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6 “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 ZA