TO LOVE.

"The tender and sacred duties which nature imposed, became a source of additional happiness to those affectionate mothers, whose mutual friendship acquired new strength at the sight of their children, alike the offspring of unhappy love. They delighted to place their infants together in the same bath, to nurse them in the same cradle, and sometimes changed the maternal bosom at which they received nourishment, as if to blend with the ties of friendship that instinctive affection which this act produces.

'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 two 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 those two children, deprived of all other support, imbibed sentiments more tender than those of son and daughter, brother and sister, when exchanged at the breast of those who had given them birth. While they were yet in their cradle, their mothers talked of their marriage; and this prospect of conjugal felicity, with which they soothed their own cares, often called forth the tears of bitter regret. The misfortunes of one mother had arisen from having neglected marriage, those of the other from having submitted to its laws: one had been made unhappy by attempting to raise herself above her humble condition of life, 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, those prejudices which poison the most precious sources of our happiness, would enjoy at once the pleasures of love and the blessings of equality.

"Nothing could exceed that attachment which those infants already displayed for each other. If Paul complained, his mother pointed to Virginia; and at that sight he smiled, and was appeased. If any accident befel Virginia, the cries of Paul gave notice of the disaster; and then Virginia would suppress her complaints when she found that Paul was unhappy. When I came hither, I usually found them quite naked, which is the custom of this country, tottering in their walk, and holding each other by the hands and under the arms, as we represent 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 began to speak, the first names they learnt to give each other were those of brother and sister, and childhood knows no softer appellation. Their education served to augment their early friendship, by directing it to the supply of their reciprocal wants. In a short time, all that regarded the household economy, the care of preparing the 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, where, if in his rambles he espied a beautiful flower, fine fruit, or a nest of birds, even at the top of a tree, he climbed up, and brought it home to his sister.

"When you met with one of these children, you might be sure the other was not distant. One day, coming down that mountain, I saw Virginia at the end of the garden, running toward 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 that she held Paul by the arm, who was almost entirely enveloped in the same cavity, and both were laughing heartily at being sheltered together under an umbrella of their own invention. Those two charming faces, placed within the petticoat, swelled by the wind, recalled to my mind the children of Leda, enclosed within the same shell.

"Their sole study was how to please and assist each other; for of all other things they were ignorant, and knew neither how to read nor write. They were never disturbed by researches into past times, nor did their curiosity extend beyond the bounds of that mountain. They believed the world ended at the shores of their own island, and all their ideas and affections were confined within its limits. Their mutual tenderness, and that of their mothers, employed all the activity of their souls. Their tears had never been called forth by long 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 that they must not steal, because every thing with them was in common; or be intemperate, because their simple food was left to their own discretion; or false, because they had no truth to conceal. Their young imaginations had never been terrified by the idea that God has punishments in store for ungrateful children, since with them filial affection arose naturally from maternal fondness. 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 their hearts purified by virtuous affections.

"Thus passed their early childhood, like a beautiful dawn, the prelude of a bright day. Already they partook with their mothers the cares of the household. As soon as the cry 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 lighted up the points of those rocks which overhang this enclosure, Margaret and her child went to the dwelling of Madame de la Tour, and they offered up together their morning prayer. This sacrifice of thanksgiving always preceded their first repast, which they often partook before the door of the cottage, seated upon the grass, under a canopy of plantain; and while the branches of that delightful tree afforded a grateful shade, its solid fruit furnished food ready prepared by nature; and its long glossy leaves, spread upon the table, supplied the want of linen.

"Plentiful and wholesome nourishment gave early growth and vigour to the persons of those children, and their countenances expressed the purity and 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, her look had a cast upwards, which gave it an expression of extreme sensibility, or rather of tender melancholy. Already the figure of Paul displayed the graces of manly 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 eyelashes, by which were shaded, had not given them a look of softness. He was constantly in motion, except when his sister appeared; and then, placed at her side, he became quiet. Their meals often passed in silence, and, from the grace of their attitudes, the beautiful proportions of their figures, and their naked feet, you might have fancied you beheld an antique group of white marble, representing some of the children of Niobe; if those eyes which sought to meet those smiles which were answered by smiles of the most tender softness, had not rather given you the idea of those happy celestial spirits, whose nature is love, and who are not obliged to have recourse to words for the expression of that intuitive sentiment. In the mean time, 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 should die, what will become of Virginia without fortune?'

"Madame de la Tour had an aunt in France, who was a woman of quality, rich, old and a great bigot. She had behaved towards her niece with so much cruelty upon her marriage that Madame de la Tour had determined that no distress or misfortune should ever compel her to have recourse to her hard-hearted relation. But when she became a mother, the pride of resentment was stilled in 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 at a distance from her own country, without support, and burthened with a child. She received no answer; but, notwithstanding that high spirit which was natural to her character, she no longer feared exposing herself to mortification and reproach; and, although she knew her relation would never pardon her for having married a man of merit, but not of noble birth, she continued to write to her by every opportunity, in the hope of awakening her compassion for Virginia. Many years, however, passed, during which she received not the smallest testimony 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, careless on this occasion of appearing in her homely garment. Maternal hope and joy subdued all those little considerations, which are lost when the mind is absorbed by any powerful sentiment. Monsieur de la Bourdonnais delivered to her a letter from her aunt, who informed her, that she deserved her fate for having married an adventurer and a libertine; that misplaced passions brought along with them their own punishment, and that the sudden death of her husband must be considered as a 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, every person grew rich except the idle. Having thus lavished sufficient censure upon the conduct of her niece, she finished by a eulogium on herself. To avoid, she said, the almost inevitable evils of marriage, she had determined to remain in a single state. In truth, being of a very ambitious temper, she had resolved only to unite, herself to a man of high rank; and 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.

"She added, in a postscript, that, after mature deliberation, she had strongly recommended her niece to Monsieur de la Bourdonnais. This she had indeed done, but in a manner of late too common, and which renders a patron perhaps even more formidable than a declared enemy: for, in order to justify herself, 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 feeling sympathy and respect, was received with the utmost coolness by Monsieur de la Bourdonnais; and when she painted to him her own situation, and that of her child, he replied, 'We will see what can be done—there are so many to relieve—why did you affront so respectable a relation?—You have been much to blame.'

"Madame de la Tour returned to her cottage, her bosom throbbing with all the bitterness of disappointment. When she arrived, she threw herself on a chair, and then flinging her aunt's letter on the table, exclaimed to her friend, 'This is the recompense of eleven years of patient expectation!' As Madame de la Tour was the only person in the little circle who could read, she again took up the letter, which she read 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 hand and Margaret's alternately to her lips and to her heart: while Paul, with his eyes inflamed with anger, cried, clasped his hands together, and stamped with his feet, not knowing whom to blame for this scene of misery. The noise soon led Domingo and Mary to the spot, and the little habitation resounded with the cries of distress. Ah, Madame!—My good mistress!—My dear mother!—Do not weep!'

"Those tender proofs of affection at length dispelled Madame de la Tour's sorrow. She took Paul and Virginia in her arms, and, embracing them, cried, 'You are the cause of my affliction, and yet my only source of delight! Yes, my dear children, misfortune has reached me from a distance, but surely I am surrounded by happiness.' Paul and Virginia did not understand this reflection; but, when they saw that she was calm, they smiled, and continued to caress her. Thus tranquillity was restored, and what had passed proved but a transient storm, which serves to give fresh verdure to a beautiful spring.

"Although Madame de la Tour appeared calm in the presence of her family, she sometimes communicated to me the feelings that preyed upon her mind, and soon after this period gave me the following sonnet:—

"The amiable disposition of those children unfolded itself daily. On a Sunday, their mothers having gone at break of day to mass, at the church of the Shaddock Grove, the children perceived a negro woman beneath the plantains which shaded their habitation. She appeared almost wasted to a skeleton, and had no other garment than a shred of coarse cloth thrown across her loins. She flung herself at Virginia's feet, who was preparing the family breakfast, and cried, 'My good young lady, have pity on a poor slave. For a whole month I have wandered amongst 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 by deep 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 food,' and she gave her the breakfast she had prepared, which the poor slave in a few minutes devoured. When her hunger was appeased, Virginia said to her, 'Unhappy woman! will you let me 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 they reached the foot of a precipice upon the borders of the Black River. There they perceived a well-built house, surrounded by extensive plantations, and a great number of slaves employed at their various labours. Their master was walking amongst them with a pipe in his mouth, and a switch in his hand. He was a tall thin figure, of a brown complexion; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his dark eyebrows were joined together. 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 man 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 own frame, while she implored his compassion; he took the 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 sprung away, followed by Paul.

"They climbed up the precipice 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 cottage fasting, and had walked five leagues since break of day. 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; and I shall not be able to find even a tamarind or a lemon to refresh you.' Scarcely had he pronounced these words, when they heard the dashing of waters which fell from a neighbouring rock. They ran thither, and having quenched their thirst at this crystal spring, they gathered a few cresses which grew on the border of the stream. While they were wandering in the woods in search of more solid nourishment, Virginia spied a young palm tree. The kind of cabbage which is found at the top of this tree, enfolded within its leaves, forms an excellent sustenance; but, although the stalk of the tree was not thicker than a man's leg, it was above sixty feet in height. The wood of this tree is composed of fine filaments; but the bark is so hard that it turns the edge of the hatchet, and Paul was not even furnished 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 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 in 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, which he held between his feet; he then sharpened 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 points of contact. Paul then heaped together dried grass and branches, and set fire to the palm tree, which soon fell to the ground. The fire was useful to him in stripping off the long, thick and pointed leaves, within which the cabbage was enclosed.

"Paul and Virginia ate part of the cabbage raw, and part dressed upon the ashes, which they found equally palatable. They made this frugal repast with delight, from the remembrance of the benevolent action they had performed in the morning: yet their joy was embittered by the thoughts of that uneasiness which their long absence would give 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.

"After dinner they recollected that they had 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 go.' This mountain is called the Three Peaks. Paul and Virginia descended the precipice of the Black River, on the northern side; and arrived, after an hour's walk, on the banks of a large stream.

"Great part of this island is so little known, even now, that many of its rivers and mountains have not yet received a name. The river, on the banks of which our travellers stood, rolls foaming over a bed of rocks. The noise of the water frightened Virginia, and she durst not wade through the stream: 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 the inhabitant of 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 it is so easy to do wrong.'

"When Paul had crossed the river, he wished to continue his journey, carrying his sister, and believed he was able to climb in that way the mountain of the Three Peaks, which was still at the distance of half a league; but his strength soon failed, and he was obliged to set down his burden, 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 surprises 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 mean time, Virginia being a little rested, pulled from the trunk of an old tree, which hung over the bank of the river, some long leaves of hart's tongue, which grew near its root. With those 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 forgot 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 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 Tree Peaks, by which they had directed their course, and even 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 and rocks, which appeared to have no opening. 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 all his researches were in vain. He climbed to the top of a tree, from whence he hoped at least to discern the mountain of the Three Peaks; but all he could perceive around him were the tops of trees, some of which were gilded by the last beams of the setting sun. Already the shadows of the mountains were spread over the forests in the valleys. The wind ceased, as it usually does, at the evening hour. The most profound silence reigned in those awful solitudes, which was only interrupted by the cry of the stags, who came to repose 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 forests alone answered his call, and repeated again and again, 'Virginia—Virginia.' Paul at length descended from the tree, overcome with fatigue and vexation, and reflected how they might best contrive to pass the night in that desert. But he could find neither a fountain, a palm-tree, nor even a branch of dry wood to kindle a fire. He then felt, by experience, the sense of his own weakness, and began to weep. Virginia said to him, 'Do not weep, my dear brother, or I shall die with grief. I am the cause of all your sorrow, and of all that our mothers suffer 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. She then said to Paul, 'Let us pray to God, my dear brother, and he will hear us.'

"Scarcely had they finished their prayer, when they heard the barking of a dog. 'It is the dog of some hunter,' said Paul, 'who comes here at night to lay in wait for the stags.'

"Soon after the dog barked again with more violence. 'Surely,' said Virginia, 'it is Fidele, our own dog; yes, I know his voice. Are we then so near home? at the foot of our own mountain? a moment after Fidele was at their feet, barking, howling, crying, and devouring them with his caresses. Before they had recovered their surprise, they saw Domingo running towards them. At the sight of this good old negro, who wept with joy, they began to weep too, without being able to utter one word. When Domingo had recovered himself a little, 'Oh, my dear children,' cried he, 'how miserable have you made your mothers! How much were they astonished when they returned from mass, where I went with them, and not finding you! Mary, who was at work at a little distance, could not tell us where you were gone. I ran backwards and forwards about 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, continually wagging his tail, to the Black River. It was there a planter told me that you had brought back a negro woman, his slave, and that he had granted you her pardon. But what 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.

"'From thence Fidele, still on the scent, led me up the precipice of the Black River, where he again stopped and barked with all his might. This was on the brink of a spring, near a fallen palm tree, and close to a fire which was still smoking. At last he led me to this very spot. We are at the foot of the mountains of the Three Peaks, and still four leagues from home. Come, eat, and gather strength.' He then presented them with cakes, fruits, and a very large gourd filled with a liquor composed of wine, water, lemon juice sugar, and nutmeg, which their mothers had prepared. Virginia sighed at the recollection of the poor slave, and at the uneasiness which they had given their mothers. She repeated several times, 'Oh, how difficult it is to do good.'

"While she and Paul were taking refreshment, Domingo kindled a fire, and having sought among the rocks for a particular kind of crooked wood, which burns when quite green, throwing out a great blaze, he made a torch, which he lighted, it being already night. But when they prepared to continue their journey, a new difficulty occurred; Paul and Virginia could no longer walk, their feet being violently swelled and inflamed. Domingo knew not whether it were best to leave them, and go in search of help, or remain and pass the night with them on that spot. 'What is become of the time,' said he, 'when I used to carry you both together in my arms? But now you are grown big, and I am grown old.' While he was in this perplexity, a troop of Maroon negroes appeared at the distance of twenty paces. 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, in which, having seated Paul and Virginia, they placed it upon their shoulders. Domingo marched in front, carrying his lighted torch, and they proceeded amidst the rejoicings of the whole troop, and overwhelmed with their benedictions. Virginia, affected by this scene, said to Paul, with emotion, 'O, my dear brother! God never leaves a good action without reward.'

"It was midnight when they arrived at the foot of the mountain, on the ridges of which several fires were lighted. Scarcely had they begun to ascend, when they heard voices crying out, 'Is it you, my children?' They answered together with the negroes, 'Yes, it is us;' and soon after perceived their mothers and Mary coming towards them with lighted sticks in their hands. 'Unhappy children!' cried Madame de la Tour, 'from whence do you come? What agonies you have made us suffer!' 'We come, said Virginia, 'from the Black River, where we went to ask pardon for a poor Maroon slave, to whom I gave our breakfast this morning, because she was 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, 'You repay me for all the hardships I have suffered.' Margaret, in a transport of delight, pressed Paul in her arms, crying, 'And you also, my dear child! you have done a good action.' When they reached the hut with their children, they gave plenty of food to the negroes, who returned to their woods, after praying the blessing of heaven might descend on those good white people.

"Every day was to those families a day of tranquillity and of happiness. Neither ambition nor envy disturbed their repose. In this island, where, as in all the European colonies, every malignant anecdote is circulated with avidity, their virtues, and even their names, were unknown. Only when a traveller on the road of the Shaddock Grove inquired of any of the inhabitants of the plain, 'Who lives in those two cottages above?' he was always answered, even by those who did not know them, 'They are good people.' Thus the modest violet, concealed beneath the thorny bushes, sheds its fragrance, while itself remains unseen.

"Doing good appeared to those amiable families to be the chief purpose of life. Solitude, far from having blunted their benevolent feelings, or rendered their dispositions morose, had left their hearts open to every tender affection. The contemplation of nature filled their minds with enthusiastic delight. They adored the bounty of that Providence which had enabled them to spread abundance and beauty amidst those barren rocks, and to enjoy those pure and simple pleasures which are ever grateful and ever new. It was, probably, in those dispositions of mind that Madame de la Tour composed the following sonnet.