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“0, yes; but when may I expect to be re
called
“ Two years hence.’
“Why wait so long?”
“ Do you know that Ternon is to be the arehi-'
tect of his own fortune ? In two years he will
enter as a partner into the L. house. And we
prefer waiting until we can commence on a firm
foundation.”
“ Or, in other words, until you can set up an
establishment.”
“0, no, how can you say so? You know me
too well to believe it. We will have a little vine
clad cottage, embosomed amid trees and shrub
bery, where the flowers will bloom, and the birds
sing, and true happiness reign always. We will
live for each other, shut in from the wear and tear
of fashionable life. There you will have a
little chamber'with its low window, where the
roses will clamber, and the birds sing all the day
long. 0, it will be a iittle Paradise on earth, ss
lovely, if not so secluded as Gertrude’s borne in
the Valley of Wyoming.”
“ And I hope you will be a seeond Gertrude and
Waldegrave in all, save the tragical end.”
Mills Monroe, my gentle friend, was revelling
in all the happiness of a first love, which bad
grown and strengthened, until it absorbed her
whole srul. She was uffionsciously worshipping
an ids), bowing with pasilohate adoration at the
shine, where reigned the embodiment of all she
esteemed noble in manhood, and no devotee ever
brought a richer offering to his deity than she,
when she laid upon this altar the love of her
young and trusting heart. Ah ! was she dream
ing ; and mnst she awake to find the idol clay f
"Good night!” said Lillie, as we parted, and
she turned away, leaning upon the arm that was
henceforth to be her «npport through life.
** *»» * * *
Two years, with their records of Joys and Bor
rows have glided by, and spring with her gay,
flowers, bright sunshine and balmy air, has come
agaffl. All earth is hcautifol. The buttercups
and daisies are blossoming in the meadows, the
blue-eyed violets bloom where the velvet moes is
greenest, lifting their heads like stars in the dark
old woods, and breathing incense to the gentle
spring. The little birds singing in concert in the
grove, trilling in joyous notes, the return of
spring. The old trees that crown the hill have
donned their green robes again, and the sloping
hill-sides and broad vallles are covered over with
the yonag wheat. All things rejoice st the re
turn of spring, and we ask nuraelves why there
are such things us sorrow and death on earth.
Death! Ah! his presence cionds the fairest
scenes, lie is a reaper, who is not confined to
any season, he Is ever bu»y. Me comes, but it
is not alone with the melancholy days of Autumn,
when the leaves fall and the flowers droop, when
Nature is sinking to repose. He is not content to
come with the wailing storms of winter, and lend
his presence to increase the gloom. Ue comes
with the genic spring-time, and with “his sickle
keen" reaps our fairest flowers.
Since we last beheld a scene like this Desth
has visited one of earth’s fairest spots and cut
down one of her sweetest blossoms. Lillie Mon
roe, sweet Lillie Monroe, is sleeping beneath the
violets she loved so well. The jasainine blooms,
and the birds sing, and the waters murmur, te
he seen and heard by her, "uever more!” Ah!
the. idol is shattered, the briliant hopes dissipated,
the blight visions clouded. He whom she wor
shipped as the realization of all perfection,
proved false in heart and ia deed. The one
“gresi hope" of her life went down, and the dark
cloud- sealed over the sunny sky. The great
shadow fell upon her heart, and it was long ere
she lelt (bat the tire and the cloud still led to the
promised land. But she did see it, and learned
that
Hope can smile at length
On other hopes gone from us."
[For the Southern Field and Fireside.]
SKETCH OF ST. PIERRE.
1 RANSI.ATKP FROM THE FRENCH.
Jacques Henr] Bernardin de St. Pierre was
born at Havre, on the 21st of January, 1197.
Hie family is descended, they say, from the
renowned Enstache de St. Pierre, whose devo.
tion, as one of the voluntary hostages to Ed
ward 111., King of England, saved the town of
Calais.
His parents gave him a careful education,
and endeavored to inspire him with a love
of virtue. The young Bernardin, at first, com
pletely realized these wishes. He read .with
delight the “Lives of the Saints,” particularly
, those of the Kecluses of Thibaida. Their
‘I contempt for the good things of earth, their
confidence in God, the benevolent care of
Providence, filled him with the warmest ad
miration. It is related of him, in eonnection
i with this subject, that when only nine years
THE SOUTHERN FIELD AND FIRESIDE.
of age, he resolved to renounce tha world,
and, like them, devote himself te God alone.
He wandered off, therefore, withont communi
cating hi* intention to any one, and, having
found a little woodland at some distance from
the town, he paused there, believing it to be
a solitude inaccessible to his profane fellow
men. The day was passed in a very agree
able manner, mingling, it is thought, play
with prayer. In the meanwhile night drew
near. His small stock of provisions was
oonsumed, he was overcome with hunger ;
what coold he do in such pressing need? He
knelt very devoutly, and prayed the good
God to send an angel to succor him. Hie
prayer was heard, for, at that instant, his
bonne arrived, entirely exhausted, and, after
scolding him well, led him back to the house 1
From this time, bis ardent imagination
scarcely allowed him any repose. A passion
for traveling had replaced his love for a life
of solitude. He had read the adventures of
celebrated voyagers, lost beneath strange
skies, wandering upon unknown seas. His
highest aspirations, now, was to go to sea to
discover islands and found colonies.
In the meanwhile, he conceived a great
friendship for a Capuchin who frequented bis
father’s house. He was so cempletely fasci
nated by the monk’s recital of his rambles
that he positively determined to accompany
him, and bis parent yielded a reluctant con
sent. 'He travelled thus over Normandy, with
a stick in bis band, supporting with oourage
all the fatigues of so toilsome a mode of life.
He seems to have decided seriously to become
a Capuchin, and to deter him Irom this, he
was allowed to embark with his uncle, who
commanded a vessel destined for Martinique.
This voyage was useful to him, because be
suffered horribly from eea-sicknese, and waa
attacked on his arrival at Martinique, with a
malady thai almost proved fatal. These un
happy incidents, and some dieagreements
which be experienced with his uncle, calmed
bis imagination in u measure, end, on hia re
turn, he consented to resume his course of
study. His parents placed him at Gisoro,
uear the Jesuits, where be enjoyed some mo
ments of peace and happiness in the practice
of virtue.
But this etaie of quu-ldid But lona continue i
a perusal of the “Leitres Edifiantes,” ibe
apostolic labors of the missionaries, inspired
him with a wish to become a Jesuit, and as
be was incapable of self control in anything,
he raved continually of the martyrdom and
conversion of savage nations. But this zeal
existed rather m his imagination than his
heart; he desired glory more than the appro
brium of the Cross; he could not, therefore,
succeed
After having completed his classical studies,
he entered the “College of Bridges and High
ways,” and applied himself with success to the
study of mathematics, It was then that in
timate connections with some youthful skep
tics strongly moved bis faith and made it a
sad wreck* He preserved always n love of
virtue, a belief in God, and even a respect
for the Gospels; but he now saw in tha
Chrisnan religion nothing but a human insti
tution, and in Jesus Christ—only a legislator
more perfect than all others.
The “College of Bridges and Highways”
having been dissolved, he entered a corps of
engineers aud went to Germany, where we
were involved ip an unfortunate war. Jn the
following year he was sent to Malta, then
menaced with an invasion by the Turks.
After these expeditions, he found himself de
prived of his place, forsaken by his relatives,
and reduced to extreme necessity. He deter
mined then to go and seek his fortune in a
foreign land.
For some time he had dreamed of establish
ing a perfect republic, from which injustice
and corruption should be entirely banished,
and where men would mutually encourage
each other in virtue. Catharine 11., who then
reigned in Russia, seemed more capable than
all other sovereigns of understanding bis
plans, and he sold the little he possessed and
repaired to St Petersburg. It was his inten
tion to establish himself upon the shores of
the Aral sea. But bis proposals were not
adopted, and he deemed himself fortunate in
obtaining the tank of Lieutenant Engineer in
the Corps of Fortifioations. This situation
procured him a handsome support, and he
would willingly hsve passed the (remainder of
I
hie days in Russia, if the rigor of tho climate
had not injured his health, or rather if he had
been sufficient master of his own actions to
fix himself permanently in one place.
When he returned to France, they spoke of
colonising the island of Madagascar. This
news was to him a ray of light; be recalled
his former ideas, and presented to the Govern
ment several plans which attracted consider
ble attention, and he was sent to the island of
France in the capacity of engineer. He must
go from hence to Madagascar to realize bis
projects, but a division which rose amoDg the
principal officers compelled him to remain in
the Isle of France, happily for him for almost
all of those who went over to Madagascer
perished of hunger and misery. During bis so
journ in the Isle of France, be had much to
endure from the persecutions of his colleagues,
who regarded him as a dangerous rival.
His salary, too, paid in paper money, was so
small that it barely sufficed for his most pres
sing wants. He solicited, therefore, a return
to Europe, and obtained it.
He had oollected a large number of curiosi
ties, and hoped to obtain for them a consider
able sum, by offering them to an ambassador
who had promised him his protection. The
ambassador accepted his present and rewarded
him with words.
From this time, Rcrnardm resolved to de
pend only on himself; he commenced writing,
and published a narration of his voyage to the
Isle of France. This work drew upon him
the raillery of tboae philosophers who had ab
jured all belief in God. Some rather liberal
opinions rendered him an object of suspicion
to the Government, and he was reduced to
the necessity of renting a small chamber in
the fifth story, In the suburb of Saint Victor.
He here passed several years in the greatest
distress. We can judge of this by these few
words found in one of his letters : “All those
whom I have loved, are estranged from me ; I
am ill!. .. . 1 have no longer either shirt or
coat, my rambles on foot have worn them out.’’
It was in this obscure retreat that he com
posed the "Etudes de la Mature.’' The first
volumes gave him a brilliant reputation. The
author received several pensions from the
Court, and wag appointed Intendenl of the
Jardin des Plantes, by Louis XVI.
Four years later, in 1788, he published
‘•Paul and Virginia,” an admirable book that
unites a fascinating style and an interesting
romance, and that filled the cup of his glory.
It is related that the author, discouraged at
tbe unflattering reception which Buffoo,
Thomus, and other celebrated litterateurs, had
given to his manuscript, had resolved to throw
it into the fire, when the painter Vernet, his
fellow-studeut, visited him. Vernet finding
bis friend deeply afflicted, demanded of him
the reason. Bernardiu naively confessed it,
and consented tp read him his work. After
the first pages Vernet was transported with
admiration, and, without permitting him te
finish bis reading, he cried, with enthusiasm :
“My friend, you have accomplished a chef
d'mevre /”
Very soon the public confirmed this judg
ment. “Paul and Virginia’’ was translated
into all languages, and the author, so long ex
posed to tempests, could henceforward expect
a happier destiny. But tbe time had not yet
come—a storm even more terrible was upon
the point of bursting.
That Revolution, which he bad foreseen,
cost him his place and his fortune; at the
same time, he had the prudence to hold him
self in reserve, and to refuse all the offices
which were offered to him. By this wise con
duct he escaped the Revolutionary axe, which
struck off so many heads, regardless of talent.
Bonaparte restored the fortunes of Bernar
din, and bestowed upon him the Cross of
Honor; Joseph, King of Spain, to this added
a pension of six thousand francs. These
gratuities enabled him to purchase a country
residence in the village of Ersguy. seven
leagues from Paris, where he died in peace on
the 2lst of. January, 1814.
At a recent festive meeting, a married man,
who ought to have known betters proposed :
‘The ladies,’ as ‘the beings who divide onr
sorrows, double our joys and treble our ex
penses.’
From the Educational Journal.
A TALE OF THE OLD CHUBGH BELL.
BY MB*. SI. W. HUOtTOH.
Chime, chime, pleasantly chime!
The church bell swing* with a solemn rhyme,
Echoing sweet through the eeft, spting air,
A* the villagers go to the house of prayer.
Pattering light on the dewy gras*,
Children’s feet through the meadow pass—
Through the meadow, over the stream
Pass they on in a beautiful dream.
She hath an eye like a young gazelle;
Cheeks like the blush of the pink sea-shell;
Shining curls of a golden brown
Over her white neck showering down.
He builds a palace—its halls are bright
In floods of golden and amber light!
He crowns a queen and he weds a bride
As they walk to the brown chureh side by side.
Through the meadow, oyer the stream,
Hand in hand in a blissful dream,
o«,ii«sring flowers for the golden hair.
Building a splendid castle in air!
Chime, chime, mournfully chime!
Alas for the changes that come with time!
Years bring lessons of toil and care ;
Roee-hued palaces vanish in air.
He in the city far away ,
Sits in a cushioned pew to-day ;
Wearily shuts bis aching eyes,
Sits in his cushioned pew and sighs.
Thinks of the meadow where years ago
Blue-eyed violets used to grow;
Os clustering curls, and of meek, brown eyes ;
Thinks of the long, long past, and sighs.
Sighs as he holds the open door,
While wife and child pass out before,
And wonders if ever this life may seem
Half as fair as his boyhood's dream.
And she kneels down by a church-yard stone ;
She hears the burden of life alone ;
Her brow isfnrrowed with years of care,
And her voice hath a sorrowfal tone in prayer 1 y
Her heart goes back to the bright spring-time
When life grew sweet with a joy sublime,
And she wonders if anght the blest shall see
In the after-life more fair will be.
Chime, chime, solemnly chime 1
Love’s eternity follows time ;
And the hopes whose grave* we have made
with tears
Bhall deepen the joy of its glorious years !
(Written for the Southern Field and Flrefide.)
VIRGIL’S ANEID.
BT JAMES M. THOMPSON.
111.
With the third book of the -Eneid ends the story
of .Xneas. Some commentators have found fault
with the suddenness of the ending of this book ;
but we contend that this very suddenness is con
ducive of effect, ju3t as the off-hand beginning of
the -Eneid is the most forcible the poet conld
have invented. Os course the merely dividing
the poem has but little to do with this effect; but
it is the turning from the narrative of -Eueas to
the pitjsble condition of Dide. Some differ
ence of opinion exists, also, as to the meaning of
the last sentence of this (3d) book. The verse
runs thus: .
“Conticuit tandem, factoque hie fine quievit.'’
Anthon translates qmetit by “he rested from
his narrative," but we prefer the explanation of
Wunderlich. The idea intended to be conveyed
is “he retired to rest—sought repose.'’ Anthon
thinks this toe abrupt; and so it would be but
for the commencement of book fourth— “At
regina, Ac.,” which is closely connected with it
in construing—“ASneas sought repose, but the
queen, Ac." It seems that Virgil intended to
compare the different conditions of mind of
-Eneas and Dido. .Eneas reposes; but the queen
“is consumed by a hidden fire I" These are, in
deed, characteristic of the two. In support of
this, read the story that follows the beginning of
book fourth. -Eneas after basking in the sun
shine of Dido’s love, leaves her with what is cer
tainly a poor show of regret. Dido builds a
funeral pile and stabs herself with the sword of
her departed lover, while he with a heartless
cariosity gazeß from his ship upon the distant
gleam of the consuming fire. Heartless curiosity
it may well be caUed; for, though he knew not
that he saw the flame of the queen's funeral pile,
he did know that she was life-wrecked. Now this
was heartless; no matter what excuse the Trojan
hero might plead. Not the oall of fame ; not all
the bright prospects of being the founder of a
nation; not even the t till of the gods can excuse
each perfidy. Anthon says truly that “it is very b
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