your avarice,
      nor your false wisdom which has occasioned this misfortune, but the will
      of God, who had employed the passions of others to snatch from you the
      object of your love; God, from whom you derive everything, who knows what
      is most fitting for you, and whose wisdom has not left you any cause for
      the repentance and despair which succeed the calamities that are brought
      upon us by ourselves.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Vainly, in your misfortunes, do you say to yourself, 'I have not deserved
      them.' Is it then the calamity of Virginia&mdash;her death and her present
      condition that you deplore? She has undergone the fate allotted to all,&mdash;to
      high birth, to beauty, and even to empires themselves. The life of man,
      with all his projects, may be compared to a tower, at whose summit is
      death. When your Virginia was born, she was condemned to die; happily for
      herself, she is released from life before losing her mother, or yours, or
      you; saved, thus from undergoing pangs worse than those of death itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Learn then, my son, that death is a benefit to all men: it is the night
      of that restless day we call by the name of life. The diseases, the
      griefs, the vexations, and the fears, which perpetually embitter our life
      as long as we possess it, molest us no more in the sleep of death. If you
      inquire into the history of those men who appear to have been the
      happiest, you will find that they have bought their apparent felicity very
      dear; public consideration, perhaps, by domestic evils; fortune, by the
      loss of health; the rare happiness of being loved, by continual
      sacrifices; and often, at the expiration of a life devoted to the good of
      others, they see themselves surrounded only by false friends, and
      ungrateful relations. But Virginia was happy to her very last moment. When
      with us, she was happy in partaking of the gifts of nature; when far from
      us, she found enjoyment in the practice of virtue; and even at the
      terrible moment in which we saw her perish, she still had cause for
      self-gratulation. For, whether she cast her eyes on the assembled colony,
      made miserable by her expected loss, or on you, my son, who, with so much
      intrepidity, were endeavouring to save her, she must have seen how dear
      she was to all. Her mind was fortified against the future by the
      remembrance of her innocent life; and at that moment she received the
      reward which Heaven reserves for virtue,&mdash;a courage superior to
      danger. She met death with a serene countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My son! God gives all the trials of life to virtue, in order to show that
      virtue alone can support them, and even find in them happiness and glory.
      When he designs for it an illustrious reputation, he exhibits it on a wide
      theatre, and contending with death. Then does the courage of virtue shine
      forth as an example, and the misfortunes to which it has been exposed
      receive for ever, from posterity, the tribute of their tears. This is the
      immortal monument reserved for virtue in a world where every thing else
      passes away, and where the names, even of the greater number of kings
      themselves, are soon buried in eternal oblivion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Meanwhile Virginia still exists. My son, you see that every thing changes
      on this earth, but that nothing is ever lost. No art of man can annihilate
      the smallest particle of matter; can, then, that which has possessed
      reason, sensibility, affection, virtue, and religion be supposed capable
      of destruction, when the very elements with which it is clothed are
      imperishable? Ah! however happy Virginia may have been with us, she is now
      much more so. There is a God, my son; it is unnecessary for me to prove it
      to you, for the voice of all nature loudly proclaims it. The wickedness of
      mankind leads them to deny the existence of a Being, whose justice they
      fear. But your mind is fully convinced of his existence, while his works
      are ever before your eyes. Do you then believe that he would leave
      Virginia without recompense? Do you think that the same Power which
      inclosed her noble soul in a form so beautiful,&mdash;so like an emanation
      from itself, could not have saved her from the waves?&mdash;that he who
      has ordained the happiness of man here, by laws unknown to you, cannot
      prepare a still higher degree of felicity for Virginia by other laws, of
      which you are equally ignorant? Before we were born into this world, could
      we, do you imagine, even if we were capable of thinking at all, have
      formed any idea of our existence here? And now that we are in the middle
      of this gloomy and transitory life, can we foresee what is beyond the
      tomb, or in what manner we shall be emancipated from it? Does God, like
      man, need this little globe, the earth, as a theatre for the display of
      his intelligence and his goodness?&mdash;and can he only dispose of human
      life in the territory of death? There is not, in the entire ocean, a
      single drop of water which is not peopled with living beings appertaining
      to man: and does there exist nothing for him in the heavens above his
      head? What! is there no supreme intelligence, no divine goodness, except
      on this little spot where we are placed? In those innumerable glowing
      fires,&mdash;in those infinite fields of light which surround them, and
      which neither storms nor darkness can extinguish, is there nothing but
      empty space and an eternal void? If we, weak and ignorant as we are, might
      dare to assign limits to that Power from whom we have received every
      thing, we might possibly imagine that we were placed on the very confines
      of his empire, where life is perpetually struggling with death, and
      innocence for ever in danger from the power of tyranny!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Somewhere, then, without doubt, there is another world, where virtue will
      receive its reward. Virginia is now happy. Ah! if from the abode of angels
      she could hold communication with you, she would tell you, as she did when
      she bade you her last adieus,&mdash;'O, Paul! life is but a scene of
      trial. I have been obedient to the laws of nature, love, and virtue. I
      crossed the seas to obey the will of my relations; I sacrificed wealth in
      order to keep my faith; and I preferred the loss of life to disobeying the
      dictates of modesty. Heaven found that I had fulfilled my duties, and has
      snatched me for ever from all the miseries I might have endured myself,
      and all I might have felt for the miseries of others. I am placed far
      above the reach of all human evils, and you pity me! I am become pure and
      unchangeable as a particle of light, and you would recall me to the
      darkness of human life! O, Paul! O, my beloved friend! recollect those
      days of happiness, when in the morning we felt the delightful sensations
      excited by the unfolding beauties of nature; when we seemed to rise with
      the sun to the peaks of those rocks, and then to spread with his rays over
      the bosom of the forests. We experienced a delight, the cause of which we
      could not comprehend. In the innocence of our desires, we wished to be all
      sight, to enjoy the rich colours of the early dawn; all smell, to taste a
      thousand perfumes at once; all hearing, to listen to the singing of our
      birds; and all heart, to be capable of gratitude for those mingled
      blessings. Now, at the source of the beauty whence flows all that is
      delightful upon earth, my soul intuitively sees, hears, touches, what
      before she could only be made sensible of through the medium of our weak
      organs. Ah! what language can describe these shores of eternal bliss,
      which I inhabit for ever! All that infinite power and heavenly goodness
      could create to console the unhappy: all that the friendship of numberless
      beings, exulting in the same felicity can impart, we enjoy in unmixed
      perfection. Support, then, the trial which is now allotted to you, that
      you may heighten the happiness of your Virginia by love which will know no
      termination,&mdash;by a union which will be eternal. There I will calm
      your regrets, I will wipe away your tears. Oh, my beloved friend! my
      youthful husband! raise your thoughts towards the infinite, to enable you
      to support the evils of a moment.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      My own emotion choked my utterance. Paul, looking at me steadfastly,
      cried,&mdash;"She is no more! she is no more!" and a long fainting fit
      succeeded these words of woe. When restored to himself, he said, "Since
      death is good, and since Virginia is happy, I will die too, and be united
      to Virginia." Thus the motives of consolation I had offered, only served
      to nourish his despair. I was in the situation of a man who attempts to
      save a friend sinking in the midst of a flood, and who obstinately refuses
      to swim. Sorrow had completely overwhelmed his soul. Alas! the trials of
      early years prepare man for the afflictions of after-life; but Paul had
      never experienced any.
    </p>
    <p>
      I took him back to his own dwelling, where I found his mother and Madame
      de la Tour in a state of increased languor and exhaustion, but Margaret
      seemed to droop the most. Lively characters, upon whom petty troubles have
      but little effect, sink the soonest under great calamities.
    </p>
    <p>
      "O my good friend," said Margaret, "I thought last night I saw Virginia,
      dressed in white, in the midst of groves and delicious gardens. She said
      to me, 'I enjoy the most perfect happiness:' and then approaching Paul
      with a smiling air, she bore him away with her. While I was struggling to
      retain my son, I felt that I myself too was quitting the earth, and that I
      followed with inexpressible delight. I then wished to bid my friend
      farewell, when I saw that she was hastening after me, accompanied by Mary
      and Domingo. But the strangest circumstance remains yet to be told; Madame
      de la Tour has this very night had a dream exactly like mine in every
      possible respect."
    </p>
    <p>
      "My dear friend," I replied, "nothing, I firmly believe, happens in this
      world without the permission of God. Future events, too, are sometimes
      revealed in dreams."
    </p>
    <p>
      Madame de la Tour then related to me her dream which was exactly the same
      as Margaret's in every particular; and as I had never observed in either
      of these ladies any propensity to superstition, I was struck with the
      singular coincidence of their dreams, and I felt convinced that they would
      soon be realized. The belief that future events are sometimes revealed to
      us during sleep, is one that is widely diffused among the nations of the
      earth. The greatest men of antiquity have had faith in it; among whom may
      be mentioned Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, the Scipios, the two
      Catos, and Brutus, none of whom were weak-minded persons. Both the Old and
      the New Testament furnish us with numerous instances of dreams that came
      to pass. As for myself, I need only, on this subject, appeal to my
      experience, as I have more than once had good reason to believe that
      superior intelligences, who interest themselves in our welfare,
      communicate with us in these visions of the night. Things which surpass
      the light of human reason cannot be proved by arguments derived from that
      reason; but still, if the mind of man is an image of that of God, since
      man can make known his will to the ends of the earth by secret missives,
      may not the Supreme Intelligence which governs the universe employ similar
      means to attain a like end? One friend consoles another by a letter,
      which, after passing through many kingdoms, and being in the hands of
      various individuals at enmity with each other, brings at last joy and hope
      to the breast of a single human being. May not in like manner the
      Sovereign Protector of innocence come in some secret way, to the help of a
      virtuous soul, which puts its trust in Him alone? Has He occasion to
      employ visible means to effect His purpose in this, whose ways are hidden
      in all His ordinary works?
    </p>
    <p>
      Why should we doubt the evidence of dreams? for what is our life, occupied
      as it is with vain and fleeting imaginations, other than a prolonged
      vision of the night?
    </p>
    <p>
      Whatever may be thought of this in general, on the present occasion the
      dreams of my friends were soon realized. Paul expired two months after the
      death of his Virginia, whose name dwelt on his lips in his expiring
      moments. About a week after the death of her son, Margaret saw her last
      hour approach with that serenity which virtue only can feel. She bade
      Madame de la Tour a most tender farewell, "in the certain hope," she said,
      "of a delightful and eternal re-union. Death is the greatest of blessings
      to us," added she, "and we ought to desire it. If life be a punishment, we
      should wish for its termination; if it be a trial, we should be thankful
      that it is short."
    </p>
    <p>
      The governor took care of Domingo and Mary, who were no longer able to
      labour, and who survived their mistresses but a short time. As for poor
      Fidele, he pined to death, soon after he had lost his master.
    </p>
    <p>
      I afforded an asylum in my dwelling to Madame de la Tour, who bore up
      under her calamities with incredible elevation of mind. She had
      endeavoured to console Paul and Margaret till their last moments, as if
      she herself had no misfortunes of her own to bear. When they were not
      more, she used to talk to me every day of them as of beloved friends, who
      were still living near her. She survived them however, but one month. Far
      from reproaching her aunt for the afflictions she had caused, her benign
      spirit prayed to God to pardon her, and to appease that remorse which we
      heard began to torment her, as soon as she had sent Virginia away with so
      much inhumanity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Conscience, that certain punishment of the guilty, visited with all its
      terrors the mind of this unnatural relation. So great was her torment,
      that life and death became equally insupportable to her. Sometimes she
      reproached herself with the untimely fate of her lovely niece, and with
      the death of her mother, which had immediately followed it. At other times
      she congratulated herself for having repulsed far from her two wretched
      creatures, who, she said, had both dishonoured their family by their
      grovelling inclinations. Sometimes, at the sight of the many miserable
      objects with which Paris abounds, she would fly into a rage, and exclaim,&mdash;"Why
      are not these idle people sent off to the colonies?" As for the notions of
      humanity, virtue and religion, adopted by all nations, she said, they were
      only the inventions of their rulers, to serve political purposes. Then,
      flying all at once to the other extreme, she abandoned herself to
      superstitious terrors, which filled her with mortal fears. She would then
      give abundant alms to the wealthy ecclesiastics who governed her,
      beseeching them to appease the wrath of God by the sacrifice of her
      fortune,&mdash;as if the offering to Him of the wealth she had withheld
      from the miserable could please her Heavenly Father! In her imagination
      she often beheld fields of fire, with burning mountains, wherein hideous
      spectres wandered about, loudly calling on her by name. She threw herself
      at her confessor's feet, imagining every description of agony and torture;
      for Heaven&mdash;just Heaven, always sends to the cruel the most frightful
      views of religion and a future state.
    </p>
    <p>
      Atheist, thus, and fanatic in turn, holding both life and death in equal
      horror, she lived on for several years. But what completed the torments of
      her miserable existence, was that very object to which she had sacrificed
      every natural affection. She was deeply annoyed at perceiving that her
      fortune must go, at her death, to relations whom she hated, and she
      determined to alienate as much of it as she could. They, however, taking
      advantage of her frequent attacks of low spirits, caused her to be
      secluded as a lunatic, and her affairs to be put into the hands of
      trustees. Her wealth, thus completed her ruin; and, as the possession of
      it had hardened her own heart, so did its anticipation corrupt the hearts
      of those who coveted it from her. At length she died; and, to crown her
      misery, she retained enough reason at last to be sensible that she was
      plundered and despised by the very persons whose opinions had been her
      rule of conduct during her whole life.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the same spot, and at the foot of the same shrubs as his Virginia, was
      deposited the body of Paul; and round about them lie the remains of their
      tender mothers and their faithful servants. No marble marks the spot of
      their humble graves, no inscription records their virtues; but their
      memory is engraven upon the hearts of those whom they have befriended, in
      indelible characters. Their spirits have no need of the pomp, which they
      shunned during their life; but if they still take an interest in what
      passes upon earth, they no doubt love to wander beneath the roofs of these
      humble dwellings, inhabited by industrious virtue, to console poverty
      discontented with its lot, to cherish in the hearts of lovers the sacred
      flame of fidelity, and to inspire a taste for the blessings of nature, a
      love of honest labour, and a dread of the allurements of riches.
    </p>
    <p>
      The voice of the people, which is often silent with regard to the
      monuments raised to kings, has given to some parts of this island names
      which will immortalize the loss of Virginia. Near the isle of Amber, in
      the midst of sandbanks, is a spot called The Pass of the Saint-Geran, from
      the name of the vessel which was there lost. The extremity of that point
      of land which you see yonder, three leagues off, half covered with water,
      and which the Saint-Geran could not double the night before the hurricane,
      is called the Cape of Misfortune; and before us, at the end of the valley,
      is the Bay of the Tomb, where Virginia was found buried in the sand; as if
      the waves had sought to restore her corpse to her family, that they might
      render it the last sad duties on those shores where so many years of her
      innocent life had been passed.
    </p>
    <p>
      Joined thus in death, ye faithful lovers, who were so tenderly united!
      unfortunate mothers! beloved family! these woods which sheltered you with
      their foliage,&mdash;these fountains which flowed for you,&mdash;these
      hill-sides upon which you reposed, still deplore your loss! No one has
      since presumed to cultivate that desolate spot of land, or to rebuild
      those humble cottages. Your goats are become wild: your orchards are
      destroyed; your birds are all fled, and nothing is heard but the cry of
      the sparrow-hawk, as it skims in quest of prey around this rocky basin. As
      for myself, since I have ceased to behold you, I have felt friendless and
      alone, like a father bereft of his children, or a traveller who wanders by
      himself over the face of the earth.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ending with these words, the good old man retired, bathed in tears; and my
      own, too, had flowed more than once during this melancholy recital.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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