bout
their habitations with their feet bare, and shoes were a convenience
reserved for Sunday, when, at an early hour, they attended mass at the
church of the Shaddock Grove, which you see yonder. That church is far more
distant than Port Louis; yet they seldom visited the town, lest they should
be treated with contempt, because they were dressed in the coarse blue
linen of Bengal, which is usually worn by slaves. But is there in that
external deference which fortune commands a compensation for domestic
happiness? If they had something to suffer from the world, this served but
to endear their humble home. No sooner did Mary and Domingo perceive them
from this elevated spot, 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 that joy which their return
inspired. They found in their retreat neatness, independence, all those
blessings which are the recompense of toil, and received those services
which have their source in 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 aliment on earth.

"Madame de la Tour sometimes, leaving the household cares to Margaret,
wandered out alone; and, amidst the sublime scenery, indulged that luxury
of pensive sadness, which is so soothing to the mind after the first
emotions of turbulent sorrow have subsided. Sometimes she poured forth the
effusions of melancholy in the language of verse; and, although her
compositions have little poetical merit, they appear to me to bear the
marks of genuine sensibility. Many of her poems are lost; but some still
remain in my possession, and a few still hang on my memory. I will repeat
to you a sonnet addressed to Love.

SONNET

TO LOVE.

Ah, Love! ere yet I knew thy fatal power,
Bright glow'd the colour of my youthful days,
As, on the sultry zone, the torrid rays,
That paint the broad-leaved plantain's glossy bower;
Calm was my bosom as this silent ho