ception, of the new habitation he would build for her, of the
pleasures and surprises which each day should bring along with it when she
was his wife? His wife! That hope was ecstasy. 'At least, my dear father,'
said he, 'you shall then do nothing more than you please. Virginia being
rich, we shall have a number of negroes, who will labour for you. You shall
always live with us, and have no other care than to amuse and rejoice
yourself:' and, his heart throbbing with delight, he flew to communicate
those exquisite sensations to his family.

"In a short time, however, the most cruel apprehensions succeeded those
enchanting hopes. Violent passions ever throw the soul into opposite
extremes. Paul returned to my dwelling absorbed in melancholy, and said to
me, 'I hear nothing from Virginia. Had she left Europe she would have
informed me 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 but a subject of romance. Had Virginia
been virtuous, she would not have forsaken her mother and me, and, while I
pass life in thinking of her, forgotten me. While I am wretched, she is
happy. Ah! that thought distracts me: labour becomes painful, and society
irksome. 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 hopes of
posthumous fame. There is a species of courage more necessary, and more
rare, which makes us support, without witness, and without applause, the
various vexations of life; and that is, patience. Leaning not upon the
opinions of others, but upon the will of God, patience is the courage of
virtue.'

"'Ah!' cried he,' I am then without virtue! Every thing overwhelms and
distracts me.'

"'Equal, constant, and invariable virtue,' I replied, 'belongs not to man.'
In the midst of so many passions, by which we are agitated, our reason is
disordered and obscured: but there is an ever-burning 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
which governs the universe; and which man, inspired by celestial
intelligence, has drawn down to earth. Like the sun, it enlightens, it
rejoices,