immense farm, situated in an isolated spot, and built of the
lava from an extinct volcano. Saint Hibaut, ah! the moment the pen
traces that dear name my aching heart beats and throbs within my
breast--before my eyes pass to and fro the memories of a vanished
world--I seem to feel the fresh and odorous breezes from thy flowers,
thy mossy banks and scented shrubs, and hear thy murmuring rills and the
dash of thy wild torrents. St. Hibaut! lovely spot where flew so swiftly
and so sweetly the brightest and gayest hours of my early years--St.
Hibaut, the memory of thee burns within my heart: but those within thy
walls, do they still think of me?

Alas! in this world of tears and deception, of moral tortures and often
of physical suffering--what is there more delightful, more consolatory
than to sip, nay plunge the lips, and drink, yes, drink deep from that
fresh and blessed spring, the memory of by-gone days. How great the
burden of the man who has been the sport of fortune, whose life has been
one continued sorrow, who, never satisfied with the present moment, is
always hoping for better and happier days, and always regretting those
which have been and are now no more. O! Reader--if many griefs have been
your portion, if it has been your sad fate to tread with naked feet the
thorny paths of life, if the foul passions of envy, rage, and hatred
have found a place in your heart, close your eyes, forget your
miseries--open, open for a moment that golden casket called the memory,
in which are preserved, embalmed and imperishable, all those happy
incidents which were the delight of your youth. Yes! open wide that
casket, ponder well, and with renewed fondness o'er these treasures of
the mind, and believe me after such holy reflections you will feel
yourself more able to meet the contumely of the world, and find yourself
a happier and a better man.

Saint Hibaut, situated in a wild country, surrounded by lonely heaths
and deep ravines, and water-courses whose sides are covered by almost
impenetrable thickets, was at the time I speak of, that is to say, when
I was eighteen years of age, the property of Monsieur de Cheribalde,
the most intrepid, determined and ardent sportsman, who ever winded a
horn, wore a huntsman's knife, or whistled a dog.

Distant very nearly twenty miles from any human habitation, it was at
times, the favourite rendezvous, the head-quarters of a great number of
chevreuil, boar and other denizens of the for