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Paul and Virginia

by Bernardin de Saint Pierre

April, 2000  [Etext #2127]


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Etext prepared by Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com
and John Bickers, jbickers@ihug.co.nz





Paul and Virginia

by Bernardin de Saint Pierre




WITH A
MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR



PREFACE

In introducing to the Public the present edition of this well known
and affecting Tale,--the /chef d'oeuvre/ 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 /entire/ 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.

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,--an acknowledged classic by
the European world,--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 & Coates, Philadelphia, U.S.A.]



MEMOIR OF BERNARDIN DE ST. PIERRE

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.

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,--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.

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.

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.

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,--of his strong
love of Nature, and his humanity to animals.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It is a lesson yet to be learned, that genius gives no charter for the
indulgence of error,--a truth yet /to be/ 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! /to be/ 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.

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.

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,--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!--tender
friendship, and the still dearer sentiment which surpassed it!--days
of intoxication and of happiness adeiu! adieu! We live but for a day,
to die during a whole life!"

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.

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

In 1789, he published "Les Veoeux d'un Solitaire," and "La Suite des
Voeux." By the /Moniteur/ of the day, these works were compared to the
celebrated pamphlet of Sieyes,--"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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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,--for they were mistakes,--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--how often he may have felt himself unworthily
treated--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,--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?

Through all his writings, and throughout his correspondence, there are
beautiful proofs of the tenderness of his feelings,--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.

"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 /rabbit's hole/, in
which I may pass the summer in the country." And again, "With the
/first violet/, I shall come to see you." It is soothing to find, in
passages like these, such pleasing and convincing evidence that

    "Nature never did betray,
  The heart that loved her."

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.

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!--the meadows in which he played, and the orchard that he
robbed!"

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,--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--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!

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,"--"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.

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!

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."

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.

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.

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.

[*] Occasioned, according to St. Pierre, by the melting of the ice at
    the Poles.

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."

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:--"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."

When this passage was written, the rugged, and sterile rock had been
climbed by its gifted author. He had reached the summit,--his genius
had been rewarded, and he himself saw the heaven he wished to point
out to others.

SARAH JONES.


[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.]





PAUL AND VIRGINIA



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.

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.

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?"--"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."--"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:--

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.

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--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:--this
blessing was a friend.

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--her reputation. With some borrowed
money she purchased an old negro slave, with whom she cultivated a
little corner of this district.

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--you! at
once virtuous and unhappy"--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,--"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!"

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?"

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.

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.

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.

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,--"We shall see what can be done--there
are so many to relieve--all in good time--why did you displease your
aunt?--you have been much to blame."

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,--"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,--"My dear friend!" cried
she, "my dear friend!"--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,--"Ah, madame!--My good
mistress!--My dear mother!--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.

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,--"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,--"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?"--"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.

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,--"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."--"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.' "--"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."-- "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.

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,--"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."--"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."

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."--"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.

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,--"Come, come to the help of Virginia." But the
echoes of the forest alone answered his call, and repeated again and
again, "Virginia--Virginia."

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,--"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!"--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,--
now I know his bark. Are we then so near home?--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,--"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--"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,--"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,--"Oh, my dear brother! God never
leaves a good action unrewarded."

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--"Is it you, my children?"
They answered immediately, and the negroes also,--"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!"--"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I inscribed then, on the little staff of Paul and Virginia's flag, the
following lines of Horace:--

    Fratres Helenae, lucida sidera,
  Ventorumque regat pater,
  Obstrictis, aliis, praeter Iapiga.

"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."

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:--

  Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestes!

"Happy are thou, my son, in knowing only the pastoral divinities."

And over the door of Madame de la Tour's cottage where the families so
frequently met, I placed this line:--

  At secura quies, et nescia fallere vita.

"Here dwell a calm conscience, and a life that knows not deceit."

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."--"Such a motto," I answered, "would have been
still more applicable to virtue." My reflection made her blush.

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,--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!

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.

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.

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.

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,--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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,--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.

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.

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,--a part which he performed with the gravity of a
patriarch,--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.

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.

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.

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,--concealing the benefactor, and
revealing only the benefit.

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,--"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.

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.

Sometimes, if alone with Virginia, he has a thousand times told me, he
used to say to her, on his return from labour,--"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?--
Our mothers have more than either of us. Is it by your caresses?--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."

Virginia would answer him,--"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,--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;--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,-- you look so warm!"--and with her little
white handkerchief she would wipe the damps from his face, and then
imprint a tender kiss on his forehead.

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,--"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.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

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.

At the sight of this general desolation, Virginia exclaimed to Paul,--
"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."
--"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,--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.

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."

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."

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--Oh, no, no!--I
cannot resolve to leave them."

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.

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.

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."

At this soothing language every eye overflowed with tears of delight.
Paul, pressing Madame de la Tour in his arms, exclaimed,--"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.

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?"

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,--
"My mother did apply to you, sir, and you received her ill."--"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."

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,--"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.

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."

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,--"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,--"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,--"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."

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.

Madame de la Tour, perceiving that this confidential conversation had
produced an effect altogether different from that which she expected,
said,--"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."

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."

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.

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,--in our own
bosoms. But what could be expected from my advice, in opposition to
the illusions of a splendid fortune?--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."

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.

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.

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--
"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.

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,--"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."

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!"--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!"

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.

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.

Paul said to her,--"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!--
and Oh! this is indeed a severe one."

"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?--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?--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,--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."

The violence of his emotions stopped his utterance, and we then heard
Virginia, who, in a voice broken by sobs, uttered these words:--"It is
for you that I go,--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,--I will live or die,--dispose of me as you
will. Unhappy that I am! I could have repelled your caresses; but I
cannot support your affliction."

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,--
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?"

He, trembling, repeated after her the words,--"My son!--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!--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;--my riches, my birth, my family,--all
that I have! I know no other. We have had but one roof,--one cradle,--
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?--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!--woman without compassion!--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!"

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.

Virginia, alarmed, said to him,--"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;--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."

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."

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."

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.

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.

"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."

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,--"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.

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,--'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,--'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,--"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,--"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!"--and observing Fidele running backwards and forwards in search
of her, he heaved a deep sigh, and cried,--"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.

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,--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.

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.

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.

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.

  "MY DEAR AND BELOVED MOTHER,

  "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.

  "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.

  "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.

  "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,

"My dearest and beloved mother,
"Your affectionate and dutiful daughter,
"VIRGINIE DE LA TOUR."

  "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."

Paul was astonished that Virginia had not said one word of him,--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.

In a postscript, Virginia particularly recommended to Paul's attention
two kinds of seed,--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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,--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,--the heart.

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,--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.

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,--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.

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!

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.

/Paul./--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.

/The Old Man./--But, my dear friend, have not you told me that you are
not of noble birth?

/Paul./--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.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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?

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--But perhaps I shall find one of these nobles to protect me.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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.

/The Old Man./--You will act then like other men?--you will renounce
your conscience to obtain a fortune?

/Paul./--Oh no! I will never lend myself to any thing but the truth.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--How unfortunate I am! Every thing bars my progress. I am
condemned to pass my life in ignoble toil, far from Virginia.

As he said this he sighed deeply.

/The Old Man./--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.

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.

/Paul./--Ah! I only want to have Virginia with me: without her I have
nothing,--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.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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.

So saying, he threw his arms around the tree, and kissed it with
transport.

/The Old Man./--The best of books,--that which preaches nothing but
equality, brotherly love, charity, and peace,--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?--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.

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?

/Paul./--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.

/The Old Man./--Who would live, my son, if the future were revealed to
him?--when a single anticipated misfortune gives us so much useless
uneasiness--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.

/Paul./--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.

/The Old Man./--What! would you leave her mother and yours?

/Paul./--Why, you yourself have advised my going to the Indies.

/The Old Man./--Virginia was then here; but you are now the only means
of support both of her mother and of your own.

/Paul./--Virginia will assist them by means of her rich relation.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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,--to the
shade of these woods and of our cocoa trees. Alas! you are perhaps
even now unhappy!"--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.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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?

/The Old Man./--Women are false in those countries where men are
tyrants. Violence always engenders a disposition to deceive.

/Paul./--In what way can men tyrannize over women?

/The Old Man./--In giving them in marriage without consulting their
inclinations;--in uniting a young girl to an old man, or a woman of
sensibility to a frigid and indifferent husband.

/Paul./--Why not join together those who are suited to each other,--
the young to the young, and lovers to those they love?

/The Old Man./--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,--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.

/Paul./--But where is the necessity of being rich in order to marry?

/The Old Man./--In order to pass through life in abundance, without
being obliged to work.

/Paul./--But why not work? I am sure I work hard enough.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--What! do you mean to say that the art which furnishes food
for mankind is despised in Europe? I hardly understand you.

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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.

/The Old Man./--Far from it, my son! They are, for the most part
satiated with pleasure, for this very reason,--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,--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.

/Paul./--What do you understand by virtue?

/The Old Man./--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.

/Paul./--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.

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;"--and, his heart throbbing with joy, he flew to
communicate these exquisite anticipations to his family.

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,--"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."

"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."

"Ah!" cried he, "I am then without virtue! Every thing overwhelms me
and drives me to despair."--"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.

"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,--in times in which society can hardly be
held together,--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.

"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."

"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."

"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;--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."

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.

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.

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,--"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.

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,--"Come along, come along. Virginia is arrived. Let us go
to the port; the vessel will anchor at break of day."

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.

I then said to Paul,--"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.

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.

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.

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;--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.

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,--
"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."

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.

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.

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?"--"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!--save her!--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.

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,--"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.

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.

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,--
"Where is my daughter--my dear daughter--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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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,--"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.

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,--"We
have been there so often."

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,--"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,--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,--"Virginia! oh, my dear Virginia!"

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.

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,--"Where shall we
now go?" he pointed to the north, and said, "Yonder are our mountains;
let us return home."

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,--
"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--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.

"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?

"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.

"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.

"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?--
that one might not have been sent destitute of good feeling and of
morality?--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.

"It would have remained to you, you may say, to have enjoyed a
pleasure independent of fortune,--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,--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,--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.

"Vainly, in your misfortunes, do you say to yourself, 'I have not
deserved them.' Is it then the calamity of Virginia--her death and her
present condition that you deplore? She has undergone the fate
allotted to all,--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.

"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,--a courage superior to danger. She met death with a serene
countenance.

"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.

"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,--so like an emanation from itself, could not have
saved her from the waves?--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?--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,--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!

"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,--'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,
--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.' "

My own emotion choked my utterance. Paul, looking at me steadfastly,
cried,--"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.

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.

"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."

"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."

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?

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?

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."

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.

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.

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,--"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,--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--just Heaven, always
sends to the cruel the most frightful views of religion and a future
state.

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.

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.

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.

Joined thus in death, ye faithful lovers, who were so tenderly united!
unfortunate mothers! beloved family! these woods which sheltered you
with their foliage,--these fountains which flowed for you,--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.

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.





End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Paul and Virginia, by de Saint Pierre

