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வியாmitamil


マルタ
​175
.





7.17, Bevar!
3-1723
-
Hai :


:
The
THE
MYSTERIES
OF
U DO L P H 0.
| C
H
A
P.
1. "
“........ home is the reſort
Of love, of joy, of peace and plenty, where,
Supporting and ſupported, poliſh'd friends
And dear relations mingle into bliſs.”
THOMSON.
ON the pleaſant banks of the Garonne,
in the province of Gaſcony, ſtood, in the
year 1584, the chateau of Monſieur St.
Aubert. From its windows were ſeen
the paſtoral landſcapes of Guienne and
Gaſcony ſtretching along the river, gay
with luxuriant woods and vines, and
plantations of olives. To the ſouth, the
view was bounded by the majeſtic Pyre-
nées, whoſe ſummits, veiled in clouds, or
Vol. I. B exhibiting
425506


Ors
exhibiting awful forms, feen, andloſt
again, as the partial vapours rolled along,
were ſometimes barren, and gleamed
through the blue tinge of air, and ſome-
times frowned with foreſts of gloomy
pine, that ſwept downward to their
baſe. Theſe tremendous precipices were
contraſted by the ſoft green of the paſ-
tures and woods that hung upon their
ſkirts; among whoſe flocks, and herds,
and ſimple cottages, the eye, after having
ſcaled the cliffs above, delighted to re-
poſe. To the north, and to the eaſt, the
plains of Guienne and Languedoc were
loſt in the miſt of diſtance; on the weſt,
Gaſcony was bounded by the waters of
Biſcay.
M. St. Aubert loved to wander, with
his wife and daughter, on the margin of
the Garonne, and to liſten to the muſic
that floated on its waves. He had known
life in other forms than thoſe of paſto.
ral ſimplicity, having mingled in the gay
and in the buſy ſcenes of the world; but
the


( 3 )
the flattering portrait of mankind, which
his heart had delineated in early youth,
his experience had too ſorrowfully cor-
rected. Yet, amidſt the changing viſions
of life, his principles remained unſhaken,
his benevolence unchilled; and he retir-
ed from the multitude “ more in pity
than in anger," to ſcenes of ſimple na-
ture, to the pure delights of literature,
and to the exerciſe of domeſtic virtues.
He was a deſcendant from the younger
branch of an illuſtrious family, and
it was deſigned, that the deficiency of
his patrimonial wealth ſhould be ſupplied
either by a ſplendid alliance in marriage,
or by ſucceſs in the intrigues of public
affairs. But St. Aubert had too nice a
ſenſe of honour to fulfil the latter hope,
and too ſmall a portion of ambition to
ſacrifice what he called happineſs, to the
attainment of wealth. After the death
of his father he married a very amiable
woman, his equal in birth, and not his
ſuperior in fortune. The late Monſieur
B2
St.


St. Aubert's liberality, or extravagance,
had ſo much involved his affairs, that his
ſon found it neceſſary to diſpoſe of a part
of the family domain, and, ſome years
after his marriage, he ſold it to Monſieur
Queſnel, the brother of his wife, and re-
tired to a ſmall eſtate in Gaſcony, where
conjugal felicity, and parental duties, di-
vided his attention with the treaſures of
knowledge and the illuminations of ge-
nius.
To this ſpot he had been attached from
his infancy. He had often made excur-
fions to it when a boy, and the impref-
ſions of delight given to his mind by the
homely kindneſs of the grey-headed pea-
fant, to whom it was intruſted, and
whoſe fruit and cream never failed, had
not been obliterated by ſucceeding cir-
cumſtances. The green paſtures along
which he had ſo often bounded in the
exultation of health, and youthful free-
dom-the woods, under whoſe refreſhing
fhade he had firſt indulged that penſive
melan-


( 5 )
melancholy, which afterwards, made a
ſtrong feature of his character-the wild
walks of the mountains, the river, on
whoſe waves he had floated, and the dif-
tant plains, which ſeemed boundleſs as
his early hopes—were never after re-
membered by St. Aubert but with enthu.
ſiaſm and regret.' Ac length he diſen-
gaged himſelf from the world, and re-
tired hither, to realize the wiſhes of many
years.
The building, as it then ſtood, was
merely a ſummer cottage, rendered inter-
eſting to a ſtranger by its neat fimpli-
city, or the beauty of the ſurrounding
ſcene; and confiderabie additions were
neceſſary to make it a comfortable fami-
ly reſidence, St. Aubert felt a kind of
affection for every part of the fabric,
which he remembered in his youth, and
would not ſuffer a ſtone of it to be re-
moved ; ſo that the new building, adapt-
ed to the ſtyle of the old one, formed
with it only a ſimple and elegant refi-
dence.
B 3


( 6 )
dence. The taſte of Madame St. Au.
bert was conſpicuous in its internal finiſh.
ing, where the fame chaſte fimplicity
• was obſervable in the furniture, and in
the few ornaments of the apartments,
that characteriſed the manners of its in-
habitants.
The library occupied the weſt ſide of
the chateau, and was enriched by a col.
lection of the beſt books in the ancient and
modern languages. This room opened
upon a grove, which ſtood on the brow
of a gentle declivity, that fell towards the
river, and the tall trees gave it a melan.
choly and pleaſing ſhade; while from
in b.....!
the windows the eye caugnt, venearn the
ſpreading branches, the gay and luxu-
riant landſcape ſtretching to the weſt,
and overlooked on the left by the bold
precipices of the Pyrenées. Adjoining
the library was a green-houſe, ſtored with
ſcarce and beautiful plants; for one of
the amuſements of St. Aubert was the
ſtudy of botany; and among the neigh-
bouring


( 7 )
bouring mountains, which afforded a lux-
urious feaſt to the mind of the naturaliſt,
he often paſſed the day in the purſuits
of his favourite ſcience. He was ſome-
times accompanied in theſe little excur.
fions by Madame St. Aubert, and fre-
quently by his daughter ; when, with a
ſmall oſier baſket to receive plants, and
another filled with cold refreſhments,
ſuch as the cabin of the ſhepherd did
not afford, they wandered away among
the moſt romantic and magnificent ſcenes,
nor ſuffered the charms of Nature's low-
ly children to abſtract them from the ob-
ſervance of her ſtupendous works. When
weary of fauntering ainong cliffs that
ſeemed ſcarcely acceſſible but to the
ſteps of the enthuſiaſt, and where no
track appeared on the vegetation, but
what the foot of the izard had left ; they
would ſeek one of thoſe green receſſes,
which ſo beautifully adorn the boſom of
theſe mountains, where, under the ſhade
of the lofty larch, or cedar, they enjoyed
B 4
their


(8 )
their fimple repaſt, made ſweeter by the
waters of the cool ſtream, that crept
along the turf, and by the breath of wild
flowers and aromatic plants, that fringed
the rocks, and inlaid the graſs.
Adjoining the eaſtern ſide of the green-
houſe, looking towards the plains of Lan-
guedoc, was a room, which Emily called
hers, and which contained her books, her
drawings, her muſical inſtruments, with
ſome favourite birds and plants. Here ſhe
uſually exerciſed herſelf in elegant arts,
cultivated only becauſe they were conge-
niál to her taſte, and in which native ge-
nius, affifted by the inſtructions of Mon-
fieur and Madame St. Aubert, made her
an early proficient. The windows of
this room were particularly pleaſant ;
they deſcended to the floor, and, opening
upon the little lawn that ſurrounded the
houſe, the eye was led between groves of
almond, palm-trees, flowering alh, and
myrtle, to the diſtant landſcape, where
the Garonne wandered.
The


(9 )
The peaſants of this gay climate were
often ſeen on an evening, when the day's
labour was done, dancing in groups on
the margin of the river. Their ſpright-
ly melodies, debonnaire ſteps, the fanciful
figure of their dances, with the taſteful
and capricious manner in which the girls
adjuſted their ſimple dreſs, gave a charac-
ter to the ſcene entirely French.
• The front of the chateau, which, having
a ſouthern aſpect, opened upon the gran-
deur of the mountains, was occupied on
the ground floor by a ruſtic hall, and two
excellent fitting rooms. The firſt floor, for
the cottage had no ſecond ſtory, was laid
out in bed-chambers, except one apartment
that opened to a balcony, and which was
generally uſed for a breakfaſt-room.
In the ſurrounding ground, St. Au-
bert' had made very taſteful improve-
ments; yet, ſuch was his attachment to
objects he had remembered from his boy-
ilh days, that he had in ſome inſtances
facrificed taſte to ſentiment. There were
two
B 5


( 10 )
two old larches that faded the building,
and interrupted the proſpect : St. Aubert
had ſometimes declared that he believed
he ſhould have been weak enough to have
wept at their fall. In addition to theſe
larches he planted a little grove of beech,
pine, and mountain-aſh. On a lofty terrace,
formed by the ſwelling bank of the river,
roſe a plantation of orange, lemon and
palm-trees, whoſe fruit, in the coolneſs
of evening, breathed delicious fragrance.
With theſe were mingled a few trees of
other ſpecies. Here, under the ample
ſhade of a plane-tree, that ſpread its ma-
jeſtic canopy towards the river, St. Au-
bert loved to fit in the fine evenings of
ſunimer, with his wife and childrent;
watching, beneath its foliage, the ſetting-
fun, the mild ſplendour of its light fad.
ing from the diſtant landſcape, till the
ſhadows of twilight melted its various
features into one tint of fober gray. Here,
too, he loved to read, and to converſe
with Madame St. Aubert; or to play
a
.
with


( 1)
with his children, reſigning himſelf to
the influence of thoſe ſweet affections,
which are ever attendant on fimplicity
and nature. He has often ſaid, while
tears of pleaſure trembled in his eyes, that
theſe were moments infinitely more delight-
ful than any paſſed amid the brilliant and
tumultuous ſcenes that are courted by the
world. His heart was occupied; it had,
what can be ſo rarely ſaid, no wiſh for a
happineſs beyond what it experienced.
The conſciouſneſs of acting right diffuſed
a ſerenity over his manners, which no-
thing elſe could impart to a man of mo-
ral perceptions like his, and which refined
his ſenſe of every ſurrounding bleſſing.
The deepeſt ſnade of twilight did not
ſend him from his favourite plane-tree.
He loved the foothing hour, when the
laſt tints of light die away; when the
ſtars, one by one, tremble through æther,
and are reflected on the dark mirror of
the waters; that hour, which, of all
others, inſpires the mind with penſive ten- ·
B6
derneſs,


( 12
12 )
derneſs, and often elevates it to ſublime
contemplation. When the moon ſhed
her foft rays among the foliage, he ſtill,
lingered, and his paſtoral ſupper of cream
and fruits was often ſpread beneath it.
Then, on the ſtillneſs of night, came the
ſong of the nightingale, breathing ſweet-
neſs, and awakening melancholy.
The firſt interruptions to the happineſs
he had known ſince his retirement, were
occaſioned by the death of his two ſons.
He loſt them at that age when infantine
fimplicity is ſo faſcinating; and though,
in conſideration of Madame St. Aubert's
diſtreſs, he reſtrained the expreſſion of
his own, and endeavoured to bear it, as
he meant, with philoſophy, he had, in
truth, no philoſophy that could render
him calm to ſuch loſſes. One daughter was
now his only ſurviving child; and, while he
watched the unfolding of her infant cha-
racter, with anxious fondneſs, he endeavour-
ed, with unremitting effort, to counteract
thoſe traits in her diſpoſition, which might
hereafter


( 13 )
hereafter lead her from happineſs. She had
diſcovered in her early years uncommon de-
licacy of mind, warm affections, and ready
benevolence; but with theie was obfery.
able a degree of ſuſceptibility too exqui-
fite to admit of laſting peace. As ſhe
advanced in youth, this ſenſibility gave a
penſive tone to her ſpirits, and a ſoftneſs
to her manner, which added grace to
beauty, and rendered her a very intereſt-
ing object to perſons of a congenial dif-
poſition. But St. Aubert had too much
good ſenſe to prefer a charm to a virtue ;
and had penetration enough to ſee, that
this charm was too dangerous to its pof-
ſeſſor to be allowed the character of a
bleſting. He endeavoured, therefore, to
ſtrengthen her mind; to enure her to ha-
bits of ſelf-command ; to teach her to
reject the firſt impulſe of her feelings, and
to look, with cool examination, upon the
diſappointments he ſometimes threw in
her way. While he inſtructed her to res
• fift


( 14 )
fiſt firſt impreſſions, and to acquire that
ſteady dignity of mind, that can alone
counterbalance the paſſions, and bear us,
as far as is compatible with our nature,
above the reach of circumſtances, he
taught himſelf a leſſon of fortitude ; for
he was often obliged to witneſs, with
ſeeming indifference, the tears and ſtrug-
gles which his caution occaſioned her.
In perſon, Emily reſembled her mo-
ther; having the ſame elegant ſymmetry
of form, the fame delicacy of features,
and the famne blue eyes, full of tender
ſweetneſs. But, lovely as was her perſon,
it was the varied expreſſion of her counte.
nance, as converſation awakened the nicer
emotions of her mind, that threw ſuch a
captivating grace around her :
• Thoſe tend'rer tints, that ſhun the careleſs eye,
And, in the world's contagious circle, die.”
St. Aubert cultivated her underſtand-
ing with the moſt ſcrupulous care. He
gave


( 15 )
gave her a general view of the ſciences,
and an exact acquaintance with every
part of elegant literature. He taught
her Latin and Engliſh, chiefly that the
might underſtand the ſublimity of their
beſt poets. She diſcovered in her early
years a taſte for works of genius ; and it
was St. Aubert's principle, as well as his
inclination, to promote every innocent
means of happineſs. "A well-inform-
ed mind,” he would ſay, " is the beſt ſe-
curity againſt the contagion of folly and
of vice. The vacant mind is ever on the
watch for relief, and ready to plunge in-
to error, to eſcape from the languor of
idleneſs. Store it with ideas, teach it the
pleaſure of thinking; and the tempta-
tions of the world without, will be coun.
teracted by the gratifications derived
from the world within. Thought, and
cultivation, are neceſſary equally to the
happineſs of a country and a city life;
in the firſt they prevent the uneaſy ſenſa-
tions of indolence, and afford a ſublime
pleaſure


( 16 )
pleaſure in the taſte they create for the
beautiful, and the grand ; in the latter,
they make diſſipation leſs an object of ne-
- ceflity, and conſequently of intereſt. .
· It was one of Emily's earlieſt pleaſures
to ramble among the ſcenes of nature;
nor was it in the ſoft and glowing land-
ſcape that the moſt delighted; the loved
more the wild wood walks, that ſkirted
the mountain; and ſtill more the moun-
tain's ftupendous receſſes, where the fi-
lence and grandeur of ſolitude impreſſed
a ſacred awe upon her heart, and lifted
her thoughts to the GOD OF HEAVEN
AND EARTH. In ſcenes like theſe ſhe
would often linger alone, wrapt in a me-
lancholy charm, till the laſt gleam of day
faded from the weſt ; till the lonely found
of a ſheep bell, or the diſtant bark of a
watch-dog, were all that broke on the
ſtillneſs of the evening. Then, the gloom
of the woods; the trembling of their
leaves, at intervals, in the breeze ; the bat,
fitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights,
now


( 17 )
s mi-
sais
now ſeen, and now loft-were circum-.
ſtances that awakened her mind into ef.
fort, and led to enthuſiaſm and poetry.
Her favourite walk was to a liccle fiſh-
ing-houſe, belonging to St. Aubert, in a
woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet
that deſcended from the Pyrenées, and,
after foaming among their rocks, wound
its filent way beneath the ſhades it re-
flected. Above the woods, that ſcreened
this glen, roſe the lofty ſummits of the
Pyrenées, which often burſt boldly on
the eye, through the glades below. Some-
tiines the ſhattered face of a rock only was
ſeen, crowned with wild ſhrubs; or a
ſhepherd's cabin ſeated on a cliff, over-
ſhadowed by dark cypreſs, or waving alh.
Emerging from the deep receſſes of the
woods, the glade opened to the diſtant
landſcape, where the rich paſtures and
vine covered ſlopes of Gaſcony gradually
declined to the plains; and there, on the
winding ſhores of the Garonne, groves,
and hamlets, and villas,-their outlines
ſoftened
s*


( 18 )
ſoftened by diſtance, melted from the eye
into one rich harmonious tint.
This, too, was the favourite retreat of
St. Aubert, to which he frequently with.
drew from the fervour of noon, with his
wife, his daughter, and his books; or
came at the ſweet evening hour to wel.
come the filent duſk, or to liſten for
the muſic of the nigbtingale. Sometimes,
too, he brought muſic of his own, and
awakened every fairy echo with the ten-
der accents of his oboe; and often have
the tones of Emily's voice drawn ſweet.
neſs from the waves, over which they
trembled.
ic was in one of her excurſions to this
ſpot, that ſhe obſerved the following lines
written with a pencil on a part of the
wainſcot :
SONNET.
Go, pencil! faithful to thy maſter's ſighs !
Go- tell the Goddeſs of this fairy ſcene,
When next her light ſteps wind theſe wood. walks
green,
Whence all his tears, his tender forrows, riſe :
Ah!
an.


( 19 )
Ah ! paint her form, her ſoul-illumin'd eyes,
The ſweet expreſſion of her penſive face,
The light’ning ſmile, the animated grace
The portrait well the lover's voice ſupplies ;
Speaks all his heart muſt feel, his tongue would
1. ſay:
Yet ah ! not all his heart muſt ſadly feel!
How oft the flow'ret's filken leaves conceal
The drug that ſteals the vital ſpark away!
And who that gazes on that angel-ſmile,
Would fear its charm, or think it could be..
guile!
Theſe lines were not inſcribed to any
perſon ; Emily therefore could not apply
them to herſelf, though ſhe was undoubt.
edly the nymph of theſe ſhades. Having
glanced round the little circle of her acă
quaintance without being detained by a
ſuſpicion as to whom they could be ad-
dreſſed, ſhe was compelled to reſt in un-
certainty; an uncertainty which would
have been more painful to an idle mind
than it was to hers. She had no leiſure
to ſuffer this circumſtance, trifing ai firſt,
to ſwell into importance by frequent re-
membrance.
S


( 20 )
membrance. The little vanity it had ex-
cited (for the incertitude which forbade
her to preſume upon having inſpired the
ſonnet, forbade her alſo to diſbelieve it)
paſſed away, and the incident was diſmiſſed
from her thoughts amid her books, her
ſtudies, and the exerciſe of ſocial charities.
Soon after this period, her anxiety was
awakened by the indiſpoſition of her father,
who was attacked with a fever; which,
though not thought to be of a dangerous
kind, gave a ſevere ſhock to his conſtitu-
tion. Madame St. Aubert and Emily
attended him with unremitting care ; but
his recovery was very flow, and, as he ad.
vanced towards health, Madame ſeemed to
decline.
The firſt ſcene he viſited, after he was
well enough to take the air, was his fa.
vourite fiſhing-houſe. A baſket of provi- (
ſions was ſent thither, with books, and
Emily's lute; for fiſhing-tackle he had no
uſe, for he never could find amuſement in
torturing or deſtroying,
After


( 21 )
being agal meis; anoni chefe li with Wed his
After employing himſelf, for about an
After
our, in botanizing, dinner was ſerved.
Was a l'epaſt, to which gratitude, for
cing again permitted to viſit this ſpot,
gave lweetneſs ; and family happineſs once
more ſmiled beneath theſe ſhades. Mon-
les lleur St. Aubert converſed with unuſual
any cheerfulneſs; every object delighted his
12lenſes. · The refreſhing pleaſure from the
firſt view of nature, after the pain of ill-
neſs, and the confinement of a fick-cham-
ber, is above the conceptions, as well as
the deſcriptions, of thoſe in health. The
green woods and paſtures; the flowery
turf; the blue concave of the heavens; the
balmy air ; the murmur of the limpid
ſtream; and even the hum of every little
- inſect of the ſhade, ſeem to revivify the
ſoul, and make mere exiſtence bliſs.
Madame St. Aubert, reaninated by
the cheerfulneſs and recovery of her huſ-
di band, was no longer ſenſible of the in-
i diſpoſition which had lately oppreſſed
; her; and, as the fauntered along the
wood.


( 22 )
wood-walks of this romantic glen, and
converſed with him, and with her daugh.
ter, ſhe often looked at them alternately
with a degree of tenderneſs, that filled
her eyes with tears. St. Aubert obſerved
this more than once, and gently reproved
her for the emotion; but ſhe could only
ſmile, claſp his hand, and that of Emi-
ly, and weep the more. He felt the ten.
der enthuſiaſm ſtealing upon himſelf in a
degree that became almoſt painful; his
features aſſumed a ſerious air, and he
could not forbear 'ſecretly fighing
“ Perhaps I ſhall ſome time look back to
theſe moments, as to the ſummit of my
happineſs, with hopeleſs regret. But let
me not miſuſe them by uſeleſs anticipa-
tion ; let me hope I ſhall not live to mourn
the loſs of thoſe who are dearer to me than
life.”
To relieve, or perhaps to indulge, the
penſive temper of his mind, he bade Emily
fetch the lute ſhe knew how to touch with
Fuch ſweet pathos. As ſhe drew near the
fiſhing.


( 23 )
fiſhing-houſe, ſhe was ſurpriſed to hear
the tones of the inſtrument, which were
awakened by the hand of taſte, and ut-
tered a plaintive air, whoſe exquiſite me-
lody engaged all her attention. She liſten.
ed in profound ſilence, afraid to move from
the ſpot, left the ſound of her ſteps ſhould
occaſion her to loſe a note of the muſic, or
ſhould diſturb the muſician. Every thing
without the building was ſtill, and no
perſon appeared. She continued to liſten,
till timidity ſucceeded to ſurpriſe and de.
light; a timidity, increaſed by a remem-
brance of the pencilled lines ſhe had for
merly ſeen, and ſhe heſitated whether to
proceed, or to return.
While ſhe pauſed, the muſic ceaſed;
and, after a momentary heſitation, ſhe re-
collected courage to advance to the fiſh.
ing-houſe, which ſhe entered with faltering
ſteps, and found unoccupied ! Her lute
lay on the table; every thing ſeemed un-
difturbed, and ſhe began to believe it was
another inſtrument ſhe had heard, till ſhe
remem-


( 24 )
remembered, that, when the followed M.
and Madame St. Aubert from this ſpot,
her lute was left on a window ſeat. She
felt alarmed, yet knew not wherefore;
the melancholy gloom of evening, and
the profound ſtillneſs of the place, inter-
rupted only by the light trembling of
leaves, heightened her fanciful apprehen-
fions, and ſhe was deſirous of quitting
the building, but perceived herſelf grow
faint, and ſat down. As ſhe tried to re-
cover herſelf, the pencilled lines on the
wainſcot met her eye ; ſhe ſtarted, as if
ſhe had ſeen a ſtranger; but, endeavour..
ing to conquer the tremour of her fpi-
rits, roſe, and went to the window. To
the lines before noticed ſhe now perceived
that others were added, in which her name
appeared.
Though no longer ſuffered to doubt
that they were addreſſed to herſelf, ſhe
was as ignorant, as before, by whom
they could be written. While ſhe muſed,
the thought ſhe heard the ſound of a
ſtep


( 25 )
ſtep without the building, and again alarm.
ed, ſhe caught up her lute, and hurried
away. Monſieur and Madame St. Aubert.
ſhe found in a little path that wound along
the ſides of the glen.
Having reached a green ſummit, ma-
dowed by palm-trees, and overlooking the
vallies and plains of Gaſcony, they feated
themſelves on the turf; and while their eyes
wandered over the glorious ſcene, and they
inhaled the ſweet breath of flowers and
herbs that enriched the graſs, Emily play.
ed and ſung ſeveral of their favourite airs,
with the delicacy of expreſſion in which
ſhe ſo much excelled.
Muſic and converſation detained thein
in this enchanting ſpot, till the ſun's laſt
light ſlept upon the plains; till the white
fails that glided beneath the mountains,
where the Garonne wandered, became
dim, and the gloom of evening ſtole over
the landſcape. It was a melancholy, but
not unpleaſing gloom. St. Aubert and
his family roſe, and left the place with
Vol. I. C
regret ;


( 26 ) .
regret; alas! Madame St. Aubert knew
not that ſhe left it for ever..
- When they reached the fiſhing-houſe
ſhe miſſed her bracelet, and recollected
that ſhe had taken it from her arm after
dinner, and had left it on the table when
ſhe went to walk. After a long ſearch,
in which Emily was very active, ſhe was
compelled to reſign herſelf to the loſs of
it. What made this bracelet valuable
to her, was a miniature of her daughter
to which it was attached, eſteemed a ſtrik-
ing reſemblance, and which had been
painted only a few months before. When
Emily was convinced that the bracelet
was really gone, The bluſhed, and became
thoughtful. That ſome ſtranger had been
in the fiſhing-houſe, during her abſence,
her lute, and the additional lines of a
pencil, had already informed her : from
the purport of theſe lines it was not un-
reaſonable to believe, that the poet, the
muſician, and the thief were the ſame per-
fon. But though the muſic ſhe had heard,
the


.. ( 27 )
the written lines ſhe had ſeen, and the dir-
appearance of the picture, formed a com-
bination of circumſtances very remarkable,
ſhe was irreſiſtibly reſtrained from men-
tioning them ; ſecretly determining, how-
ever, never again to viſit the fiſhing-houſe
without Monſieur or Madame St. Aubert.
They returned penſively to the chateau,
Emily muſing on the incident which had
juft occurred ; St. Aubert reflecting, with
placid gratitude, on the bleſſings he poffeff-
ed; and Madame St. Aubert ſomewhat
diſturbed and perplexed by the loſs of her
daughter's picture. As they drew near
the houſe, they obſerved an unuſual buſtle
about it ; the found of voices was diſ-
tinctly heard, ſervants and horſes were
ſeen paſſing between the trees, and, at
length, the wheels of a carriage rolled
along. Having come within view of the
front of the chateau, a landau, with ſmok-
ing horſes, appeared on the little lawn be-
fore it. St. Aubert perceived the liveries
of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour
C 2
he


( 28 )
he found Monſieur and Madame Queſnel
already entered. They had left Paris ſome
days before, and were on the way to their
eſtate, only ten leagues diſtant from La
Vallée, and which Monſieur Queſnel
had purchaſed ſeveral years before of St.
Aubert. This gentleman was the only
brother of Madame St. Aubert; but the
ties of relationſhip having never been
ſtrengthened by congeniality of character,
the intercourſe between them had not-
been frequent. M. Queſnel had lived
altogether in the world; his aim had
been conſequence ; fplendour was the
object of his taſte; and his addreſs and
knowledge of character had carried him
forward to the attainment of almoſt all
that he had courted. By a man of ſuch
a diſpoſition, it is not ſurpriſing that the
virtues of St. Aubert ſhould be overlook-
ed; or that his pure taſte, fimplicity, and
moderated wiſhes, were conſidered as marks
of a weak intellect, and of confined
views. The marriage of his ſiſter with
St.


( 29 )
St. Aubert had been mortifying to his
ambition, for he had deſigned that the
matrimonial connection the forined ſhould
affiſt him to attain the conſequence which
he ſo much deſired; and ſome offers
were made her by perſons whoſe rank
and fortune flattered his warmeſt hope.
But his ſiſter, who was then addreſſed
alſo by St. Aubert, perceived, or thought
the perceived, that happinels and fplen-
dour were not che ſame, and ſhe did
not heſitate to forego the laſt for the
attainment of the former. . Whether Mon-
ſieur Queſnel thought them the ſame,
or not, he would readily have facrificed
his ſiſter's peace to the gratification of
his own ambition ; and, on her marriage
with St. Aubert, expreſſed in private
his contempt of her ſpiritleſs conduct,
and of the connection which it permit-
ted. Madame St. Aubert, though ſhe
concealed this inſult from her huſband,
felt, perhaps, for the firſt time, refentment
lighted in her heart; and, though a re-
C 3
gard


( 30 )
✓
gard for her own dignity, united with con-
fiderations of prudence, reſtrained her ex-
preſſion of this reſentment, there was ever
after a mild reſerve in her manner towards
M. Queſnel, which he both underſtood
and felt.
In his own marriage he did not follow
his ſiſter's example. His lady was an Ita-
lian, and an heireſs by birth; and, by na-
ture and education, was a vain and frivo.
lous woman.
They now determined to paſs the night
with St. Aubert; and as the chateau was
not large enough to accommodate their
ſervants, the latter were diſmiſſed to the
neighbouring village When the firſt
compliments were over, and the arrange-
ments for the night made, M. Queſnel
began the diſplay of his intelligence and
connections ; while St. Aubert, who had
been long enough in retirement to find
theſe topics recommended by their no.
velty, liſtened, with a degree of patience
and attention, which his gueſt miſtook
for


( 31 )
for the humility of wonder. The latter,
indeed, deſcribed the few feſtivities which
the turbulence of that period permitted
to the court of Henry the Third, with
a minuteneſs, that ſomewhat recompenſed
for his oftentation; but when he came to
ſpeak of the character of the Duke de
Joyeuſe, of a ſecret treaty, which he
knew to be negotiating with the Porte,
and of the light in which Henry of Na-
varre was received, M. St. Aubert recol,
lected enough of his former experience
to be aſſured, that his gueſt could be only
of an inferior claſs of politicians; and
that, from the importance of the ſubjects
upon which he committed himſelf, he
could not be of the rank to which he
pretended to belong. The opinions de-
livered by M. Queſnel, were ſuch as St.
Aubert forbore to reply to, for he knew
that his gueſt had neither humanity to
feel, nor diſcernment to perceive, what is
juſt.
Madame Queſnel, meanwhile, was ex-
C4
preſling


( 32 )
preffing to Madame St. Aubert her aſto-
niſhment, that ſhe could bear to paſs her
life in this remote corner of the world, as
ſhe called it, and deſcribing, from a wiſh,
probably, of exciting envy, the ſplendour
of the balls, banquets, and proceſſions
which had juſt been given by the court, in
honour of the nuptials of the Duke de
Joyeuſe with Margaretta of Lorrain, the
fifter of the Queen. She deſcribed with
equal minuteneſs the magnificence The
had ſeen, and that from which ſhe had
been excluded; while Emily's vivid fancy,
as ſhe liſtened with ardent curioſity of
youth, heightened the ſcenes ſhe heard of ;
and Madame St. Aubert, looking on her
family, felt, as a tear ſtole to her eye, that
though ſplendour may grace happineſs,
V virtue only can beſtow it.
“ It is now twelve years, St. Aubert,"
ſaid M. Queſnel, “ ſince I purchaſed your
family eſtate.”—“Somewhere thereabout,”
replied St. Aubert, ſuppreſſing a ſigh. “Ic
is near five years ſince I have been there,”
reſumed


( 33 )
reſumed Queſnel; “ for Paris and its
neighbourhood is the only place in the
world to live in, and I am ſo immerſed
in politics, and have ſo many affairs of
moment on my hands, that I find it dif.
ficult to ſteal away even for a month or
two.” St. Aubert remaining filent, M.
Queſnel proceeded : “ I have ſometimes
wondered how you, who have lived in the
capital, and have been accuſtomed to com.
pany, can exiſt elſewhere ;—eſpecially in
ſo remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor ſee any thing, and can in
ſhort be ſcarcely conſcious of life.”
- I live for my family and myſelf,” ſaid
St. Aubert ; “I am now contented to know
only happineſs ; – formerly I knew life.”
" I mean to expend thirty or forty thou-
fand livres on improvements," ſaid M.
Queſnel, without ſeeming to notice the
words of St. Aubert; “ for I deſign, next
ſummer, to bring here my friends, the
Duke de Durefort and the Marquis Ra-
mont, to paſs a month or two with me.”
10
CS
Το


( 34 )
To St. Aubert's enquiry, as to theſe in.
tended improvements, he replied that he
ſhould take down the old eaſt wing of
the chateau, and raiſe upon the ſite a ſer
of ſtables. « Then I ſhall build,” ſaid
he, “a ſalle à mnanger, a ſalon, a ſalle au
commune, and a number of rooms for ſer-
vants ; for at prefent there is not accom-
modation for a third part of my own
people.”
“ It accommodated our father's houſe-
hold,” ſaid St. Aubert, grieved that the
old manfion was to be thus improved,
rs and that was not a ſmall one."
" Our notions are ſomewhat enlarged
ſince thoſe days," ſaid M. Queſnel ;-
o what was then thought a decent ſtyle of
living would not now be endured.” Even
the calı St. Aubert bluſhed at theſe words,
but his anger ſoon yielded to contempt.
" The ground about the chateau is encum-
bered with trees; I mean to cut ſome of
them down."
ons
66 Cut


( 35 )
“ Cut down the trees too!” ſaid St.
Aubert.
“ Certainly. Why ſhould I not ? they
interrupt my proſpects. There is a
cheſnut which ſpreads its branches be-
fore the whole ſouth ſide of the cha-
teau, and which is ſo ancient that they
tell me the hollow of its trunk will
hold a dozen men. Your enthuſiaſm will
fcarcely contend that there can be either
uſe, or beauty, in ſuch a ſapleſs old tree as
this."
66 Good God !” exclaimed St. Aubert,
" you ſurely will not deſtroy that noble
cheſnut, which has flouriſhed for centuries,
the glory of the eſtate! It was in its ma-
turity when the prelent manſion was built.
How often, in my youth, I have climbed
among its broad branches, and far em-
bowered amidſt a world of leaves, while
the heavy ſhower has pattered above, and
not a rain drop reached me! How often
I have ſat with my book in my hand,
ſometimes reading, and ſometimes look
:
C6
- ing


36 )
ing out between the branches upon the
wide landſcape, and the ſetting ſun, till
twilight came, and brought the birds home
to their little neſts among the leaves ! How
often-but pardon me,” added St. Aubert,
recollecting that he was ſpeaking to a man
who could neither comprehend, nor allow
for his feelings, “I am talking of times
and feelings as old-faſhioned as the taſte
that would ſpare that venerable tree."
or It will certainly come down,” ſaid
M. Queſnel ; " I believe I ſhall plant
ſomne Lombardy poplars among the
clumps of cheſnut, that I ſhall leave of
the avenue ; Madame Queſnel is partial to
the poplar, and tells me how much it
adorns a villa of her uncle, not far from
Venice.”
« On the banks of the Brenta, indeed;"
continued St. Aubert, 6 where its ſpiry
form is intermingled with the pine and
the cypreſs, and where it plays over light
and elegant porticoes and colonnades, it
unqueſtionably adorns the ſcene ; but
among


( 37 )
among the giants of the foreſt, and near
a heavy gothic manſion—"
“ Well, my good fir," ſaid M. Quef-
nel, “ I will not diſpute with you. You
inst muſt return to Paris before our ideas can
at all agree. But à propos of Venice ; I
have ſome thoughts of going thither, next
fummer ; events may call me to take pof.
ſeſſion of that ſame villa, too, which they
tell me is the moſt charming that can be
imagined. In that'caſe I ſhall leave the
improvements I mention to another year,
and I may, perhaps, be tempted to ſtay
ſome time in Italy.”
Emily was ſomewhat ſurpriſed to hear
him talk of being tempted to remain
abroad, after he had mentioned his pre-
fence to be ſo neceſſary at Paris, that it
was with difficulty he could ſteal away
for a month or two; but St. Aubert un.
derſtood the ſelf-importance of the man
too well to wonder at this trait ; and the
poſſibility, that theſe projected improve-
ments might be deferred, gave him a hope
that they might never take place.
Before


Before they ſeparated for the night, M.
Queſnel deſired to ſpeak with St. Aubert
alone, and they retired to another room,
where they remained a conſiderable time.
The ſubject of this converſation was not
known; but, whatever it might be, St.
Aubert, when he returned to the lupper-
room, ſeemed much diſturbed, and a
fhade of ſorrow ſometimes fell upon his
features, that alarmed Madame St. Au-
bert. When they were alone, ſhe was
tempted to enquire the occaſion of it ;
but the delicacy of mind, which had ever
appeared in his conduct, reſtrained her :
the conſidered that, if St. Aubert wilhed
her to be acquainted with the ſubject of
his concern, he would not wait for her en-
quiries.
On the following day, before M. Queſ-
nel departed, he had a ſecond conference
with St. Aubert.
The gueſts, after dining at the chateau,
fet out in the cool of the day for Epourville,
whither they gave him and Madame St.
Aubert


( 39 )
Aubert a preſſing invitation, prompted
rather by the vanity of diſplaying their
ſplendour, than by a wilh to make their
friends happy.
Emily returned, with delight, to the li-
berty which their preſence had reſtrain-
ed, to her books, her walks, and the ra-
tional converſation of M. and Madame St.
Aubert, who ſeemed to rejoice, no leſs,
that they were delivered from the ſhackles
which arrogance and frivolity had im-
poſed.
Madame St. Aubert excuſed herſelf from
ſharing their uſual evening walk, com-
plaining that ſhe was not quite well,
and St. Aubert and Emily went out to-
gether.
They chofe a walk towards the moun
tains, intending to viſit ſome old penſioners.
of St. Aubert, which, from his very mo-
derate income, he contrived to ſupport,
though it is probable M. Queſnel, with his
very large one, could not have afforded this..
After


( 40 )
After diſtributing to his penſioners their
weekly ſtipends, liſtening patiently to the
complaints of ſome, redreſſing the griev-
ances of others, and ſoftening the diſcon-
tents of all, by the look of ſympathy, and
the ſmile of benevolence, St. Aubert re-
turned home through the woods,
.....“where
At fall of eve the fairy-people throng,
In various games and revelry to paſs
The ſummer night, as village ſtories tell*. "'.
“ The evening gloom of woods was
always delightful to me,” ſaid St. Aubert,
whoſe mind now experienced the ſweet
calm which reſults from the conſciouſneſs
of having done a beneficent action, and
which diſpoſes it to receive pleaſure from
every ſurrounding object. “ I remember
that in my youth this gloom uſed to call
forth to my fancy a thouſand fairy viſions
and romantic images; and, I own, I am not
yet wholly inſenſible of that high enthu-
* THOMSON
fiafm,


( 41 )
fiaſm, which wakes the poet's dream. I can
linger, with ſolemn ſteps, under the deep
ſhades, ſend forward a transforming eye
into the diſtant obſcurity, and liſten with
thrilling delight to the myſtic murmuring
of the woods."
“O my dear father,” ſaid Emily, while
à ſudden tear ſtarted to her eye, « how
exactly you deſcribe what I have felt ſo
often, and which I thought nobody had
ever felt but myſelf! But hark! here
comes the ſweeping ſound over the wood-
tops ;-now it dies away ;-how ſolemn the
ſtillneſs that ſucceeds ! Now the breeze
| ſwells again. It is like the voice of ſome
ſupernatural being—the voice of the ſpirit
of the woods, that watches over them
by night. Ah! what light is yonder?
But it is gone. And now it gleams again,
near the root of that large cheſnut :
look, ſir!"
“ Are you ſuch an admirer of nature,"
ſaid St. Aubert, « and ſo little acquainted
with her appearances, as not to know that
for


( 42 )
for the glow-worm? But come,” added
he gaily, “ ſtep a little further, and we
ſhall ſee fairies, perhaps ; they are often
companions. The glow-worm lends his
light, and they in return charm him with
muſic, and the dance. Do you ſee nothing
tripping yonder ?”
Einily laughed. “ Well, my dear fir,"
ſaid ſhe, “ ſince you allow of this alliance,
I may venture to own I have anticipated
you; and almoſt dare venture to repeat
ſome verſes I made one evening in theſe
very woods.”
“ Nay,” replied St. Aubert, “ diſmiſs
the elmoft, and venture quite ; let us hear
what vagaries fancy has been playing in
your mind. If ſhe has given you one of
her ſpells, you need not envy thoſe of the
fairies.”
“ If it is ſtrong enough to enchant your
judgment, fir,” ſaid Emily, “while I diſ-
cloſe her images, I need not envy them.
The lines go in a ſort of tripping meaſure,
which I thought might ſuit the ſubject
well


( 43 )
· well enough, but I fear they are too
irregular.
THE GLOW-WORM.
How pleaſant is the green-wood's deep-matted ſhade
On a mid-ſummer's eve, when the freſh rain is o'er ;
When the yellow beams ſlope, and ſparkle thro' the
glade,
And ſwiftly in the thin air the light ſwallows foar!
But ſweeter, ſweeter ſtill, when the ſun finks to reſt,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies fo gay
Tripping through the foreſt-walk, where flow'rs, un.
preft,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.
To muſic's ſofteſt ſounds they dance away the hour,
Till moon-light ſteals down among the trembling
leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to
in the bow'r,
The long-haunted bow'r, where the nightingale
grieves.
·
Then no more they dance, till her ſad ſong is done,
But, ſilent as the night, to her mourning attend ;
And often as her dying notes their pity have won,
They vow all her facred haunts from inortals to defend.
;
Wheng


( 44 )
When, down among the mountains, finks the ev'n.
ing ſtar,
And the changing moon-forſakes this ſhadowy ſphere,
How cheerleſs would they be, tho' they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, came not near !
Yet cheerleſs tho' they'd be, they're ungrateful to
my love !
For often, when the traveller's benighted on his way,
And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him
thro’ the grove,
They bind me in their magic ſpells to lead him far
aſtray ;
And the entranger.
And in the mire to leave him, till the ſtars are all
burnt out;
While, in ſtrange-looking ſhapes, they frilk about
the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raiſe a difmal ſhout,
Till I ſhrink into niy cell again for terror of the
ſound !
But, ſee where all the tiny elves come dancing in a
ring,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and
the horn,
And the timbrel ſo clear, and the lute with dulcet
ſtring;
Then round about the oak they go till peeping of
the morn.
Down


( 45 ) :
Down yonder glade two lovers ſteal, to fhun the fairy
queen ;
Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is
of me,
That yeſter-eve I lighted them, along the dewy
green,
To ſeek the purple flow'r, whoſe juice from all her
ſpells can free.
And now, to puniſh me, ſhe keeps afar her jocund
band,
With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the
lute;
If I creep near yonder oak ſhe will wave her fairy
wand,
And to me the dance will ceaſe, and the muſic all be
mute.
0! had I but that purple flow'r whoſe leaves her
charms can foil,
And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on
the wind,
I'd be her ſlave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,
And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind !
>
But ſoon the vapour of the woods will wander afar,
And the fickle moon will fade, and the ſtars diſappear,
Then, cheerleſs will they be, tho’ they fairies are,
If I, with my pale light, come not near !
Whatever


( 46 )
Whatever St. Aubert might think of the
ſtanzas, he would not deny his daughter
the pleaſure of believing that he approved
them; and, having given his commenda-
tion, he ſunk into a reverie, and they
walked on in ſilence.
.... A faint erroneous ray,
Glanc'd from th' imperfect ſurfaces of things,
Flung half an image on the ſtraining eye; .
While waving woods, and villages, and ſtreams,
And rocks, and mountain-tops, that long retain
The aſcending gleam, are all one ſwimming ſcene,
Uncertain if beheld *.”
St. Aubert continued ſilent till he
reached the chateau, where his wife had
retired to her chainber. The languor and
dejection that had lately opprefied her, and
which the exertion called forth by the
arrival of her gueſts had ſuſpended, now
returned with increaſed effect. On the fol.
lowing day ſymptoms of fever appeared,
and St. Auberi, having ſent for medical
advice, learned, that her diſorder was a
THOMSON.
fever,


( 47 )
> fever, of the ſame nature as that from
which he had lately recovered. She had,
indeed, taken the infection during her
attendance upon him, and, her conſtituie
tion being too weak to throw out the
diſeaſe immediately, it had lurked in her
veins, and occaſioned the heavy languor
of which ſhe had complained. St. Au-
bert, whoſe anxiety for his wife overcame
every other conſideration, detained the
phyſician in his houſe. He remembered
the feelings and the reflections that had
called a momentary gloom upon his mind,
on the day when he had laſt viſited the
fiſhing-houſe, in company with Madame
St. Aubert, and he now adınitted a pre-
ſentiment that this illneſs would be a
fatal one. But he effectually concealed
this from her, and from his daughter,
whom he endeavoured to re-animate with
hopes that her conſtant aſſiduities would
not be unavailing. The phyſician, when
alked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the
í diſorder, replied, that the event of it
21, 9
depended


( 48 )
depended upon circumſtances which he
could not aſcertain. Madame St. Aubert
feemed to have formed a more decided
one; but her- eyes only gave hints of
this. She frequently fixed them upon
her anxious friends with an expreſſion
of pity, and of tenderneſs, as if ſhe an-
ticipated the ſorrow that awaited them,
and that ſeemed to ſay, it was for their
fakes only, for their ſufferings, that ſhe
regretted life. On the ſeventh day, the
diſorder was at its criſis. The phyſician
aſſumed a graver manner, which ſhe ob-
ſerved, and took occaſion, when her
family had once quitted the chamber, to
tell him, that ſhe perceived her death was
approaching. " Do not attempt to de-
ceive me,” ſaid ſhe, “ I feel that I can.
not long ſurvive. I am prepared for
the event; I have long, I hope, been pre-
paring for it. - Since I have not long
to live, do not ſuffer a miſtaken com-
paſſion to induce you to flatter my fa-
mily with falſe hopes. If you do, their
7
affliclion
om


( 49 )
>
affliction will only be the heavier when it
arrives : I will endeavour to teach them re.
ſignation by my example.”
The phyſician was affected; he prox
miſed to obey her, and told St. Aubert,
ſomewhat abruptly, that there was nothing
to expect. The latter was not philoſopher
enough to reſtrain his feelings when he re-
ceived this information ; but a conſideration
of the increaſed affliction which the obſer-
vance of his grief would occaſion his wife,
enabled him, after ſome time, to command
himſelf in her preſence. Emily was at firſt
overwhelmed with the intelligence; then.
deluded by the ſtrength of her wiſhes, a
hope ſprung up in her mind that her mo-
ther would yet recover, and to this ſhe per-
tinaciouſly adhered almoſt to the laſt hour.
The progreſs of this diſorder was marked,
on the ſide of Madame St. Aubert, by pa.
tient ſuffering, and ſubjected wiſhes. The
compoſure, with which ſhe awaited her
death, could be derived only from the re-
troſpect of a life governed, as far as human
Vol. I.
frailty


( 501 )
frailty permits, by a conſciouſneſs of being
always in the preſence of the Deity, and by
the hope of an higher world. But her piety
could not entirely ſubdue the grief of part-
ing from thoſe whom ſhe ſo dearly loved.
During theſe her laſt hours, the converſed
much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the
proſpect of futurity, and other religious
topics. The reſignation ſhe expreſſed, with
the firm hope of meeting in a future world
the friends ſhe left in this, and the effort
which ſometimes appeared to conceal her
ſorrow at this temporary ſeparation, fre.
quently affected St. Aubert ſo much as to
o!əlige him to leave the room. Having in-
dulged his tears awhile, he would dry them
and return to the chamber with a counte.
nance compoſed by an endeavour which
did but increaſe his grief.
Never had Emily felt the importance of
the leſſons, which had taught her to reſtrain
her ſenſibility, ſo much as in theſe moments,
and never had the practiſed them with a
triumph ſo complete. But when the laſt
was


. ( 51 )
was over, ſhe ſunk at once under the preſ.
ſure of her ſorrow, and then perceived that
it was hope, as well as fortitude, which had
hitherto ſupported her, St. Aubert was
for a time too devoid of comfort himſelf to
beſtow any on his daughter.
D2
С НАР,


s 52)
СНАР. ІІ.
I could a tale unfold, whoſe lighteſt word
Would harrow up thy ſoul.”
SHAKESPEARE.
M ADAME St. Aubert was interred in
the neighbouring village church; her huſ.
band and daughter attended her to the
grave, followed by a long train of the pea-
ſantry, who were ſincere mourners of this
excellent woman.
On his return from the funeral, St. Au.
bert ſhut himſelf in his chamber. When he
came forth, it was with a ſerene countenance,
though pale in ſorrow. He gave orders that
his family ſhould attend him. Emily only
was abſent; who, overcome with the ſcene
ſhe had juſt witneſſed, had retired to her
cloſet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed
her thither : he took her hand in ſilence,
while ſhe continued to weep; and it was
ſome moments before he could ſo far com-
mand his voice as to ſpeak. It trembled
while


( 53 )
while he ſaid, “ My Emily, I am going to
prayers with my family; you will join us.
We muſt aſk ſupport from above. Where
elſe ought we to ſeek it-where elſe can
we find it?”
Emily checked her tears, and followed
her father to the parlour, where, the ſer-
vants being aſſembled, St. Aubert read, in
a low and ſolemn voice, the evening ſervice,
and added a prayer for the foul of the de-
parted. During this, his voice often fal-
tered, his tears fell upon the book, and at
length he pauſed. But the ſublime emo-
tions of pure devotion gradually elevated
his views above this world, and finally
brought comfort to his heart.
When the ſervice was ended, and the fer-
vants were withdrawn, he tenderly kiſſed
Emily, and ſaid, I have endeavoured to
teach you, from your earlieſt youth, the du-
ty of ſelf-command ; I have pointed out to
you the great importance of it through life,
not only as it preſerves us in the various
and dangerous temptations that call us from
D 3.
rectitude


( 54 )
rectitude and virtue, but as it limits the in-
dulgencies which are termed virtuous, yet
which, extended beyond a certain boundary,
are vicious, for their conſequence is evil.
All exceſs is vicious ; even that ſorrow,
which is amiable in its origin, becomes a
ſelfiſh and unjuſt paſſion, if indulged at the
expence of our duties-by our duties I mean
what we owe to ourſelves, as well as to
others. The indulgence of exceſſive grief
enervates the mind, and almoſt incapacitates
it for again partaking of thoſe various inno.
cent enjoyments which a benevolent God
deſigned to be the ſun-fhine of our lives.
My dear Emily, recollect and practiſe the
precepts I have ſo often given you, and
which your own experience has ſo often
Thewn you to be wiſe.
“ Your ſorrow is uſeleſs. Do not receive
this as merely a common-place remark, but
fet reaſon therefore reſtrain ſorrow. I would
not annihilate your feelings, my child, I
would only teach you to comunand them ;
for whatever may be the evils reſulting from
a too


[ 55 )
a too ſuſceptible heart, nothing can be
hoped from an inſenfible one; that, on the
other hand, is all vice-vice, of which the
deformity is not foftened, or the effect con-
ſoled for, by any ſemblance or poſſibility
of good. You know my ſufferings, and
are, therefore, convinced that mine are not
the light words which, on theſe occiſions,
are ſo often repeated to deſtroy even the
ſources of honeſt emotion, or which merely
diſplay the ſelfilh oftentation of a falſe plii-
loſophy. I will ſhew my Emily, that I can
practiſe what I adviſe. I have ſaid thus
much, becauſe I cannot bear to ſee you
waſting in uſeleſs forrow, for want of that
reſiſtance which is due from mind ; and I
have not ſaid it till now, becauſe there is a
period when all reaſoning muſt yield to
nature; that is paſt : and another, when
exceſſive indulgence, having funk into ha-
bit, weighs down the elaſticity of the fpirits
ſo as to render conqueſt nearly impoſſible ;
this is to come. You, my Emily, will ſhew
that you are willing to avoid it.”
D4
Emily


( 56 )
Emily fmiled through her tears upon her
father : “ Dear Sir,” ſaid ſhe, and her voice
trembled ; ſhe would have added, " I will
ſhew myſelf worthy of being your daugh-
ter;” but a mingled emotion of gratitude,
affection, and grief overcame her. St.
Aubert ſuffered her to weep without inter-
ruption, and then began to talk on com-
mon topics.
The firſt perſon who came to condole
with St. Aubert was a M. Barreaux, an
auſtere and ſeemingly unfeeling man. A
taſte for botany had introduced them to
each other, for they had frequently met in
their wanderings among the mountains. M.
Barreaux had retired from the world, and
almoſt from fociety, to live in a pleaſant
chateau, on the ſkirts of the woods, near La
Vallée. He alſo had been diſappointed in
his opinion of mankind; but he did not,
like St. Aubert, pity and mourn for them ;
he felt more indignation at their vices, than
compaſſion for their weakneſſes.
St. Aubert was ſomewhat ſurpriſed to ſee
,
him i


( 57 )
him ; for, though he had often preſſed him
to come to the chateau, he had never till
now accepted the invitation : and now he
came without ceremony or reſerve, entering
the parlour as an old friend. The claims
of misfortune appeared to have ſoftened
down all the ruggedneſs and prejudices of
his heart. St. Aubert unhappy, ſeemed to
be the fole idea that occupied his mind. It
was in manners, more than in words, that
he appeared to fympathize with his friends :
he ſpoke little on the ſubject of their grief;
but the minute attention he gave them, and
the modulated voice, and ſoftened look that
accompanied it, came from his heart, and
ſpoke to theirs.
At this melancholy period, St. Auberg
was likewiſe viſited by Madame Cheron, his
only ſurviving ſiſter, who had been ſome
years a widow, and now reſided on her own
eftate near Thoulouſe. The intercourſe be-
tween them had not been very frequent. In
her condolements, words were not wanting;
the underſtood not the magic of the look
ID:5
that


( 58 )
that ſpeaks at once to the ſoul, or the voice
that ſinks like balm to the heart :- but ſhe
affured St. Aubert that ſhe fincerely ſym-
pathized with him, praiſed the virtues of his
late wife, and then offered what the confi-
dered to be conſolation. Emily wept unceaf-
ingly while ſhe ſpoke ; St. Aubert was tran-
quil, liſtened to what ſhe ſaid in ſilence, and
then turned the diſcourſe upon another ſub-
ject..
At parting ſhe preſſed him and her niece
to make her an early viſit. “ Change of
place will amuſe you,” ſaid ſhe, “ and it is
wrong to give way to grief.” St. Aubert
acknowledged the truth of theſe words of
courſe; but, at the ſame time, felt more
reluctant than ever to quit the ſpot which
his paſt happineſs had confecrated. The
preſence of his wife had ſanctified every fur-
rounding ſcene, and each day, as it gra-
dually ſoftened the acuteneſs of his ſuffer-
ing, aſſiſted the tender enchantment that
bound him to home.
But there were calls which muft be com-
e
plied


..( 59 )
Wit
2
plied with, and of this kind was the viſit
he paid to his brother-in-law M. Queſnel.
An affair of an intereſting nature made it
neceſſary that he ſhould delay this viſit no
longer, and, wiſhing to rouſe Emily from
her dejection, he took her with him to
Epourville.
As the carriage entered upon the foreſt
that adjoined his paternal domain, his eyes
once more caught, between the cheſnut
avenue, the turreted corners of the chateau.
He ſighed to think of what had paſſed
fince he was laſt there, and that it was now
the property of a man who neither revered
nor valued it. At length he entered the
avenue, whoſe lofty trees had ſo often de-
lighted him when a boy, and whoſe melan-
choly ſhade was now ſo congenial with the
tone of his ſpirits. Every feature of the
edifice, diſtinguiſhed by an air of heavy
grandeur, appeared ſucceſſively between the
branches of the trees--the broad turret,
the arched gate way that led into the courts,
the draw-bridge, and the dry foffe which
ſurrounded the whole.
: D6
as n
The


( 60 )
ere
The ſound of carriage wheels brought a
troop of ſervants to the great gate, where St.
Aubert alighted, and from which he led
Emily into the gothic hall, now no longer
hung with the arms and ancient banners of
the family. Theſe were diſplaced, and the
oak wainſcoting, and beams that croſſed
the roof, were painted white. The large
table, too, that uſed to ſtretch along the
upper end of the hall, where the maſter of
the manfion loved to diſplay his hofpitality,
and whence the peal of laughter, and the
ſong of conviviality, had ſo often reſound-
ed, was now removed ; even the benches
that had ſurrounded the hall were no
longer there. The heavy walls were hung
with frivolous ornaments, and every thing
that appeared denoted the falfe taſte and
corrupted ſentiments of the preſent owner.
St. Aubert followed a gay Pariſian ſer-
vant to a parlour, where fat Monf. and
Madame Queſnel, who received him with
a ſtately politeneſs, and, after a few formal
words of condolement, ſeemed to have for.
gotten that they ever had a ſiſter.
Emily


( 61
Emily felt tears ſwell in her eyes, and
then reſentment checked them. St. Aubert,
calm and deliberate, preſerved his dignity
without aſſuming importance, and Queſnel
was depreſſed by his preſence without ex-
actly knowing wherefore.
After ſome general converſation, St. Au-
bert requeſted to ſpeak with him alone ;
and Emily, being left with Madame Queſ-
nel, foon learned that a large party was in-
vited to dine at the chateau, and was com-
pelled to hear that nothing which was paſt
and irremediable ought to prevent the fef-
tivity of the preſent hour.
St. Aubert, when he was told that com-
pany were expected, felt a mixed emotion
of diſguſt and indignation againſt the inſen-
ſibility of Queſnel, which prompted him to
return home immediately. But he was in.
formed, that Madame Cheron had been
aſked to meet him; and, when he looked
at Emily, and conſidered that a time might
come when the enmity of her uncle would
be prejudicial to her, he determined not to
incur


( 62 ).
Was
incur it himſelf, by conduct which would be
reſented as indecorous, by the very perſons
who now ſhewed ſo little ſenſe of decorum.
Among the viſitors aſſembled at dinner
were two Italian gentlemen, of whom one
was named Montoni, a diſtant relation of
Madame Queſnel, a man about forty, of an
uncommonly handſome perſon, with fea-
tures manly and expreſſive, but whoſe coun-
tenance exhibited, upon the whole, more
of the haughtineſs of command, and the
quickneſs of diſcernment, than of any other
character.
Signor Cavigni, his friend, appeared to
be about thirty-his inferior in dignity, but
equal to him in penetration of countenance,
and ſuperior in infinuation of manner.
Emily was ſhocked by the ſalutation with
which Madame Cheron met her father
" Dear brother," ſaid ſhe, “ I am concerned
to ſee you look ſo very ill; do, pray, have
advice !" St. Aubert anſwered, with a me-
lancholy ſmile, that he felt himſelf much as
uſual; but Einily's fears made her now fancy
,- that


( 63 )
that her father looked worſe than he really
did.
-
-
-
-
Emily would have been amuſed by the
new characters ſhe ſaw, and the varied
converſation that paffed during dinner,
which was ſerved in a ſtyle of ſplen-
dour ſhe had ſeldom ſeen before, had her
ſpirits been leſs oppreſſed. Of the gueſts,
Signor Montoni was lately come from
Italy, and he ſpoke of the commotions
which at that period agitated the country;
talked of party differences wich warmth, and
then lamented the probable conſequences
of the tunults. His friend ſpoke with
equal ardour, of the politics of his country;
praiſed the government and proſperity of
Venice, and boaſted of its decided ſuperi-
ority over all the other Italian ſtates. He
then turned to the ladies, and talked with
the ſame eloquence, of Pariſian faſhions, the
French opera, and French manners; and on
the latter ſubject he did not fail to mingle
what is ſo particularly agreeable to French
taſte. The flattery was not detected by
thoſe


.. ( 64 )
thoſe to whom it was addreſſed, though its
effect in producing ſubmiſſive attention did
not eſcape his obſervation. When he could
diſengage himſelf from the aſſiduities of the
other ladies, he ſometimes addreſſed Emily :
but ſhe knew nothing of Pariſian faſhions,
of Pariſian operas; and her modeſty, ſimpli-
city, and correct manners, formed a decided
contraſt to thoſe of her female companions.
After dinner, St. Aubert ſtole from the
room to view once more the old cheſnut
which Queſnel talked of cutting down. As
he ſtood under its ſhade, and looked up
among its branches, ſtill luxuriant, and ſaw
here and there the blue ſky trembling be.
tween them; the purſuits and events of his
early days crowded faſt to his mind, with
the figures and characters of friends long
fince gone from the earth ; and he now felt
himſelf to be almoſt an inſulated being,
with nobody but his Emily for his heart to
turn to.
He ſtood loft amid the ſcenes of years
which fancy called up, till the ſucceſſion
cloſed


( 65 )
cloſed with the picture of his dying wife ;
and he ſtarted away, to forget it, if poſſible,
at the ſocial board.
St. Aubert ordered his carriage at an
carly hour, and Emily obſerved, that he
was more than uſually ſilent and dejected
on the way home; but ſhe conſidered this
to be the effect of his viſit to a place which
ſpoke ſo eloquently of former times, nor
ſuſpected that he had a cauſe of grief
which he concealed from her.
! On entering the chateau ſhe felt more
depreſſed than ever, for the more than ever
miſſed the preſence of that dear parent, who,
whenever ſhe had been from home, ufed to
welcome her return with ſmiles and fond.
neſs : now all was ſilent and forſaken.
But what reaſon and effort may fail to
do, time effects. Week after week paſſed
away, and each, as it paſſed, ſtole ſomething
From the harſhneſs of her affliction, till it
>vas mellowed to that tenderneſs which the
feeling heart cheriſhes as ſacred. St. Aubert,
on the contrary, viſibly declined in health ;
though


( 66 )
ever1
though Emily, who had been ſo conſtantly
with him, was almoſt the laſt perſon who ob-
ſerved it. His conſtitucion had never reco-
vered from the late attack of the fever, and
the ſucceeding ſhock it had received from
Madame St. Aubert's death had produced
its preſent infirmity. His phyſician now
ordered him to travel; for it was percepti.
ble that ſorrow had ſeized upon his nerves,
weakened as they had been by the preced.
ing illneſs; and variety of ſcene, it was pro.
bable, would, by amuſing his mind, reſtore
them to their proper tone.
For ſome days Emily was occupied in
preparations to attend him; and he, by
endeavours to diminiſh his expences at
home during the journey—a purpoſe which
determined him at length to diſmiſs his do.
meſtics. Emily ſeldom oppoſed her father's.
wiſhes by queſtions or remonftrances, or
ſhe would now have aſked why he did not
take a ſervant, and have repreſented that his
infirm health made one almoſt neceflary.
But when, on the eve of their departure, ſhe
found)


í 67 )
found that he had diſmiſſed Jacques, Fran-
cis, and Mary, and detained only Thereſa
the old houſekeeper, ſhe was extremely ſur.
priſed, and ventured to aſk his reaſon for
having done ſo. “ To ſave expences, my
dear,” he replied we are going on an
expenſive excurſion.”
- The phyſician had preſcribed the air of
- Languedoc and Provence ; and St. Aubert
-determined, therefore, to travel leiſurely
-, along the ſhores of the Mediterranean, to.
- wards Provence.
They retired early to their chamber on
7 the night before their departure ; but Emily
had a few books and other things to col.
plect, and the clock had ſtruck twelve before
-5 he had finiſhed, or had remembered that
- ſome of her drawing inſtruments, which ſhe
- meant to take with her, were in the par-
Jour below. As the went to ferch theſe,
The paſſed her father's room, and, perceive
sing the door half open, concluded that he
was in his ſtudy-for, ſince the death of
- Madaine St. Aubert, it had been frequently
his


( 63 )
his cuſtom to riſe from his reſtleſs bed, and
go thither to compoſe his mind. When me
was below ſtairs ſhe looked into this room,
but without finding him ; and as the re.
turned to her chamber, ſhe tapped at his
door, and, receiving no anſwer, ſtepped
ſoftly in, to be certain whether he was there.
The room was dark, but a light glim.
mered through ſome panes of glaſs that
were placed in the upper part of a cloſet,
door. Emily believed her father to be in
the cloſet, and, ſurpriſed that he was up at
ſo late an hour, apprehended he was unwell,
and was going to enquire; but, confidering
that her ſudden appearance at this hour
might alarm him, ſhe removed her light to ;*
the ſtair-caſe, and then ſtepped ſoftly to the A
cloſet. On looking through the panes of
glaſs, ſhe ſaw him feated at a ſmall table,
with papers before him, ſome of which he
was reading with deep attention and intereſt,
during which he often wept, and ſobbed
aloud. Emily, who had come to the door
. to learn whether her father was ill, was
now


( 69 )
now detained there by a mixture of curioſity
and tenderneſs. She could not witneſs his
ſorrow without being anxious to know the
ſubject of it; and Me therefore continued
to obſerve him in ſilence, concluding that
thoſe papers were letters of her late mo-
ther. Preſently he knelt down, and with
a look ſo folemn as ſhe had ſeldom ſeen him
affume, and which was mingled with a cer-
tain wild expreſſion, that partook more of
horror than of any other character, he
prayed filently for a conſiderable time.
When he roſe, a ghaftly paleneſs was on
his countenance. Emily was haſtily retir-
ing; but the faw him turn again to the
papers, and ſhe ſtopped. He took froin
among them a ſmall caſe, and from thence
a miniature picture. The rays of light fell
ſtrongly upon it, and the perceived it to be
- that of a lady, but not of her mother.
St. Aubert gazed earneſtly and tenderly
upon this portrait, put it to his lips, and then
to his heart, and ſighed with a convulfive
force. Emily could ſcarcely believe what
Inc


( 70 )
ſhe ſaw to be real. She never knew till
now that he had a picture of any other
lady than her mother, much leſs that he
had one which he evidently valued ſo
highly ; but having looked repeatedly, to
be certain that it was not the reſemblance
of Madame St. Aubert, ſhe became entirely
convinced that it was deſigned for that of
ſome other perſon.
At length St. Aubert returned the pic-
ture into its cafe ; and Emily, recollecting
that ſhe was intruding upon his private for-
Iows, ſoftly withdrew from the chamber.
С НА Р.


( 71 )
CH A P. III.
"O how canſt thou renounce the boundleſs ſtore
Of charms which nature to her vot’ry yields ?
The warbling woodland, the reſounding ſhore,
The pomp of groves, and garniture of fields ;
All that the genial ray of morning gilds,
And all that echoes to the ſong of even ;
All that the mountain's ſhelt'ring boſom ſhields,
And all the dread magnificence of heaven;
O how canſt thou renounce, and hope to be forgiven !"
کر
نہ
“ Theſe charms ſhall work thy foul's eternal health,
And love, and gentleneſs, and joy impart.”
THE MINSTREL,
ST.AUBERT, inſtead of taking the more
direct road, that ran along the feet of the
Pyrenées to Languedoc, choſe one that,
winding over the heights, afforded more ex-
tenſive views and greater variety of romantic
ſcenery. He turned a little out of his way
to take leave of M. Barreaux, whom he
found botanizing in the wood near his cha-
teau, and who, when he was told the purpoſe
of


( 72 )
of St. Aubert's viſit, expreſſed a degree of
concern, ſuch as his friend had thought ir
was ſcarcely poſſible for him to feel on any
ſimilar occaſion. They parted with mutual
regret.
“ If any thing could have tempted me
from my retirement,” ſaid M. Barreaux, “it
would have been the pleaſure of accompa-
nying you on this little tour. I do not often
offer compliments; you may, therefore, be-
lieve me when I ſay, that I ſhall look for
your return with impatience.”
The travellers proceeded on their journey.
As they aſcended the heights, St. Aubert
often looked back upon his chateau, in the
plain below; tender images crowded to his
mind; his melancholy imagination fug-
geſted that he ſhould return no more ; and
though he checked this wandering thought,
ſtill he continued to look, till the hazineſs
of diſtance blended his home with the ge-
neral landſcape, and St. Aubert ſeemed 10
“ Drag at each remove a lengthening chain."
He


( 73 ) .
He and Emily continued ſunk in muſing
filence for ſome leagues, from which melan-
choly reverie Emily firſt awoke, and her
young fancy, ſtruck with the grandeur of
the objects around, gradually yielded to
delightful impreſſions. · The road now de-
fcended into glens,,confined by ſtupendous
walls of rock, grey and barren, except
where ſhrubs fringed their ſummits, or
patches of meagre vegetation tinted their
receſſes, in which the wild goat was fre-
quently browſing. And now, the way. led to
the lofty cliffs, from whence the landſcape
was ſeen extending in all its magnificence.
Emily could not reſtrain her tranſport as
The looked over the pine foreſts of the moun.
tains upon the vaſt plains, chat, enriched
with woods, towns, bluſhing vines, and
plantations of almonds, palms and olives,
ſtretched along, till their various colours
melted in diſtance into one harmonious hue,
that ſeemed to unite earth with heaven.
Through the whole of this glorious ſcene the
majeſtic Garonne wandered; deſcending from
VOL. I.
its
A
E


( 74 )
its ſource among the Pyrenées, and winding
its blue waves towards the Bay of Biſcay.
The ruggedneſs of the unfrequented road
often obliged the wanderers to alight from
their little carriage, but they thought them-
ſelves amply repaid for this inconvenience
by the grandeur of the ſcenes ; and, while
the muleteer led his animals ſlowly over the
broken ground, the travellers had leiſure to
linger amid theſe ſolitudes, and to indulge
the ſublime reflections, which ſoften, while
they elevate, the heart, and fill it with the
certainty of a preſent God! Still the enjoy.
ment of St. Aubert was touched with that
penſive melancholy, which gives to every
object a mellower tint, and breathes a fa.
cred charm over all around.
They had provided againſt part of the
evil to be encountered from a want of con-
venient inns, by carrying a ſtock of pro-
viſions in the carriage, ſo that they might
take refreſhment on any pleaſant ſpot, in
the open air, and paſs the nights where-
ever they ſhould happen to meet with a
comfortable
12V


( 75 )
comfortable cottage. For the mind, alſo,
they had provided, by a work on botany,
written by M. Barreaux, and by ſeveral of
the Latin and Italian poets ; while Emily's
pencil enabled her to preſerve ſome of thoſe
combinations of forms, which charmed her.
at every ſtep.
The lonelineſs of the road, where only
now and then a peaſant was ſeen driving his
mule, or ſome mountaineer children at play
among the rocks, heightened the effect of
the ſcenery. St. Aubert was ſo much ſtruck
with it, that he determined, if he could hear
of a road, to penetrate farther among the
mountains, and, bending his way rather
more to che fouth, to emerge into Rouſil.
lon, and coaſt the Mediterranean along part:
of that country to Languedoc.
Soon after mid-day they reached the
ſummit of one of thoſe cliffs, which, bright
with the verdure of palm trees, adorn,
like gems, the tremendous walls of the
rocks, and which overlooked the greater
part of Gaſcony, and part of Languedoc.
E 2
Here


:( 76 )
Here was fhade, and the freſh water of a
ſpring, that gliding among the turf, under
the trees, thence precipitated itſelf from
rock to rock, till its daſhing murmurs were
loft in the abyſs, though its.white foam was
long ſeen amid the darkneſs of the pines
below. .
This was a ſpot well ſuited for reſt, and
the travellers. alighted to dine, while the
mules were unharneſſed to browſe on the
favoury herbs that enriched this ſummit.
It was ſome time before St. Aubert or
Emily could withdraw their attention from
the ſurrounding objects, ſo as to partake of
their little repaſt. Seated in the ſhade of
the palms, St. Aubert pointed out to her
obſervation the courſe of the rivers, che ſitu-
ation of great towns, and the boundaries of
provinces, which ſcience, rather than the
eye, enabled him to deſcribe. Notwith-
ſtanding this occupation, when he had
talked awhile, he ſuddenly became filent,
thoughtful, and tears often ſwelled to his
eyes, which Emily obſerved, and the ſym-
- pathy


( 77 )
pathy of her own heart told her their cauſe.
The ſcene before them bore ſome reſemi-
blance, though it was on a much grander
ſcale, to a favourite one of the late Madame
St. Aubert, within view of the filhing-houſe.
They both obſerved this, and thought how
delighted Nie would have been with the
preſent landſcape, while they knew that her
eyes muſt never, never more open upon
this world. St. Aubert remembered the laſt
time of his viſiting that ſpot in company
with her, and alſo the mournfully preſag.
ing thoughts which had then ariſen in his
mind, and were now, even thus ſoon, rea-
lized! The recollections fubdued him,
and he abruptly roſe from his ſeat, and
walked away to where no eye could ob-
ſerve his grief.
When he returned, his countenance had
recovered its uſual ſerenity; he took Emi-
ly's hand, preſſed it affectionately, without
ſpeaking, and ſoon afrer called to the mu.
leteer, who fat at a little diſtance, concern-
ing a road among the mountains towards
E 3
Roufillon.


Roufillon. Michael ſaid, there were ſeveral
that way, but he did not know how far chey
extended, or.even whether they were pail.
able; and St. Aubert, who did not intend
to travel after ſun-fet, aſked what village
they could reach about that time. The
muleteer calculated, that they could eaſily
reach Mateau, which was in their preſent
road; but that if they took a road that ſloped
more to the ſouth, towards Rouſillon, there
was a hamlet, which he thought they could
gain before the evening lhue in.
Št. Aubert, after ſome heficacion, deter.
mined to take the latter courſe, and Michael,
having finiſhed his meal, and harneſſed his
mules, again ſet forward, but ſoon ſtopped;
and St. Aubert ſaw him doing homage to ai
croſs, that ſtood on a rock impending over
their way. Having concluded his devotions,
he ſmacked his whip in the air, and, in ſpite
of the rough road, and the pain of his poor
mules, which he had been lately lament-
ing, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge
of a precipice which it made the eye dizzy
to


( 79 :)
to look down. Emily was terrified almoſt
to fainting; and St. Aubert, apprehending
ſtill greater danger from ſuddenly ſtopping
the driver, was compelled to ſit quietly, and
truſt his fate to the ſtrength and diſcretion
of the mules, who ſeemed to pofleſs a greater
portion of the latter quality than their maſ-
ter; for they carried the travellers ſafely
into the valley, and there ſtopped upon the
brink of the rivulet that watered it.
Leaving the ſplendour of extenſive pro-
ſpects, they now entered this narrow valley,
ſcreened by
Rocks on rocks piled, as if by magic ſpell,
Here ſcorch'd by lightnings, there with ivy green.
The ſcene of barrenneſs was here and
there interrupted by the ſpreading branches
of the larch and cedar, which threw their
gloom over the cliff, or athwart the torrent
that rolled in the vale. No living creature
appeared, except the izard, ſcrambling
among the rocks, and often hanging upon
points ſo dangerous, that fancy ſhrunk from
E4
the


( 80 )
the view of then. This was ſuch a ſcene
as Salvator would have choſen, had he then
exiſted, for his canvaſs ; St. Aubert, im-
preſſed by the romantic character of the
place, almoſt expected to ſee banditti ſtart
from behind ſome projecting rock, and he
kept his hand upon the arms with which
he always travelled.
As they advanced, the valley opened;
its ſavage features gradually ſoftened, and,
towards evening, they were among heathy
mountains, ſtretched in far perſpective,
along which the folitary ſheep-bell was
heard, and the voice of the ſhepherd calling
his wandering' flocks to the nightly fold.
His cabin, partly ſhadowed by the cork-tree
and the ilex, which St. Aubert obſerved to
flouriſh in higher regions of the air than
any other trees, except the fir, was all the
human habitation that yet appeared. Along
the bottom of this valley the moſt vivid
verdure was ſpread; and in the little hollow
receſſes of the mountains, under the ſhade
of the oak and cheſnut, herds of catile
were


( 81 )
were grazing. Groups of them, too, were
often ſeen repoſing on the banks of the
rivulet, or laving their fides in the cool
ſtream, and ſipping its wave.
The ſun was now ſetting upon the val-
ley ; its laſt light gleamed upon the water,
and heightened the rich yellow and purple
tints of the heath and broom, that over-
ſpread the mountains, St. Aubert enquired
of Michael the diſtance to the hamlet he
had mentioned, but the man could not with
certainty tell; and Emily began to fear that
he had miſtaken the road. Here was no
human being to aſſiſt, or direct them; they
had left the ſhepherd and his cabin far be-
hind, and the ſcene became ſo obſcured in
twilight, that the eye could not follow the
diſtant perſpective of the valley, in ſearch
of a cottage, or a hamlet. A glow of the
horizon ſtill marked the weſt, and this was
of ſome little uſe to the travellers. Michael
ſeemed endeavouring to keep up his courage
by ſinging; his muſic, however, was not of
a kind to diſperſe melancholy; he ſung, in
a fort
E 5


( 82 )
UT
a fort of chant, one of the moſt diſmal dit-
ties his préſent auditors had ever heard, and
St. Aubert at length diſcovered it to be a
vefper-hymn to his favourite faint.. :
They travelled on, funk in that thought-
ful melancholy with which twilight and fo.
litude impreſs the mind. Michael had now
ended his ditty, and nothing was heard but
the drowſy murmur of the breeze among
the woods, and its light flutter, as it blew
freſhly into the carriage. They were at
length rouſed by the ſound of fire-arms.
St. Aubert called to the muleteer to ſtop,
and they liſtened. The noiſe was not re-
peated; but preſently they heard a ruſtling
among the brakes. St. Aubert drew forth
a piſtol, and ordered Michael to proceed as
faſt as poſſible; who had not long obeyed,
before a horn founded, that made the moun.
tains ring. He looked again from the
window, and then ſaw a young man fpring
from the buſhes into the road, followed by
a couple of dogs. The ſtranger was in a
hunter's dreſs. His gun was flung acroſs
his


( 83 )
his ſhoulders, the hunter's horn hung from
his belt, and in his hand was a ſmall pike,
which, as he held it, added to the manly
grace of his figure, and affifted the agility
of his ſteps.
After a moment's heſitation, St. Aubert
again ſtopped the carriage, and waited till
he came up, that they might enquire con-
cerning the hamlet they were in ſearch of.
The ſtranger informed him, that it was on-
ly half a league diftant; that he was going
thither himſelf, and would readily ſhew the
way. St. Aubert thanked him for the offer,
and, pleaſed with his chevalier-like air and
open countenance, aſked him to take a ſeat
in the carriage; which the ſtranger, with an
acknowledgment, declined, adding, that he
would keep pace with the mules. « But I
fear you will be wretchedly accommodaced,"
faid he : “ the inhabitants of theſe moun-
tains are a ſimple people, who are not only
without the luxuries of life, but almoſt
deſtitute of what in other places are held
to be its neceſſaries.”
E 6 6 I pers,


( 84 )
* I perceive you are not one of its inha-
bitants, ſir,” ſaid St. Aubert.
“ No, fir, I am only a wanderer here.”
The carriage drove on, and the increaſing
duſk made the travellers very thankful that
they had a guide ; the frequent glens, too,
that now opened among the mountains,
would likewiſe have added to their per-
plexity. Emily, as ſhe looked up one of
theſe, ſaw ſomething at a great diſtance like
a bright cloud in the air. “ What light is
yonder, fir?” ſaid ſhe. St. Aubert looked,
and perceived that it was the ſnowy ſum.
mit of a mountains, ſo much higher than
any around it, that it ſtill reflected the
fun's rays, while thoſe below lay in deep
ſhade.
At length, village lights were feen to
twinkle through the duſk, and, ſoon after,
fome cottages were diſcovered in the valley,
or rather were ſeen by reflection in the
ſtream, on whoſe margin they ſtood, and
which ſtill gleamed with the evening light.
The ſtranger now came up, and St. Au-
bert,


( 86 )
to paſs a few weeks in your way exceedingly.
I, too, am a wanderer, but neither my plan
nor purſuits are exactly like yours - I go in
ſearch of health, as much as of amufement.""
St. Aubert fighed, and pauſed ; and then,
ſeeming to recollect himſelf, he refumed :
66 If I can hear of a tolerable road, that
ſhall afford decent accommodation, it is
my intention to paſs into Rouſillon, and
along the ſea-ſhore to Languedoc. You,
fir, ſeem to be acquainted with the coun-
try, and can, perhaps, give me information
on the ſubject.”
The ſtranger ſaid, that what information
he could give was entirely at his ſervice ;
and then mentioned a road rather more to
the eaſt, which led to a town, whence it
would be eaſy to proceed into Rouſillon.
They now arrived at the village, and com-
menced their ſearch for a cottage, that would
afford a night's lodging. In ſeveral, which
they entered, ignorance, poverty, and mirth
ſeemed equally to prevail ; and the owners
eyed St. Aubert with a mixture of curioſity
and


( 87 )
and timidity. Nothing like a bed could be
found, and he had ceaſed to enquire for one,
when Emily joined him, who obferved the
languor of her father's countenance, and
lamented, that he had taken a road ſo ill
provided with the comforts neceſſary for an
invalid. Other cottages, which they exa-
mined, ſeemed ſomewhat leſs ſavage than the
former, conſiſting of two rooms, if ſuch they
could be called; the firſt of theſe occupied
by mules and pigs, the fecond by the fa-
mily, which generally conſiſted of ſix or
eight children, with their parents, who ſlepe
on beds of ſkins and dried beech leaves,
ſpread upon a mud floor. Here, light was
admitted, and ſmoke diſcharged, through
an aperture in the roof; and here the ſcent
of ſpirits (for the travelling ſmugglers, who
haunted the Pyrenées, had made this rude
people familiar with the uſe of liquors)
was generally perceptible enough. Emily
turned from ſuch ſcenes, and looked at her
father with anxious tenderneſs, which the
young ſtranger ſeemed to obſerve ; for,
drawing
S


( 88 )
drawing St. Aubert aſide, he made him an
offer of his own bed." It is a decent
one,” ſaid he, “ when compared with what
we have juſt ſeen, yet ſuch as in other cir-
cuinſtances I ſhould be aſhamed to offer
you." St. Aubert acknowledged how much
he felt himſelf obliged by this kindneſs, but
refuſed to accept it, till the young ſtranger
would take no denial. " Do not give me
the pain of knowing, ſir," faid he, " that
an invalid, like you, lies on hard ſkins,
while I neep in a bed. Beſides, fir, your
refuſal wounds my pride; I muſt believe
you think my offer unworthy your accept-
ance. Let me ſhew you the way. I have
no doubt iny landlady can accommodate
this young lady alſo.”
St. Aubert, at length, conſented, that, if
this could be done, he would accept his
kindneſs, though he felt rather ſurpriſed,
that the ſtranger had proved himſelf ſo de.
ficient in gallantry, as to adminiſter to the
repoſe of an infirm man, rather than to that
of a very lovely young woman, for he had
noc
al


( 89 )
not once offered the room for Emily. But
ſhe thought not of herſelf, and the animated
ſmile ſhe gave him, told how much ſhe felt
herſelf obliged for the preference of her
father.
On their way, the ſtranger, whoſe name
was Valancourt, ſtepped on firſt to ſpeak to
his hoſteſs, and ſhe came out to welcome
St. Aubert into a cottage, much ſuperior to
any he had ſeen. This good woman ſeemed
very willing to accommodate the ſtrangers,
who were ſoon compelled to accept the
only two beds in the place. Fggs and milk
were the only food the cottage afforded ;
but againſt ſcarcity of proviſions St. Aubert
had provided, and he requeſted Valancourt
to ſtay, and partake with him of leſs home-
ly fare; an invitation, which was readily
accepted, and they paſſed an hour in intel.
ligent converſation. St. Aubert was much
pleaſed with the manly frankneſs, fimplici-
ty, and keen ſuſceptibility to the grandeur
of nature, which his new acquaintance dif-
covered ; and, indeed, he had often been *
heard


(90)
heard to ſay, that, without a certain fimpli-
city of heart, this taſte could not exiſt in
any ſtrong degree.
The converſation was interrupted by a
violent uproar without, in which the voice
of the muleteer was heard above every other
found. Valancourt ſtarted from his ſeat,
and went to enquire the occaſion ; but the
diſpute continued ſo long afterwards, that
St. Aubert went himſelf, and found Mi-
chael quarrelling with the hoſteſs, becauſe
The had refuſed to let his mules lie in a little
room where he and three of her fons were
to paſs the night. The place was wretch-
ed enough, but there was no other for theſe
people to ſleep in ; and, with ſomewhat
more of delicacy than was uſual among the
inhabitants of this wild tract of country, ſhe
perſiſted in refuſing to let the animals have
the ſame bed-chamber with her children.
This was a tender point with the muleteer;
his honour was wounded when his mules
were treated with diſreſpect, and he would
* have received a blow, perhaps, with more
meekneſs.


( 91 )
meekneſs. He declared that his beaſts were
as honeſt beaſts, and as good beaſts, as any
in the whole province; and that they had
a right to be well treated wherever they
went. “ They are as harmleſs as lambs,”
ſaid he, “ if people don't affront them. I
never knew them behave themſelves amiſs
above once or twice in my life, and then
they had good reaſon for doing ſo. Once,
indeed, they kicked at a boy's leg that lay
| aſleep in the ſtable, and broke it ; but I
told them they were out there, and by St.
Anthony! I believe they underſtood me,
for they never did ſo again.”
He concluded this eloquent harangue
with proteſting, that they ſhould ſhare with
him, go where he would.
The diſpute was at length ſettled by Va-
lancourt, who drew'the hoſteſs aſide, and
deſired ſhe would let the muleteer and his
beaſts have the place in queſtion to them.
ſelves, while her ſons ſhould have the bed
of ſkins deſigned for him, for that he would
wrap himſelf in his cloak, and deep on the
bench


( 92 )
bench by the cottage door. But this the
thought it her duty to oppoſe, and ſhe felt
it to be her inclination to diſappoint the
mule:eer. Valancourt, however, was poſi-
tive, and the tedious affair was at length
ſettled.
It was late when St. Aubert and Emily
retired to their rooms, and Valancourt to
his ſtation at the door, which, at this mild
ſeaſon, he preferred to a cloſe cabin and a
bed of ſkins. St. Aubert was ſomewhat
ſurpriſed to find in his roon volumes of
Homer, Horace, and Petrarch ; but the
name of Valancourt, written in them, told
him to whom they belonged.
C H A
P.


( 93 )
CHAP. IV.
* In truth he was a ſtrange and wayward wight,
Fond of each gentle, and each dreadful ſcene :
In darkneſs, and in ſtorm he found delight;
Nor leſs than when on ocean-wave ſerene
The ſouthern ſun diffus'd his dazzling ſheen.
Even fad viciſſitude amus'd his ſoul ;
And if a figh would ſometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A figh, a tear, ſo ſweet, he wiſh'd not to controul.”
THE MINSTREL.
ST. AUBERT awoke at an early hour,
refreſhed by Neep, and deſirous to ſet for-
ward. He invited the ſtranger to break-
faſt with him ; and, talking again of the
road, Valancourt ſaid, that, fome months
paſt, he had travelled as far as Beaujeu,
which was a town of ſome conſequence on
the way to Rouſillon. He recommended
it to St. Aubert to take that route, and the
latter determined to do ſo.
16 The


( 94 )
]
* The road from this hamlet," ſaid
Valancourt, " and that to Beaujeu, part at
the diſtance of about a league and a half
from hence ; if you will give me leave, I
will direct your muleteer ſo far. I muſt
wander ſomewhere, and your company
would make this a pleaſanter ramble than
any other I could take.”
St. Aubert thankfully accepted his of-
fer, and they ſet out together, the young
ſtranger on foot, for he refuſed the invita-
tion of St. Aubert to take a ſeat in his little
carriage.
The road wound along the feet of the
mountains through a paſtoral valley, bright
with verdure, and varied with groves of
dwarf oak, beech, and ſycamore, under
whoſe branches herds of cattle repoſed.
The mountain-aſh too, and the weeping
birch, often threw their pendant foliage
over the ſteeps above, where the ſcanty ſoil
ſcarcely concealed their roots, and where
their light branches waved to every breeze
chat fluttered from the mountains.
The
4


( 95 )
The travellers were frequently met at
this early hour, for the ſun had not yet riſen
upon the valley, by ſhepherds driving im.
menſe flocks from their folds to feed upon
the hills. St. Aubert had ſet out thus early,
not only that he might enjoy the firſt ap-
pearance of fun-riſe, but that he might in-
hale the firſt pure breath of morning, which
above all things is refreſhing to the ſpirits
of the invalid. In theſe regions it was par-
ticularly ſo, where an abundance of wild
flowers and aromatic herbs breathed forth
their effence on the air.
The dawn, which ſoftened the ſcenery
with its peculiar grey tint, now diſperſed,
and Emily watched the progreſs of the day,
firſt trembling on the tops of the higheſt
cliffs, then touching them with ſplendid
light, while their ſides and the vale below.
were ſtill wrapt in dewy miſt. Meanwhile,
the ſullen grey of the eaſtern clouds began
to bluſh, then to redden, and then to glow
with a thouſand colours, till the golden light
darted over all the air, touched the lower
Ź
points


( 96 )
Sh
points of the mountain's brow, and glanced
in long Noping beams upon the valley and
its ſtream. All nature ſeemed to have
awakened from death into life; the ſpirit of
St. Aubert was renovated. His heart was
full; he wept, and his thoughts aſcended
to the Great Creator.
Emily wiſhed to trip along the turf, ſo
green and bright with dew, and to taſte the
full delight of that liberty which the izard
ſeemed to enjoy as he bounded along the
brow of the cliffs ; while Valancourt ofien
ſtopped to ſpeak with the travellers, and
with ſocial feeling to point out to them the
peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Au-
bert was pleaſed with him : “ Here is the
real ingenuouſneſs and ardour of youth,”
ſaid he to himſelf; “ this young man has
never been at Paris.”
He was ſorry when they came to the ſpoc
where the roads parted, and his heart took
a more affectionate leave of him than is
uſual after ſo ſhort an acquaintance. Va-
lancourt talked long by the ſide of the car-
riage ;


( 97 )
riage; ſeemed more than once to be
going, but ſtill lingered, and appeared to
ſearch anxiouſly for topics of converſation
to account for his delay. At length he
took leave. As he went, St. Aubert ob-
ſerved him look with an earneſt and penſive
eye at Emily, who bowed to him with a
countenance full of timid ſweetneſs, while
the carriage drove on. St. Aubert, for what-
ever reaſon, ſoon after looked from the
window, and faw Valancourt ſtanding upon
the bank of the road, reſting on his pike
with folded arms, and following the car-
riage with his eyes. He waved his hand,
and Valancourt, ſeeming to awake from.
his reverie, returned the falute, and ſtarted
away.
The aſpect of the country now. began
to change, and the travellers ſoon found
themſelves among mountains covered from
their baſe nearly to their ſuomics with
foreſts of gloomy pine, except where a
rock of granite ſhot up from the vale, and
loſt its ſnowy top in the clouds. The ri-
Vol. I, F
vulet,


( 98 )
IS
vulet, which had hitherto accompanied
them, now expanded into a river ; and,
flowing deeply and filently along, reflected,
as in a mirror, the blackneſs of the im-
pending ſhades. Sometimes a cliff was
feen lifting its bold head above the woods
and the vapours, that floated mid-way down
the mountains; and ſometimes a face of
perpendicular marble roſe from the water's
edge, over which the larch threw his gigan-
tic arms, here fcathed with lightning, and
there floating in luxuriant foliage.
They continued to travel over a rough
and unfrequented road, ſeeing now and
then at a diſtance the ſolitary ſhepherd,
with his dog, ſtalking along the valley,
and hearing only the daſhing of torrents,
which the woods concealed from the eye,
the long ſullen murmur of the breeze, as it
ſwept over the pines, or the notes of the
eagle and the vulture, which were ſeen tow-
ering round the beetling cliff.
Often, as the carriage moved ſlowly
over uneven ground, St. Aubert alighted,
and


( 99 )
and amuſed himſelf with examining the
curious plants that grew on the banks
of the road, and with which theſe re-
gions abound; while Emily, wrapt in
high enthuſiaſm, wandered away under the
ſhades, liſtening in deep ſilence to the
lonely murmur of the woods.
Neither village nor hamlet was ſeen for
many leagues; the goat-herd's or the
hunter's cabin, perched among the cliffs of
the rocks, were the only human habitations
that appeared.,
The travellers again took their dinner in
the open air, on a pleaſant ſpot in the val-
ley under the ſpreading ſhade of cedars ;
and then ſet forward towards Beaujeu.
The road now began to aſcend, and,
leaving the pine foreſts behind, wound
among rocky precipices. The evening
twilight again fell over the ſcene, and
the travellers were ignorant how far they
might yet be from Beaujeu. St. Aubert,
however, conjectured that the diſtance
could not be very great, and comforted
F 2 . himſelf


' ( 100 )
himſelf with the proſpect of travelling on a
more frequented road after reaching that
town, where he deſigned to paſs the night.
Mingled woods, and rocks, and heathy
mountains were now ſeen obſcurely through
the duſk ; but ſoon even theſe imperfect
images faded in darkneſs. - Michael pro-
ceeded with caution, for he could ſcarcely
diftinguiſh the road; his mules, however,
ſeemed to have more fagacity, and their
ſteps were ſure.
On turning the angle of a mountain, à
light appeared at a diſtance, that illumi-
ned the rocks, and the horizon to a great
extent. It was evidently a large fire, but
whether accidental or otherwiſe, there were
no means of knowing. St. Aubert thought
it was probably kindled by ſome of the nu-
merous banditti, that infefted the Pyrenées,
and he became watchful, and anxious to
know whether the road paſſed near this
fire. He had arins with him, which, on an
emergency, might afford ſome protection,
though certainly a very unequal one, againſt
a band


( 101 )
a band of robbers, ſo deſperate too as thoſe
uſually were who haunted theſe wild re-
gions. While many reflections roſe upon
his `mind, he heard a voice ſhouting
from the road behind, and ordering the
muleteer to ſtop. St. Aubert bade him
proceed as faſt as poſſible; but either Mi-
chael, or his mules were obſtinate, for they
did not quit the old pace. Horſes' feet were
now heard ; a man rode up to the car.
riage, ſtill ordering the driver to ſtop; and
St. Aubert, who could no longer doubt
his purpoſe, was with difficulty able to
prepare a piſtol for his defence, when his
hand was upon the door of the chaiſe.
The man ſtaggered on his horſe, the re-
port of the piſtol was followed by a grean,
and St. Aubert's horror may be imagined,
when in the next inſtant he thought he
heard the faint voice of Valancourt. He
now himſelf bade the muleteer ſtop; and,
pronouncing the name of Valancourt, was
anſwered in a voice, that no longer ſuffered
him to doubt. St. Aubert, who inſtantly
alighted
F 3


( 102 )
, alighted and went to his aſſiſtance, found
him ſtill fitting on his horſe, but bleeding
· profuſely, and appearing to be in great
pain, though he endeavoured to ſoften the
terror of St. Aubert by aſſurances that he
was not materially hurt, the wound being
only in his arm. St. Aubert, with the
diuleteer, afliſted him to difmount, and he
fat down on the bank of the road, where
St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his
hands trembled fo exceſſively that he could
not accompliſh it; and, Michael being now
gone in purſuit of the horſe, which, on be-
ing diſengaged from his rider, had gal-
loped off, he called Emily to his affiftance.
Receiving no anſwer, he went to the car.
riage, and found her funk on the feat in a
fainting fit. Between the diſtreſs of this
circumſtance and that of leaving Valan-
court bleeding, he fcarcely knew what he
did; he endeavoured, however, to raiſe
her, and called to Michael to fetch water
from the rivulet that flowed by the road,
but Michael was gone beyond the reach of
his


( 103 )
his voice. Valancourt, who heard theſe
calls, and alſo the repeated name of Emily,
inſtantly underſtood the ſubject of his diſ-
treſs; and, almoſt forgetting his own con-
dition, he haſtened to her relief. She was
reviving when he reached the carriage ; and
then, underſtanding that anxiety for him had
occafioned her indiſpofition, he aſſured her,
in a voice that trembled, but not from an-
guiß, that his wound was of no confe.
quence. While he ſaid this St. Aubert
turned round, and perceiving that he was
ſtill, bleeding, the ſubject of his alarm
changed again, and he haſtily formed ſome
handkerchiefs into a bandage. This ſtop-
ped che effuſion of the blood ; but St. Au-
bert, dreading the conſequence of the
wound, enquired repeatedly how far they
were from Beaujeu ; when learning that is
was at two leagues diſtance, his diſtreſs in-
creaſed, ſince he knew noć low Valancourt,
in his preſent ſtate, would bear the motion
of the carriage, and perceived that he was
already faint from loſs of blood. When he
mentioned
.F4


( 104 )
mentioned the ſubject of his anxiety, Va.
lancourt entreated that he would not fuffer
himſelf to be thus alarmed on his account,
for that he had no doubt he ſhould be able
to ſupport himſelf very well; and ther, he
talked of the accident as a ſlight one. The
muleteer being now returned with Valan-
court's horſe, aſſiſted him into the chaiſe :
and, as Emily was now revived, they mov-
ed flowly on towards Beaujeu.
St. Aubert, when he had recovered from
the terror occaſioned him by this accident,
expreffed ſurpriſe on ſeeing Valancourt,
who explained his unexpected appearance
by ſaying, “ You, Sir, renewed my taſte-
for ſociety ; when you had left the hamlet,
it did indeed appear a ſolitude. I deter-
mined, therefore, ſince my object was merely
amuſement, to change the ſcene ; and I took
this road, becauſe I knew it led through a
more romantic tract of niountains than the
ſpot I have left. Beſides," added he, heſi-
tating for an inſtant, “ I will own, and
LU
-
-
-
-
-
-- -
---
.
.
why


( 105 )
why ſhould I not ? that I had ſome hope
of overtaking you.”
“And I have made you a very unex-
pected return for the compliment,” ſaid St.
Aubert, who lamented again the raſhneſs
which had produced the accident, and ex-
plained the cauſe of his late alarm. But
Valancourt ſeemed anxious only to remove
from the minds of hisсompanions every un-
pleaſant feeling relative to himſelf; and, for
that purpoſe, ſtill ſtruggled againſt a ſenſe
of pain, and tried to converſe with gaiety.
Emily mean while was filent, except when
Valancourt particularly addreſſed her, and
there was at thoſe times a tremulous tone
in his voice that ſpoke much.
They were now ſo near the fire which had
long flamed at a diſtance on the blackneſs
of night, that it gleamed upon the road,
and they could diſtinguiſh figures moving
about the blaze. The way winding ſtill
nearer, they perceived in the valley one of
thoſe numerous bands of gipſies, which
at that period particularly haunted the
wilds
F 5


( 106 )
wilds of the Pyrenées, and lived partly by
plundering the traveller. Emily looked
with ſome degree of terror on the ſavage
countenances of theſe people, ſhewn by the
fire, which heightened the romantic effect
of the ſcenery, as it threw a red duſky gleam
upon the rocks and on the foliage of the
trees, leaving heavy maſſes of ſhade and
regions of obfcurity, which the eye feared
to penetrate.
They were preparing their ſupper; a
large por ſtood by the fire, over which ſe-
veral figures were bofy. The blaze diſco-
vered a rude kind of rent, round which
many children and dogs were playing, and
the whole formed a picture highly gro-
teſque. The travellers faw plainly their
danger. Valancourt was filent, but laid
his hand on one of St. Aubert's piſtols;
St. Aubert drew forth another, and Mi.
chael was ordered to proceed as faſt as poſ-
fible. They paffed the place, however,
without being attacked ; the rovers being
probably
002


( 107 )
TUCS.
probably unprepared for the opportunity,
and too buſy about their ſupper to feel
much intereſt, at the moment, in any thing
beſides,
After a league and a half more paſſed
in darkneſs, the travellers arrived at Beani-
jeu, and drove up to the only inn the place
afforded; which, though ſuperior to any
they had ſeen ſince they entered the moun-
tains, was bad enough.
The ſurgeon of the town was immedi-
ately fent for, if a ſurgeon he could be
called, who preſcribed for horſes as well as
for men, and ſhaved faces at leaſt as dexte-
rouſly as he ſet bones. After examining
Valancourt's arm, and perceiving that the
bullet had paſſed through the fleſh without
touching the bone, he dreſſed it, and left
him with à folemn preſcription of quiet,
which his patient was not inclined to obey.
The delight of eaſe had now ſucceeded to
pain; for eaſe may be allowed to aſſume
a poſitive quality when contraſted with
anguilh ; and, his fpiríts thus re-animated,
i
F6
he


( 108 )
he wiſhed to partake of the converſation of
St. Aubert and Emily, who, -releaſed from
ſo many apprehenfions, were uncommonly
cheerful. Late as it was, however, Sr.
Aubert - was obliged to go out with the
landlord to buy meat for ſupper; and
Emily, who, during this interval, had been
abſent as long as ſhe could, upon excuſes
of looking to their accommodation, which
ſhe found rather better than the expected,
was compelled to return, and converſe
with Valancourt alone. They talked of the
character of the ſcenes they had paſſed, of
the natural hiſtory of the country, of poetry,
and of St. Aubert; a ſubject on which
Emily always ſpoke and liſtened to with
peculiar pleaſure.
The travellers paſſed an agreeable even-
ing, but St. Aubert was fatigued with his
journey; and, as Valancourt ſeemed again
ſenſible of pain, they feparated ſoon after
ſupper.
. In the morning, St. Aubert found that
Valancourt had paſſed a reſtlefs night;
that
10


( 109 )
that he was feveriſh, and his wound very
painful. The ſurgeon, when he dreſſed it,
adviſed him to remain quietly at Beaujeu;
advice which was too reaſonable to be re-
jected. St. Aubert, however, had no fa.
vourable opinion of this practitioner, and
was anxious to commit Valancourt into more
ſkilful hands; but learning, upon enquiry,
that there was no town within ſeveral
leagues which ſeemed more like to afford
better advice, he altered the plan of his
journey, and determined to await the re-
covery of Valancourt, who, with ſomewhat
more ceremony than ſincerity, made many
objections to this delay.
By order of his ſurgeon, Valancourt did
not go out of the houſe that day; but St.
Aubert and Emily ſurveyed with delight
the environs of the town, ſituated at the
feet of the Pyrenean Alps, that roſe, foine
in abrupt precipices, and others ſwelling
with woods of cedar, fir, and cypreſs, which
ſtretched nearly to their higheſt ſummits.
The cheerful green of the beech and moun-
tain-


( no )
tain-aſh was ſometimes ſeen, like a gleam
of light, amidſt the dark verdure of the
foreſt; and ſometimes a torrent poured its
ſparkling flood, high among the woods.-
Valancourt's indifpofition detained the
travellers at Beaujeu ſeveral days, during
which interval St. Aubert had obſerved his
diſpoſition and his talents with the philoſo-
phic enquiry fo natural to him. He ſaw a
frank and generous nature, full of ardour,
highly fuſceptible of whatever is grand and
beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and ſome-
what romantic. Valancourt had known
little of the world. His perceptions were
clear, and his feelings juſt ; his indigna-
tion of an unworthy, or his admiration of
a generous action, were expreſſed in ternis
of equal vehemence. St. Aubert ſometimes
ſmiled at his warmth, but ſeldom checked
ic, and often repeated to himſelf, “ This
young man has never been at Paris.” A
figh ſometiines' followed this filent ejacula-
tion. He determined not to leave Valan-
court till he ſhould be perfectly recovered ;
and,
IS


( 112 1
- St. Aubert ſometimes amufed himſelf
with botanizing, while Valancourt and
Emily ſtrolled on; he pointing out to her
notice the objects that particularly charmed
him, and reciting beautiful paſſages from
fuch of the Latin and Italian poets as he
had heard her admire. In the pauſes of
converſation, when he thought himſelf not
obſerved, he frequently fixed his eyes pen-
fively on her countenance, which expreſſed
with ſo much animation the taſte and energy
of her mind ; and when he ſpoke again,
there was a peculiar tenderneſs in the tone
of his voice, that defeated any attempt to
conceal his ſentiments. By degrees theſe
ſilent paufes became more frequent ; till
Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to inter.
rupt them; and ſhe, who had been hitherto
reſerved, would now talk again, and again,
of the woods and the vallies and the moun-
tains, to avoid the danger of fympathy and
ſilence.
From Beaujeu the road had conſtantly
aſcended, conducting the travellers into the
higher


( 113 )
higher regions of the air, where inmenfe
glaciers exhibited their frozen horrors, and
eternal fnow whitened the ſuminits of the
mountains. They often pauſed to contem-
plate theſe ſtupendous ſcenes, and, ſeated
on ſome wild cliff, where only the ilex or
the larch could flouriſh, looked over dark
foreſts of fir, and precipices where human
foot had never wandered, into the glen-
fo deep, that the thunder of the torrent,
which was ſeen to foam along the bottom,
was ſcarcely heard to murmur. Over theſe
crags roſe others of ſtupendous height, and
ſ fantaſtic ſhape ; ſome ſhooting into cones ;
others impending far over their baſe, in
huge maſſes of granite, along whoſe broken
ridges was often lodged a weight of ſnow,
that, trembling even to the vibration of a
found, threatened to bear deſtruction in its
courſe to the vale. 'Around, on every ſide,
far as the eye could penetrate, were ſeen
only forms of grandeur--the long perſpec-
tive of mountain tops, tinged with ethereal
blue, or white with ſnow ; vallies of ice;
and -


( 114 )
CO
and foreſts of gloomy, fir. The ſerenity
and clearneſs of the air in theſe high re-
gions were particularly delightful to the
travellers ; it ſeemed to inſpire them with a
finer ſpirit, and diffuſed an indeſcribable
complacency over their minds. They had
no words to expreſs the ſublime emotions
they felt. A folemn expreſſion character-
ized the feelings of St. Aubert ; tears often
came to his eyes, and he frequently walked
away from his companions. Valancourt
now and then ſpoke, to point to Emily's
notice ſome feature of the ſcene. The thin-
nefs of the atmoſphere, through which
every object came ſo diſtinctly to the eye,
ſurpriſed and deluded her; who could
ſcarcely believe that objects, which appeared
fo near, were, in reality, ſo diſtant. The deep“!
filence of theſe ſolitudes was broken only
at intervals by the ſcream of the vultures,
feen cowering round fome cliff below, or
by the cry of the eagle failing high in the
air ; except when the travellers liſtened to
the hollow thunder that ſometimes muí.
tered


( 115 )
tered at their feet. While, above, the deep
blue of the heavens was unobſcured by.
the lighteſt cloud, half way down the
: mountains, long billows of vapour were
frequently ſeen rolling, now wholly ex-
cluding the country below, and now open-
ing, and partially revealing its features.
Emily delighted to obſerve the grandeur of
theſe clouds as they changed in ſhape and
tints, and to watch their various effect on
the lower world, whoſe features, partly
veiled, were continually affuming new forms
of ſublimity.
After traverſing theſe regions for many
leagues, they began to deſcend towards
Roufillon, and features of beauty then
mingled with the ſcene. Yet the travellers .
did not look back without ſome regret to
the ſublime objects they had quitted ;
though the eye, fatigued with the extenſion
of its powers, was glad to repoſe on the
verdure of woods and paſtures, that now
hung on the margin of the river below; to.
view again the humble cottage faded by :
cedars,


( 16 )
* cedars, the playful group of mountaineer-
children, and the flowery nooks that ap-
peared among the hills.
· As they deſcended, they ſaw at a diſtance,
on the right, one of the grand paſſes of the
Pyrenées into Spain, gleaming with its bat-
tlements and towers to the ſplendour of the
ſetting rays, yellow tops of woods colouring
the ſteeps below, while far above aſpired the
ſnowy points of the mountains, ſtill reflect-
ing a roſy hue.
St. Aubert began to look out for the lit-
tle town he had been directed to by the
people of Beauje, and where he meant to
paſs the night; but no habitation yet ap.
peared. Of its diſtance Valancourt could
not aſſiſt him to judge, for he had never
been ſo far along this chain of Alps before.
There was, however, a road to guide them;
and there.could be little doubt that it was,
the right one ; for, ſince they had left Beali-
jeu, there had been no variety of tracks to
perplex or miſlead.
The


( 117 )
>
The ſun now gave his laſt light, and St,
Aubert bade the muleteer proceed with all
poſſible diſpatch. He found, indeed, the
laſlitude of illneſs return upon him, af-
ter a day of uncommon fatigue, both of
body and mind, and he longed for re-
poſe. His anxiety was not ſoothed by
obſerving a numerous train, conſiſting of
men, horſes, and loaded mules, winding
down the ſteeps of an oppoſite mountain,
appearing and diſappearing at intervals
among the woods, ſo that its numbers could
not be judged of. Something bright, like
arms, glanced in the ſetting ray, and the
military dreſs was diſtinguiſhable upon the
men who were in the van, and on others
ſcattered among the troop that followed.
As theſe wound into the vale, the rear of
the party emerged from the woods, and ex.
hibited a band of ſoldiers. St. Aubert's
apprehenſions now ſubſided; he had no
doubt that the train before him conſiſted of
ſmugglers, who, in conveying prohibited
:
.
goods


( 118 )
goods over the Pyrenées, had been encoun-
tered, and conquered by a party of troops.
The travellers had lingered ſo long among
the ſublimer ſcenes of theſe mountains, that
they found themſelves entirely miſtaken
in their calculation that they could reach
Montigny at ſun-ſet ; but, as they wound
along the valley, they ſaw, on a rude Alpine
bridge, that united two lofty crags of the
glen, a group of mountaineer-children,
amufing themſelves with dropping pebbles
into a torrent below, and watching the
ſtones plunge into the water, that threw up
its white ſpray high in the air as it received
them, and returned a fullen ſound, which
the echoes of the mountains prolonged.
Under the bridge was ſeen a perſpective of
the valley, with its cataract deſcending
ainong the rocks, and a cottage on a cliff,
overſhadowed with pines. It appeared,
that they could not be far from ſome ſmall
rown. St. Aubert bade the muleteer ſtop,
and then called to the children to enquire
if


( 119 )
if he was near Montigny; but the diſtance,
and the roaring of the waters, would not
ſuffer his voice to be heard; and the crags,
adjoining the bridge, were of ſuch tremen-
dous height and ſteepneſs, that to have
climbed either would have been ſcarcely
practicable to a perſon unacquainted with
the aſcent. St. Aubert, therefore, did not
waſte more moments in delay. They con-
tinued to travel long after twilight had ob-
fcured the road, which was ſo broken, that,
now thinking it ſafer to walk than to ride,
they all alighted. The moon was riſing, but
her light was yet too feeble to aſſiſt them.
While they ſtepped carefully on, they heard
the veſper-bell of a convent. The twilight
would not permit them to diſtinguiſh any
thing like a building, but the ſounds ſeemed
to come from ſome woods, that overhung
an acclivity to the right. Valancourt pro-
poſed to go in ſearch of this convent. “ If
they will not accommodate us with a night's
lodging,” ſaid he, “ they may certainly
20
inform


( 120 )
inform us how far we are from Montigny,
and direct us towards it.” He was bound-
ing forward, without waiting St. Aubert's
reply, when the latter ſtopped him. “I
am very weary,” ſaid St. Aubert, " and
wiſh for nothing ſo much as for immediate
reſt. We will all go to the convent ; your
good looks would defeat our purpoſe ; but
when they ſee mine and Emily's exhauſted
countenances, they will ſcarcely deny us
repoſe.”
As he ſaid this, he took Emily's arm
within his, and, telling Michael to wait a
while in the road with the carriage, ihey be-
gan to aſcend towards the woods, guided
by the bell of the convent. His ſteps
were feeble, and Valancourt offered him his
arm, which he accepted. The moon now
threw a faint light over their path, and,
ſoon after, enabled them to diſtinguiſh ſome
towers riſing above the tops of the woods.
Still following the note of the bell, they
entered the ſhade of thoſe woods, lighted
only by the moon-beams, that glided down
8
between


( 21 )
wei
between the leaves, and threw a tremulous
uncertain gleam upon the ſteep track they
were winding. The gloom and the ſilence
that prevailed, except when the bell re-
turned upon the air, together with the wild-,
neſs of the ſurrounding ſcene, ſtruck Emily
with a degree of fear, which, however, the
voice and converſation of Valancourt ſome-
what repreſſed. When they had been ſome
time aſcending, St. Aubert complained of
wearineſs, and they ſtopped to reſt upon a
little green ſummit, where the trees opened,
and admitted the moon-light. He ſat down
. upon the turf, between Emily and Valan-
court. The bell had now ceaſed, and the
deep repoſe of the ſcene was undiſturbed
by any found; for the low dull murmur
of ſome diſtant torrents might be ſaid
to ſooth, rather than to interrupt the fi,
lence.
Before them, extended the valley they
had quitted ; its rocks, and woods to the
left, juſt ſilvered by the rays, formed a con-
traſt to the deep ſhadow, that involved the
VOL. I.
G .. oppoſite


( 122 1 22
)
oppoſite cliffs, whoſe fringed ſummits only
were ripped with light; while the diſtanc
perſpective of the valley was loſt in the yel-
low miſt of moonlight. The travellers fat
for ſome time wrapt in the complacency
which ſuch ſcenes inſpire.
“Theſe ſcenes," ſaid Valancourt, at length,
“ foften the heart, like the notes of ſweet
muſic, and inſpire that delicious melancholy
which no perſon, who had felt it once, would
reſign for the gayeſt pleaſures. 'They waken
our beſt and pureſt feelings, diſpoſing us to
benevolence, pity, and friendſhip. Thoſe
whom I love I always ſeem to love more
in ſuch an hour as this.” His voice trem-
bled, and he pauſed.
St. Aubert was filent ; Emily perceived a .
warm tear fall upon the hand he held ; ſhe
knew the object of his thoughts ; hers too
had, for ſome time, been occupied by the
remembrance of her mother. He ſeemed
by an effort to roufe himſelf. “Yes,” faid
he, with an half-ſuppreſſed figh, “ the mea .
mory of thoſe we love of times for ever
paſt!


( 123 )
paſt! in ſuch an hour as this ſteals upon
the mind, like a ſtrain of diſtant muſic in
the ſtillneſs of night ;-all tender and har-
monious as this landſcape, ſleeping in the
mellow moon-light.” After the pauſe of a
moment, St. Aubert added, “ I have always
fancied, that I thought with more clearneſs
and preciſion, ac ſuch an hour, than at any
other; and that heart muſt be inſenſible in
a great degree, that does not foften to its
influence. But many ſuch there are.”
Valancourt ſighed. .
“ Are there, indeed, many ſuch ?” ſaid
Emily. . .
"A few years hence, my Emily,” res
plied St. Aubert, “and you may ſmile at
the recollection of that queſtion-if you do
not weep to it. But come, I am ſomewhat
refreſhed, let us proceed.”
Having emerged from the woods, they
faw, upon a turfy hillock above, the con-
vent of which they were in ſearch. An high
wall, that ſurrounded it, led them to an an-
cient gate, at which they knocked; and the
poor
LG 2


( 124 ) :
poor monk, who opened it, conducted them
into a ſmall adjoining room, where he de-
ſired they would wait while he informed the
ſuperior of their requeſt. In this interval,
ſeveral friars came in ſeparately to look at
them; and at length the firſt monk return. .
ed, and they followed him to a room, where
the ſuperior was ſitting in an arm-chair,
with a large folio volume, printed in black
letter, open on a deſk before hiin. He re-
ceived them with courteſy, though he did.
not riſe from his feat; and, having aſked
them a few queſtions, granted their requeſt.
After a ſhort converſation, -formal and ſo.
lemn on the part of the ſuperior, they with-
drew to the apartment, where they were to
ſup, and Valancourt, whom one of the in-
ferior friars civilly deſired to accompany,
went to ſeek Michael and his mules. They
had not deſcended half way down the cliffs,
before they heard the voice of the muleteer
echoing far and wide. Sometimes he called
on St. Aubert, and ſomecimes on Valan.
court; who having, at length, convinced
W
him


( 125 )
CON
him that he had nothing to fear, either for
himſelf or his maſter; and having difpofed
of him, for the night, in a cottage on the
ſkirts of the woods, returned to ſup with his
friends, on ſuch fober fare as the monks
· thought it prudent to ſet before them. While
St. Aubert was too much indiſpoſed to ſhare
it, Emily, in her-anxiety for her father,
forgot herſelf; and Valancourt, ſilent and
thoughtful, yet never inattentive to them,
appeared particularly ſolicitous to accom-
modate and relieve Sc. Aubert, who often
obſerved, while his daughter was preſſing
· him to eat, or adjuſting the pillow ſhe had
placed in the back of his arm-chair, that
Valancourt fixed on her a look of penſive
tenderneſs, which he was not diſpleaſed to
underſtand. :::..
They ſeparated at an early hour, and re-
tired to their reſpective apartments. Emily
was ſhewn to hers by a nun of the convent,
whom ſhe was glad to diſmiſs, for her heart
was melancholy, and her attention ſo much
abſtracted, that converſation with a ſtranger
G 3
was


( 126 )
was painful. „She thought her father daily
declining, and attributed his preſent fatigue
more to the feeble ſtate of his frame, than
to the difficulty of the journey. A train
of gloomy ideas haunted her mind, till ſhe
fell aſleep.
In about two hours after, ſhe was awak-
ened by the chiming of a bell, and then
heard quick ſteps paſs along the gallery,
into which her chamber opened. She was
ſo little accuſtomed to the manners of a con.
vent, as to be alarmed by this circumſtance;
her fears, ever alive for her father, fuggeſted
that he was very ill, and ſhe roſe in haſte to
go to him. Having pauſed, however, co
let the perſons in the gallery paſs before
The opened her door, her thoughts, in the
mean time, recovered from the confuſion
of ſleep, and ſhe underſtood that the bell
was the call of the monks to prayers. It
had now ceaſed, and, all being again ftill,
ſhe forbore to go to St. Aubert's room. Her
mind was not diſpoſed for immediate deep,
and the moonlight, chat fhone into her
chamber,


( 127 )
chamber, invited her to open the caſement,
and look out upon the country.
It was a ſtill and beautiful night, the ſky
was unobſcured by any cloud, and ſcarce a
leaf of the woods beneath trembled in the
air. As ſhe liſtened, the mid-night hymn
of the monks roſe ſoftly from a chapel,
that ſtood on one of the lower cliffs, an
holy ſtrain, that ſeemed to aſcend through
the filence of night to heaven, and her
thoughts aſcended with it. From the con.
fideration of his works, her mind aroſe to
the adoration of the Deity, in his goodneſs
and power ; wherever ſhe turned her view,
whether on the ſleeping carth, or to the vaſt
regions of ſpace, glowing with worlds be-
yond the reach of human thought, the ſubli-
mity of God and the majeſty of his preſence
appeared. Her eyes were filled with tears
of awful love and admiration, and ſhe felt
that pure devotion, ſuperior to all the dif-
tinctions of human ſyſtem, which lifts the
foul above this world, and ſeems to expand
it into a nobler nature; ſuch devotion as
G4
can,


( 128 )
can, perhaps, only be experienced when the
mind, reſcued, for a moment, from the hum-
bleneſs of earthly conſiderations, aſpires to
contemplate His power in the fublimity of
His works, and His goodneſs in the infinity
of His bleſings....
i... "Is it not now the hour,
The holy hour, when to the cloudleſs height :
Of yon ftarred concave climbs the full-orbed moong -
And to this nether world in ſolemn ſtillneſs
Gives. fign, that to the liſt’ning ear of Heaven ...;
Religion's voice ſhould plead? The very babe
Knows this, and, 'chance awak'd, his little hands
Lifts to the gods, and on his innocent couch ::
Calls down a blefling*""*:.:.:.::.:..
.. The midnight chant of the monks foon
after dropped into ſilence; but Emily re-
mained at the caſement, watching the fet-
ting moon, and the valley ſinking into deep
ſhade, and willing to prolong her prefent
ſtate of mind. At length ſhe retired to her
mattreſs, and ſunk into tranquil Number,
* CARACTACUS.
CH A P.


( 129 ) .
*CH A P. v.
i.... While in the rofy vale .
· Love breath'd his infant fighs, from anguiſh free.'
THOMSON.
ST. AUBERT, ſufficiently reſtored by a
night's repoſe to purſue his journey, ſet out
in the morning, with his family and Valan-
court, for Rouſillon, which he hoped to
reach before night-fall. The ſcenes, through
which they now paſſed, were as wild and
romantic as any they had yet obſerved, with
this difference, that beauty, every now and
then, ſoftened the landſcape into ſmiles.
Little woody receffes appeared among the
mountains, covered with bright verdure
and flowers; or a paſtoral valley opened its
graſfy boſom in the ſhade of the cliffs, with
focks and herds loitering along the banks
G5
of


( 130 )
of a rivulet, that refreſhed it with perpetual
green. St. Aubert could not repent the
having taken this fatiguing road, though
he was this day, alſo, frequently obliged to
alight, to walk along the rugged precipice,
and to climb the ſteep and Ainty mountain.
The wonderful ſublimity and variety of the
proſpects repaid him for all this, and the
enthuſiaſm, with which they were viewed
by his young companions, heightened his
own, and awakened a remembrance of all the
delightful emotions of his early days, when
the ſublime charms of nature were firſt un-
veiled to him. He found great pleaſure in
converſing with Valancourt, and in liſtening
to his ingenious remarks.. The fire and
fimplicity of his manners ſeemed to render
him a characteriſtic figure in the ſcenes
around them; and St. Aubert diſcovered in
his ſentiments the juſtneſs and the dignity
of an elevated mind, unbiaſſed by inter-
courſe with the world. He perceived, that
his opinions were formed, rather than im-
bibed; were more the reſult of thought,
'. than


. ( 131 )
than of learning. Of the world he ſeemed
to know nothing; for he believed well of all
mankind, and this opinion gave him the re.
flected image of his own heart.
St. Aubert, as he ſometimes lingered to
examine the wild plants in his path, often
looked forward with pleaſure to Emily and
Valancourt, as they ſtrolled on together;
he, with a countenance of animated delight,
pointing to her attention ſome grand feature
of the ſcene; and ſhe, liſtening and obſerv-
ing with a look of tender feriouſneſs, that
ſpoke the elevation of her mind. They
appeared like two lovers who had never
ſtrayed beyond theſe their native mountains;
whoſe ſituation had ſecluded them from the
frivolities of common life, whoſe ideas were
ſimple and grand, like the landſcapes among
which they moved, and who knew no other
happineſs, than in the union of pure and
affectionate hearts. St. Aubert ſmiled, and
ſighed at the romantic picture of felicity his
fancy drew; and ſighed again to think, that
nature and fimplicity were ſo little known
G6.... : to
----


( 132 )
to the world, as that their pleaſures were
thought romantic.
:“ The world,” ſaid he, purſuing this
train of thought, “ ridicules a paſſion which
it ſeldom feels; its ſcenes, and its intereſts,
diſtract the mind, deprave the taſte, corrupt
the heart, and love cannot exiſt in a heart
that has loſt the meek dignity of innocence.
Virtue" and taſte are nearly the ſame, for
virtue is little more than active taſte, and
the moſt delicate affections of each com- '
bine in real love. How then are we to look
for love in great cities, where: felfiſhneſs,
dilipation, and inſincerity, ſupply, the place
of tenderneſs, ſimplicity and truth ?”
It was near noon, when the travellers,
having arrived at a piece of ſteep and dan-
gerous road, alighted to walk. : The road :
wound up an aſcent, that was clothed with
wood, and, inſtead of following the carriage,
.: they entered the refreſhing ſhade. A dewy
coolneſs was diffuſed upon the air, which,
with the bright verdure of turf, that grew
under the trees, the mingled fragrance of
flowers


( 133 )
-
-----
fowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender,
that enriched it, and the grandeur of the
pines, beech, and cheſnuts, that overſhadow-
ed them, rendered this a moſt delicious re-
treat. Sometimes, the thick foliage exclud.
ed all view of the country; at others, it ad-
mitted ſome partial catches of the diſtant
ſcenery, which gave hints to the imagina-
tion to picture landſcapes more intereſting,
more impreſſive, than any that had been
preſented to the eye. The wanderers often
lingered to indulge in theſe reveries of fancy.
• The pauſes of ſilence, ſuch as had for-
: merly interrupted the converſations of Va-
rilancourt and Emily, were more frequent to.
day than ever.". Valancourt often dropped
ſuddenly from the moſt animating vivacity
into fits of deep muſing, and there was,
· ſometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his
ſmile, which Emily could not avoid under-
ſtanding, for her heart" was intereſted in the
1. ſentiment it ſpoke. .... .. ...
: St. Aubert was refreſhed by the ſhades,
and they continued to faunter under them,
. .. . : following,


'( 134 )
no
following, as nearly as they could gueſs,
the direction of the road, till they perceived
that they had totally loſt it. They had con-
tinued near the brow of the precipice, allure
ed by the ſcenery it exhibited, while the road
wound far away over the cliff above. Va-
lancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard
no voice, except his own echoing among
the rocks, and his various efforts to re-
gain the road were equally unſucceſsful.
While they were thus circumſtanced, they
perceived a ſhepherd's cabin, between the
boles of the trees at ſome diſtance, and Va.
lancourt bounded on firſt to aſk aſſiſtance.
When he reached it, he ſaw only two little
children, at play, on the turf before the door.
He looked into the hut, but no perſon was
there, and the eldeſt of the boys told him
that their father was with his flocks, and
their mother was gone down into the vale,
but would be back preſently. As he ſtood,
conſidering what was further to be done, on
a ſudden he heard Michael's voice roaring
forth moft manfully among the cliffs above,
till


( 135 )
cara
till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt
immediately anſwered the call, and endea-
voured to make his way through the thicket
that clothed the ſteeps, following the di-
rection of the ſound. After much ſtruggle
over brambles and precipices, he reached
Michael, and at length prevailed with him
to be ſilent, and to liſten to him. The road
was at a conſiderable diſtance from the ſpot
where St. Aubert and Emily were; the car.
riage could not eaſily return to the entrance
of the wood; and, ſince it would be very
fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long
and ſteep road to the place where it now
ſtood, Valancourt was anxious to find a
more eaſy aſcent, by the way he had him-
ſelf paſſed. .
Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily ap-
proached the cottage, and reſted themſelves
on a ruſtic bench, faftened between two
pines, which overſhadowed it, till Valan-
court, whoſe ſteps they had obſerved, ſhould
return.
The eldeſt of the children defifted from
his


( 136 )
;
his play, and ſtood ſtill to obſerve the
ſtrangers, while the younger continued his
little gambols, and teaſed his brother to join
in them. St. Aubert looked with pleaſure:
upon this picture of infantine ſimplicity,
till it brought to his remembrance his own
boys, whom he had loſt about the age of
theſe, and their lamented mother; and he
funk into a thoughtfulneſs, which Emily
obſerving, ſhe immediately began to ſing
one of thoſe ſimple and lively airs he was ſo
fond of, and which ſhe knew how to give
with the moſt captivating ſweetneſs. St.
Aubert ſmiled on her through his tears,
took her hand and preſſed it affectionately,
and then tried to diffipate the melancholy
reflections that lingered in his mind.
While ſhe ſung, Valancourt approached,
who was unwilling to interrupt her, and
pauſed at a little diſtance to liſten. When
ſhe had concluded, he joined the party, and
told them, that he had found Michael, as
well as a way, by which he thought they
could aſcend the cliff to the carriage. He
:: :: pointed


( 137 )
pointed to the woody ſteeps above, which
St. Aubert ſurveyed with an anxious eye.
He was already wearied by his walk, and
this aſcent was formidable to him. He
thought, however, it would be leſs toilſonie
than the long and broken road, and he de..
termined to attempt it; but Emily, ever .
watchful of his caſe, propofing that he ...
ſhould reſt, and dine before they proceeded : :
further, Valancourt went to the carriage for .
the refreſhments depoſited there.
: On his return, he propoſed removing a
little higher up the mountain, to where the
woods opened upon a grand and extenſive
proſpect; and thither they were preparing to
go, when they ſaw a young woman join the
children, and careſs and weep over them.
..The travellers, intereſted by her diſtreſs,
ſtopped to abferve her. She took the young-
eſt of the children in her arms, and, perceiv- .
ing the ſtrangers, haſtily dried her tears, and
proceeded to the cottage. St. Aubert, on en
quiring the occaſion of her forrow, learned
that her huſband, who was a ſhepherd, and .
--
- W
lived


( 138 )
lived here in the ſummer months to watch
over the flocks he led to feed upon theſe
mountains, had loſt, on the preceding
night, his little all. A gang of gipſies,
who had for ſome time infelted the neigh-
bourhood, had driven away ſeveral of his
maſter's ſheep. “ Jacques,” added the ſhep-
herd's wife, “ had ſaved a little money, and
had bought a few ſheep with it, and now
they muſt go to his maſter for thoſe that
are ſtolen ; and what is worſe than all, his
maſter, when he comes to know how it is,
will truſt him no longer with the care of
his docks, for he is a hard man! and then
what is to become of our children!"
The innocent countenance of the woman,
and the ſimplicity of her manner in relating
her grievance, inclined St. Aubert to believe
her ſtory; and Valancourt, convinced that
it was true, aſked eagerly what was the va-
lue of the ſtolen ſheep; on hearing which he
turned away with a look of diſappointment.
St. Aubert put ſome money into her hand,
Emily too gave ſomething from her little
purſe,


( 139 )
purſe, and they walked towards the cliff;
but Valancourt lingered behind, and ſpoke
to the ſhepherd's wife, who was now weep-
ing with gratitude and ſurpriſe. He en-
quired how much money was yet wanting
to replace the ſtolen ſheep, and found, that
it was a ſum very little ſhort of all he had
| about him. He was perplexed and diſtreſſ-
ed. " This ſum then," ſaid he to himſelf,
« would make this poor family completely ·
happy it is in my power to give it--to
make them completely happy! But what
is to become of me?--how ſhall I contrive
to reach home with the little money that
will remain ?” For a moment he ſtood,
unwilling to forego the luxury of raiſing a
family from ruin to happineſs, yet con-
fidering the difficulties of purſuing his
journey with ſo ſmall a ſum as would be
left.
While he was in this ſtate of perplexity,
the ſhepherd himſelf appeared: his children
ran to meet him; he took one of them in
· his arms, and, with the other clinging to
wa
his


( 140 )
his coat, came forward with a loitering ſtep.
His forlorn and melancholy look determin-
ed Valançourt at once; he threw down all,
the money he had, except a very few louis,
and bounded away after St. Aubert and
Emily, who were proceeding flowly up the
ſteep. Valancourt had ſeldom felt his heart
fo light as at this moment;, his gay ſpirits
danced with pleaſure ; every object around
:him appeared more intereſting, or beautiful,
than before. St. Aubert obſerved the un.
common vivacity of his countenance :
“What has pleaſed you fo much?” ſaid he.
“O what a lovely day,” replied Valancourt,
::« how brightly the ſun ſhines, how pure is
this air, what enchanting ſcenery!” 6 It
is indeed enchanting,” ſaid St. Aubert,
whom early experience had taught to under-
ſtand the nature of Valancourt's preſent
feelings. “What pity that the wealthy,
who can command ſuch ſunſhine, ſhould
ever paſs their days in gloom in the cold
ſhade of ſelfiſhneſs ! For you, my young
friend, may the ſun always ſhine as bright-


( 141 )
ly as at this moment; may your own cona
dust always give you the ſunſhine of bene...
volence and reaſon united!”
į Valancourt, highly flattered by this com.
pliment, could make no reply but by a ſmile
of gratitude.
1. They continued to wind under the woods,
between the graffy knolls of the mountain,
and, as they reached the ſhady ſummit, which
he had pointed out, the whole party burſt:
i into an exclamation. Behind the ſpot where
they ſtood, the rock roſe perpendicularly in
a maſſy wall to a conſiderable height, and
then branched out into overhanging crags.
Their grey tints were well contrạfted by the
bright hues of the plants and wild flowers,
that grew in their fractured ſides, and were
deepened by the gloom of the pines and se..
dars, that waved above. The ſteeps below,
over which the eye paſſed abruptly to the
valley, were fringed with thickets of alpine
ſhrubs; and, lower ſtill, appeared the cufted '
tops of che cheſnut woods, that clothed their
baſe, among which peeped forth the ſhep-
herd's


(142)
herd's cottage, juſt left by the travellers,
with its blueiſh ſmoke curling high in the
air. On every ſide appeared the majeſtic
ſummits of the Pyrenées, ſome exhibiting
tremendous crags of marble, whoſe appear-
ance was changing every inſtant as the vary-
ing lights fell upon their ſurface; others, ſtill
higher, diſplaying only ſnowy points, while
their lower ſteeps were covered almoſt in. -
variably with foreſts of pine, larch, and oak,
that ſtretched down to the vale. This was
one of the narrow vallies, that open from
the Pyrenées into the country of Rouſillon,
and whoſe green paſtures, and cultivated
beauty, form a decided and wonderful con-
traſt to the romantic grandeur that environs
it. Through a viſta of the mountains ap-
peared the lowlands of Rouſillon, tinted
with the blue haze of diſtance, as they
united with the waters of the Mediterranean;
where, on a promontory, which marked the
boundary of the ſhore, ſtood a lonely bea-
con, over which were ſeen circling flights of
fea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and then, a
. . ſtealing
O


( 143 )
LS
ſtealing fail, white with the ſun-beam, and
whoſe progreſs was perceivable by its ap-
proach to the light. houſe. Sometimes, too,
was ſeen a fail ſo diſtant, that it ſerved only
to mark the line of ſeparation between the
ſky and the waves.
On the other ſide of the valley, immedi-
ately oppoſite to the ſpot where the travel-
lers reſted, a rocky paſs opened toward
Gaſcony. Here no ſign of cultivation ap-
peared. The rocks of granite, that ſcreen-
ed the glen, roſe abruptly from their baſe,
and ſtretched their barren points to the
clouds, unvaried with woods, and uncheered
even by a hunter's cabin. Sometimes, in-
deed, a gigantic larch threw its long ſhade
over the precipice, and here and there a cliff
reared on its brow a monumental croſs, to tell
the traveller the fate of him who had ven-
tured thither before. This ſpot ſeemed the
very haunt of banditti; and Emily, as ſhe
looked down upon it, almoſt expected to ſee
them ſtealing out from ſome hollow cave to
look for their prey. Soon after an object
not


( 144 :)
inot leſs terrific ſtruck her,-a gibbet ſtand-
ing on a point of rock near the entrance of
the paſs, and immediately over one of the
croſſes ſhe had before obſerved. Theſe were
hieroglyphics that told a plain and dreadful
ſtory. She forbore to point it out to St.
Aubert, but it threw a gloom over her fpi-
rits, and made her anxious to haften for:
· ward, that they might with certainty reach
• Rouſillon before night-fall. It was neceſ-
· ſary, however, that St. Aubert ſhould take
fome refreſhment, and, ſeating themſelves
on the ſhort dry turf, they opened the baſ-
ket of proviſions, while
......" by breezy murmurs cool'd,
Broad o'er their heads the verdant cedars wave,
And high palmetos lift their graceful ſhade.”
...... " they draw
Ethereal foul, their drink reviving gales ·
Profuſely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at diſtance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts *.”.
St. Aubert was revived by reſt, and by
the ferene air of this ſummit; and Valan-
* Thomson.
court


court was ſo charmed with all around, and
with the converſation of his companions,
that he ſeemed to have forgotten he had
any further to go. Having concluded their
fimple repaſt, they gave a long farewell look .
to the ſcene, and again began to aſcend.
St. Aubert rejoiced when he reached the .
carriage, which Émily, entered with him; .
but Valancourt, willing to take a more ex-
tenſive view of the enchanting country, in-
to which they were about to deſcend, than
he could do from a carriage, looſened his
dogs, and once more bounded with them
along the banks of the road. He often
quitted it for points that promiſed a wider
proſpect; and the now pače, at which the
mules travelled, allowed him to overtake
them with eaſe. Whenever a ſcene of un-
common magnificence appeared, he haitened
to inform St. Aubert, who, though he was
too much tired to walk himſelf, ſometimes
made the chaiſe wait, while Emily went to
the neighbouring cliff.
It was evening when they deſcended the
- Vol. I. H ... lower


( 146 )
lower alps, that bind Rouſillon, and form a
majeſtic barrier round that charming coun-
try, leaving it open only on the eaſt to the
Mediterranean. The gay tints of cultiva-
tion once more beautified the landſcape:;
for the lowlands were coloured with the
richeſt hues, which a luxuriant climate and
an induſtrious people can awaken into life.
Groves of orange and lemon perfumed the
air, their ripe fruit glowing among the fo-
liage; while, Noping to the plains, exten-
five vineyards ſpread their treaſures. Be-
yond thefe, woods and paſtures, and min-
gled towns and hamlets ſtretched towards
the ſea, on whoſe bright furface gleamed
many a diſtant fail; while, over the whole
ſcene, was diffuſed the purple glow of even-
ing. This landſcape with the ſurrounding
alps did, indeed, preſent a perfect picture
of the lovely and the ſublime, of beauty
Neeping in the lap of horror."
The travellers, having reached the plains,
proceeded, between hedges of flowering
myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of
Arles,


( '148 )
ſilent and thoughtful; St. Aubert's manner
towards him was affectionate, though grave,
and Emily was ſerious, though ſhe made
frequent efforts to appear cheerful. After
one of the moſt melancholy evenings they
- had yet paſſed together, they ſeparated for
the night.
CHAP. |


( 149 )
CH A P. VI.
“I care not, Fortune! what you me deny;
You cannot rob me of free nature's grace ;
You cannot ſhut the windows of the ſky,
Through which Aurora ſhews her brightening face;
You cannot bar my conſtant feet to trace
The woods and lawns, by living ſtream at eve:
Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace,
And I their toys to the great children leave :
Of fancy, reaſon, virtue, nought can me bereave.”
THOMSON.
In the morning, Valancourt breakfaſted,
with St. Aubert and Emily, neither of whom
ſeemed much refreſhed by Neep. The lan-
guor of illneſs ſtill hung over St. Aubert,
and to Emily's fears his diſorder appeared
to be increaſing faft upon him. She watch:
ed his looks with anxious affection, and
their expreſſion was always faithfully re-
flected in her own.
H3 +
At


( 150
112 NICO
At the commencement of their acquaint-
ance, Valancourt had made known his name
and family. St. Aubert was not a ſtranger
to either, for the family eſtates, which were
now in the poſſeſſion of an elder brother of
Valancourt, were little more than twenty
miles diſtant from La Vallée, and he had
ſometimes met the elder Valancourt on viſits
in the neighbourhood. This knowledge
had made him more willingly receive his
preſent companion ; for, though his counte-
nance and manners would have won him
the acquaintance of St. Aubert, who was
very apt to truſt to the intelligence of his
own eyes, with reſpect to countenances, he
would not have accepted theſe, as ſufficient
introductions to that of his daughter.
The breakfaſt was almoſt as ſilent as the
ſupper of the preceding night; but their
muſing was at length interrupted by the
found of the carriage wheels, which were
to bear away St. Aubert and Emily. Va-
lancourt ſtarted from his chair, and went to
the window ; it was indeed the carriage,
and
ds


. ( 151 )
and' he returned to his ſeat without ſpeaking,
The inoment was now come when they
muſt part, St. Aubert told Valancourt,
that he hoped he would never paſs La Val
lée without favouring him with a viſit ;
and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, aſ.
ſured him that he never would; as he ſaid
which he looked timidly at Emily, who
tried to ſmile away the ſeriouſneſs of her
fpirits. They paſſed a few minutes in in.
tereſting converſation, and St. Aubert then
led the way to the carriage, Emily and.Va.
lancourt following in ſilence. The latter
lingered at the door ſeveral minutes affér
they were ſeated, and none of the party ſeem-
ed to have courage enough to ſay=-Farewell,
At length, St. Aubere pronounced the me-
lancholy word, which Emily paſſed to Va-
lancourt, who returned it, with a dejected
ſmile, and the carriage drove on.
The travellers remained, for ſome time,
in a ſtate of tranquil penſiveneſs, which is
not unpleaſing. St. Aubert interrupted it,
by obſerving, “ This is a very promiſing
H4.. . young
?


( 152 )
IS 10 CY
young man ; it is many years ſince I have
been ſo much pleaſed with any perſon, on
ſo ſhort an acquaintance. He brings back
to my memory the days of my youth, when
every ſcene was new and delightful!” St.
Aubert fighed, and funk again into a reve-
- rie; and, as Emily looked back upon the
road they had paſſed, Valancourt was ſeen,
åt the door of the little inn, following them
with his eyes. He perceived her, and
waved his hand; and the returned the
adiett; till che winding road ſhut her from
his ſight. .
." I remember when I was about his age,"
réſumed St. Aubert, “ and I thought, and
felt exactly as he does. The world was
opening upon me then, now-it is cloſing."
« My dear fir, do not think ſo gloomily,"
faid Emily in a trembling voice, “ I hope
you have many, many years to live for
your own fake for my fake."
" Ah, my Emily !” replied St, Aubert,
66 for thy fake! Well I hope it is fo."
He wiped away a tear, that was ſtealing
down


( 153 )
down his cheek, threw a ſmile upon his
countenance, and ſaid in a cheering voice,
“ There is ſomething in the ardour and in-
genuouſneſs of youth, which is particularly
pleaſing to the contemplation of an old
man, if his feelings have not been entirely
corroded by the world. It is cheering and
reviving, like the view of ſpring to a ſick
perſon ; his mind catches ſomewhat of the
ſpirit of the ſeaſon, and his eyes are lighted
up with a tranſient fun-fhine. Valancourt
is this ſpring to me.”
- Emily, who prefled her father's hand af.
fectionately, had never before liſtened with
ſo much pleaſure to the praiſes he beſtowed ;
no, not even when he had beſtowed them on
herſelf.
They travelled on, among vineyards,
woods, and paſtures, delighted with the
romantic beauty of the landſcape, which
was bounded, on one ſide, by the grandeur
of the Pyrenées, and, on the other, by the
ocean; and, ſoon after noon, they reached
the town of Colioure, ficuated on the Me
H 5 : diterranean


( 154 )
CSS
diterranean. Here they dined, and reſted
till towards the cool of day, when they
purſued their way along the ſhores —thoſe
enchanting ſhores ! which extend to Lan-
guedoc. Emily gazed with enthuſiaſni on
the vaftneſs of the ſea, its ſurface varying,
as the lights and ſhadows fell, and on its
woody banks mellowed with autumnal
tints.
St. Aubert was impatient to reach Per-
pignan, where he expected letters from M.
Queſnel ; and it was the expectation of
theſe letters, that had induced him to leave
Colioure, for his feeble frame had required
immediate reſt. After travelling a few
miles, he fell aſleep'; and Emily, who had
put two or three books into the carriage,
on leaving La Vallée, had now the leiſure
for looking into them. She fought for one,
in which Valancourt had been reading the
day before, and hoped for the pleaſure of
re-tracing a page, over which the eyes of a
beloved friend had lately paſſed, of dwell-
ing on the paſſages, which he had admired,
and


. ( 155 )
and of permitting them to ſpeak to her in
the language of his own mind, and to bring
himſelf to her preſence. On ſearching for
the book, ſhe could find it no where, but in
its ſtead perceived a volume of Petrarch's
poems, that had belonged to Valancourt,
whoſe name was written in it, and from
which he had frequently read paſſages to
her, with all the pathetic expreſſion, that
characterized the feelings of the author.
She helicated in believing, what would have
been ſufficiently apparent to almoſt any
other perſon, that he had purpoſely left
this book, inſtead of the one ſhe had loſt,
and that love had prompted the exchange;
but, having opened it with impatient plea-
ſure, and obſerved the lines of his pencil
drawn along the various paſſages he had
read aloud, and under others more deſcrip-
tive of delicate tenderneſs than he had dared
to truſt his voice with, the conviction came,
at length, to her mind. For ſome moments
ſhe was conſcious only of being beloved ;
then, a recollection of all the variations of
H6
tone


( 156 )
5
tone and countenance, with which he had
recited theſe ſonnets, and of the ſoul, which
ſpoke in their expreſſion, preſſed to her me.
mory, and ſhe wept over the memorial of
his affection.
They arrived at Perpignan foon after fun-
fet, where St. Aubert found, as he had ex-
pected, letters from M. Queſnel, the contents
of which ſo evidently and grievouſly affected
him, that Emily was alarmed, and preſſed
him, as far as her delicacy would permit, to
diſcloſe the occaſion of his concern; but he
anſwered her only by tears, and immediate-
ly began to talk on other topics. Emily,
though the forbore to preſs the one moſt in.
tereſting to her, was greatly affected by her
father's manner, and paſſed a night of ſleep-
leſs ſolicitude.
In the morning they purſued thei: jour.
ney along the coaſt towards i eucate, ano.
ther town on the Mediterranean, ſituated
on the borders of Languedoc and Rou-
fillon. On the way, Emily renewed the
ſubject of the preceding night, and ap-
peared


( 157 )
1
ཀ་
peared ſo deeply affected by St. Aubert's
ſilence and dejection, that he relaxed from
his referve. “I was unwilling, my dear
Emily,” ſaid he, “ to throw a cloud over
the pleaſure you receive from theſe ſcenes,
and meant, therefore, to conceal, for the
preſent, ſome circumſtances, with which,
however, you muſt at length have been
made acquainted. But your anxiety has
defeated my purpoſe; you ſuffer as much
from this, perhaps, as you will do from a
knowledge of the facts I have to relate.
M. Queſnel's viſit proved an unhappy one
to me; he came to tell me a part of the
news he has now confirmed. You may
have heard me mention a M. Motteville,
of Paris, but you did not know that the
chief of my perſonal property was inveſted
in his hands. I had great confidence in
him, and I am yet willing to believe, that
he is not wholly unworthy of my eſteem. ,
A variety of circumſtances have concur-
red to ruin him, and I am ruined with
him.".
St.


( 158 )
St. Aubert pauſed, to conceal his emo.
tion.
“ The letters I have juſt received from
M. Queſnel,” reſumed he, ſtruggling to
ſpeak with firmneſs,“ encloſed others
from Motteville, which confirmed all I
dreaded.”
“ Muft we then quit La Vallée ?” ſaid
Emily, after a long pauſe of filence. “ That
is yet uncertain,” replied St. Aubert, “ it
will depend upon the compromiſe Motte-
ville is able to make with his creditors.
My income, you know, was never large,
and now it will be reduced to little indeed !
It is for you, Emily, for you, my child,
that I am moſt afflicted.” His laſt words
faltered; Emily ſmiled tenderly upon him
through her tears, and then, endeavouring
to overcome her emotion, “. My dear fa-
ther," ſaid ſhe, “ do not grieve for me, or
for yourſelf; we may yet be happy ;---if
La Vallée remains for us, we muſt be
happy. We will retain only one ſervant,
and you ſhall ſcarcely perceive the change


( 159 )
in your income. Be comforted, my dear
fir; we ſhall not feel the want of thoſe.
luxuries, which others value ſo highly,
ſince we never had a taſte for them; and
poverty cannot, deprive us of many conſo-
lations. It cannot rob us of the affection
we have for each other, or degrade us in
our own opinion, or in that of any perſon,
whoſe opinion we ought to value.”
St. Aubert concealed his face with his
handkerchief, and was unable to ſpeak :
but Emily continued to urge to her father
the, truths, which himſelf had impreſſed
upon her mind.
“ Beſides, my dear fir, poverty cannot
deprive us of intellectual delights. It can-
not deprive you of the comfort of affording
me examples of fortitude and benevolence;
nor me of the delight of conſoling a beloved
parent. It cannot deaden our taſte for the
grand, and the beautiful, or deny us the
means of indulging it; for the ſcenes of na-
ture-thoſe ſublime ſpectacles, ſo infinitely
ſuperior to all artificial luxuries ! are open
for
ne


( 160 )
for the enjoyment of the poor, as well as of
the rich. Of what, then, have we to com--
plain, ſo long as we are not in want of ne-
ceſſaries? Pleaſures, ſuch as wealth cannot
buy, will ſtill be ours. We retain, then,
the ſublime luxuries of nature, and loſe only
the frivolous ones of art.”
St. Aubert' could not reply; he caught
Emily to his bofom, their tears Aowed to-
gether, but they were not tears of ſorrow.
After this language of the heart, all other
would have been feeble, and they remained
ſilent for fome time. Then St. Aubert
converſed as before ; for, if his mind had
not recovered its natural tranquillity, it at
leaſt aſſumed the appearance of it.
They reached the romantic town of Leu.
cate early in the day, but St. Aubert was
weary, and they determined to paſs the
night there. In the evening, he exerted him-
ſelf ſo far as to walk with his daughter to
view the environs that overlook the lake of
Leucate, the Mediterranean, part of Rou-
fillon,


( 161 )
Gillon, with the Pyrenées, and a wide extent
of the luxuriant province of Languedoc,
now bluſhing with the ripened vintage,
which the peaſants were beginning to gather.
St. Aubert and Emily ſaw the buſy groups,
caught the joyous fong, that was wafted
on the breeze, and anticipated, with ap-
parent pleaſure, their next day's journey
over this gay region. He deſigned, how-
ever, ſtill to wind along the ſea-ſhore. To
return home immediately was partly his
wiſh, but from this he was with held by a
deſire to lengthen the pleaſure, which the
journey gave his daughter, and to try the
effect of the ſea air on his own diſorder.
.. On the following day, therefore, they real
commenced their journey through Lan-
guedoc, winding the ſhores of the Mediter-
ranean; the Pyrenées ſtill forming the mag-
nificent back-ground of their proſpects,
while on their right was the ocean, and,
on their left, wide extended plains melting
into the blue horizon. St. Aubert was
pleaſed, and converſed much with Emily ;
yet


( 162 )
yet his cheerfulneſs was ſometimes artificial,
and ſometimes a ſhade of melancholy would
ſteal upon his countenance, and betray him..
This was foon chaſed away by Emily's.
ſmile; who ſmiled, however, with an aching
heart, for ſhe ſaw that his misfortunes
preyed upon his mind, and upon his en-
feebled frame.
It was evening when they reached a ſmall
village of Upper Languedoc, where they
meant to paſs the night, but the place could.
not afford them beds ; for here, too, it was
the time of the vintage, and they were.
obliged to proceed to the next poſt. The
languor of illneſs and of. fatigue, which re-
turned upon St. Aubert, required imme-
diate repoſe, and the evening was now far
advanced ; but. from neceſſity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michaels to pro-
ceed.
The rich plains of Languedoc, which ex-
hibited all the glories of the vintage, with
the gaieties of a French feſtival, no longer
awakened. St. Aubert to pleaſure, whoſe:
condition


( 163 )
condition formed a mournful contraſt to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which fur-
rounded him. As his languid eyes moved
over the ſcene, he conſidered, that they
would ſoon, perhaps, be cloſed for ever on..
this world. “Thoſe diſtant and ſublime
mountains," ſaid he ſecretly, as he gazed.
on a chain of the Pyrenées that ſtretched
towards the weſt, « theſe luxurianc plains,
this blue vault, the cheerful light of day,
will be ſhut from my eyes ! The ſong
of the peaſant, the cheering voice of man-
will no longer found for me!”
The intelligent eyes of Emily ſeemed to
read what paſſed in the mind of her father,
· and ſhe fixed them on his face, with an ex-
preſſion of ſuch tender pity, as recalled
his thoughts from every deſultory object of
regret, and he remembered only, that he
muſt leave his daughter without protection.
This reflection changed regret to agony;
he ſighed deeply, and remained filent, while
The ſeemed to underſtand that figh, for ſhe
prefled


( 164 )
preſſed his hand affectionately, and ther:
turned to the window to conceal her tears. ·
The ſun now threw a láft yellow gleam on
the waves of the Mediterranean, and the
gloom of twilight ſpread faſt over the ſcene,
till only a melancholy ray appeared on the
weſtern horizon, marking the point where
the ſun had ſet amid the vapours of an au-'
tumnal evening. A cool breeze now came
from the ſhore, and Emily let down the
glaſs; but the air, which was refreſhing
to health, was as chilling to ſickneſs, and
St. Aubert deſired, that the window might
be drawn up. Increaſing illneſs made him
now more anxious than ever to finiſh the
day's journey, and he ſtopped the muleteer
to enquire how far they had yet to go to the
next poſt. He replied, Nine miles. “I
feel I am unable to proceed much further,"
ſaid St. Aubert; “ enquire, as you go, if
there is any houſe on the road that would ac-
con modate us for the night.” He ſunk
back in the carriage, and Michael, crack-
ing his whip in the air, ſet off, and continued
on


( 166 )
the peaſant, “ Do you mean that, with the
turret, yonder ?”.
“ I don't know as for the turret, as you
call it,” ſaid Michael, “ I mean that white
piece of a building, that we fee at a diſtance
there, among the trees.”..
“ Yes, that is the turret ; why, who are
you, that you are going thither ?" ſaid the
man with ſurpriſe.
St. Aubert, on hearing this odd queſtion,
and obſerving the peculiar tone in which is
was delivered, looked out from the car-
riage.“ We are travellers,” ſaid he, “ who
are in ſearch of a houſe of accommodation
for the night ; is there any hereabout ?'
“ None, Monſieur, unleſs you have a
mind to try your luck yonder," replied the
peaſant, pointing to the woods, “ but I
would not adviſe you to go there."
“ To whom does the chateau belong?"
“ I ſcarcely know myſelf, Monſieur."
“ It is uninhabited, then.” “ No, not
uninhabited; the ſteward and houſekeeper
are there, I believe.”
On


( 167 )
5
On hearing this, St. Aubert determined
to proceed to the chateau, and riſque the re-
fuſal of being accommodated for the night;
the therefore deſired the countryman would
ſhew Michael the way, and bade him expect
reward for his trouble. The man was for
a moment ſilent, and then ſaid, that he was
going on other buſineſs, but that the road
could not be miſſed, if they went up an
avenue to the right, to which he pointed.
St. Aubert was going to ſpeak, but the pea-
ſant wiſhed him good night, and walked on.
The carriage now moved towards the
avenue, which was guarded by a gate ; and
Michael having diſmounted to open it,
they entered between rows of antient oak
and cheſnut, whoſe intermingled branches
formed a lofty arch above. There was
ſomething ſo gloomy and deſolate in the
appearance of this avenue, and its lonely
ſilence, that Emily almoft fhuddered as ſhe
paffed along and, recollecting the manner
in which the peaſant had mentioned the
· chateau,


( 168 )
chateau, ſhe gave a myſterious meaning to
his words, ſuch as ſhe had not ſuſpected
when he uttered them. Theſe apprehen-
ſions, however, ſhe tried to check, confi-
dering that they were probably the effect of
a melancholy imagination, which her fa-
ther's ſituation, and a conſideration of her
own circumſtances, had made ſenſible to
every impreſſion.
They paſſed Nowly on, for they were now
almoſt in darkneſs, which, together with the
unevenneſs of the ground, and the frequent
roots of old trees, that ſhot up above the
foil, made it neceſſary to proceed with cau-
tion. On a ſudden Michael ſtopped the
carriage; and, as St. Aubert looked from
the window to enquire the cauſe, he per-
ceived a figure at ſoine diſtance moving up
the avenue. The duſk would not permit
him to diſtinguiſh what it was, but he bade
Michael go on.
" This ſeems a ſtrange wild place,” ſaid
Michael; “ there is no houſe hereabout,
don't


( 169 )
***
don't your honour think we had better
turn back ?” .
" Go a little further, and if we ſee no
houſe then, we will return to the road,"
replied St. Aubert.
Michael proceeded with reluctance, and
the extreme ſlowneſs of his pace made St.
Aubert look again from the window to
haſten him, when again he ſaw the ſame
figure. He was ſomewhat ſtartled : proba-
bly the gloomineſs of the ſpot made him
more liable to alarm than uſual ; however
this might be, le now ſtopped Michael, and
bade him call to the perſon in the avenue.
“ Pleaſe your honour, he may be a rob-
ber,” ſaid Michael. " It does not pleaſe
me,” replied St. Aubert, who could not
forbear ſmiling at the ſimplicity of his
phraſe, “ and we will, therefore, return to
the road, for I ſee no probability of meeting
here with what we ſeek.”
Michael turned about immediately, and
was retracing his way with alacrity, when a
voice was heard from among the trees on
VOL. I.
the


( 170 ).
the left. It was not the voice of command,
or diſtreſs, but a deep hollow tone, which
ſeemed to be ſcarcely human. The man
whipped his mules till they went as faſt as
poſſible, regardleſs of the darkneſs, the .
broken ground, and the necks of the whole
party, nor once ſtopped till he reached the
gate, which opened from the avenue into
the high road, where he went into a more
moderate pace.
“ I am very ill,” ſaid St. Aubert, taking
his daughter's hand. “ You are worſe,
then, fir !" ſaid Emily, extremely alarmed
· by his manner, “ you are worſe, and here
is no aſſiſtance. Good God! what is to be
done!" He 'leaned his head on her
ſhoulder, while ſhe endeavoured to ſupport
him with her arm, and Michael was again
ordered to ſtop. When the rattling of the
wheels had ceaſed, muſic was heard on the
air; it was to Emily the voice of Hope.
« Oh! we are near ſome human habi-
tation !” ſaid the, “ help may ſoon be
had:";


( 171 )
ULO
She liſtened anxiouſly; the founds were
diftant, and ſeemed to come from a remote
part of the woods that bordered the road;
and, as ſhe looked towards the ſpot whence
they iſſued, ſhe perceived in the faint
moon-light fornething like a chateau. It
was difficult, however, to reach tbis; St.'
Aubert was now too ill to bear the mo.'
tion of the carriage ; Michael could not
quit his mules; and Emily,, who ſtill fup.
ported her father, feared to leave him, and
alſo feared to venture alone to fuch a dif-'
tance, ſhe knew not whither, or to whom.
Something; however, it was neceſſary to
determine upon immediately; St. Aubert,
therefore, told Michael to proceed ſlowly;
but they had not gone far, when he fainted,
and the carriage was again ſtopped. He
lay quite fenfeleſs.--My dear, dear-fa-
ther,” cried Emily in great agony, and who
began to fear that he was dying, “ ſpeak,
if it is only one word to let me hear the
found of your voice !" But no voice ſpoke
in reply. In an agony of terror ſhe hade
Michael
12


( 172 )
Michael bring water from the rivulet, that
flowed along the road; and, having received
ſome in the man's hat, with trembling hands
The ſprinkled it over her father's face, which,
as the moon's rays now fell upon it, ſeemed
to bear the impreſſion of death. Every emo,
tion of ſelfiſh fear now gave way to a ſtrong-
er influence; and, committing St. Aubert to
the care of Michael, who refuſed to go far
from his mulęs, ſhe ſtepped from the car-
riage in ſearch of the chateau ſhe had ſeen
at a diſtance. It was a ſtill moon-light
night, and the muſic, which yet ſounded on
the air, directed her ſteps from the high
road, up a ſhadowy lane, that led to the
woods. Her mind was for ſome time lo en..
tirely occupied by anxiety and terror for
her father, that ſhe felt none for herſelf, till
the deepening gloom of the over-hanging
foliage, which now wholly excluded the
moon- light, and the wildneſs of the place,
recalled her to a ſenſe of her adventurous
ſituation. The muſic had ceaſed, and ſhe
had no guide but chance. For a moment
ſhe


( 173 )
The pauſed in terrified perplexity, till a ſenſe
of her father's condition again overcoming
every confideration for herſelf, ſhe proceed-
ed. The lane terminated in the woods, but
ſhe looked round in vain for a houſe, or a
huinan being, and as vainly liſtened for a
found to guide her. She hurried on, how-
.ever, not knowing whither, avoiding the
receſſes of the woods, and endeavouring to
keep along their margin, till a rude kind of
avenue, which opened upon a moon-liglic
ſpot, arreſted her attention. The wildneſs
of this avenue brought to her recollection
the one leading to the turreted chateau, and
ſhe was inclined to believe, that this was a
part of the ſame domain, and probably led to
the ſame point. While ſhe heſitated, whether
to follow it or not, a ſound of many voices
in loud merriment burſt upon her ear. It
ſeemed not the laugh of cheerfulneſs, but of
riot, and ſhe ſtood appalled. While ſhe
pauſed, ſhe heard a diſtant voice calling from
the way ſhe had come, and, not doubling
but it was that of Michael, her firſt impulſe
vas
13
was


( 175
out of a cottage ; muſic inſtantly ſtruck
-up, and the dance began. It was the joy-
ous muſic of the vintage ! the ſame ſhe had
before heard upon the air. Her heart, oc.
cupied with terror for her father, could not
feel the contraſt, which this gay ſcene offer
ed to her own diſtreſs; the ſtepped haſtily
forward towards a group of elder peaſants,
who were feated at the door of a cottage,
-and, having explained her ſituation, entrear-
ed their affiſtance. Several of them rofe
with alacrity, and, offering any ſervice in
their power, followed Emily, who ſeemed
to move on the wind, as faſt as they could
towards the road. . ....
· When the reached the carriage, ſhe found
St. Aubert reſtored to animation. On the
recovery of his ſenſes, having heard from
Michael whither his daughter was gone,
anxiety for her overcame every regard for
-himſelf, and he had ſent him in ſearch of
her. He was, however, ſtill languid, and,
perceiving himſelf unable to travel much
further, he renewed his enquiries for an
. .. 14
s
inn,


( 176 )
inn, and concerning the chateau in the
woods. « The chateau cannot accommo-
date you, fir,” ſaid a venerable peaſant who
had followed Emily from the woods, as it is
fcarcely inhabited; but, if you will do me
the honour to viſit my cottage, you ſhall
be welcome to the beſt bed it affords."
St. Aubert was himſelf a Frenchman;
he, therefore, was not ſurpriſed at French
courteſy; but, ill as he was, he felt the va-
lue of the offer enhanced, by the manner
which accompanied it. He had too much -
delicacy to apologize, or to appear to heſi-
tate about availing himſelf of the peaſant's
hoſpitality, but immediately accepted it
with the fame frankneſs with which it was
offered.
The carriage again moved fowly on;
Michael following the peaſants up the lane,
which Emily had juſt quitted, till they came
to the moon light glade. St. Aubert's ſpirits
were ſo far reſtored by the courteſy of his
hoſt, and the near proſpect of repoſe, that
he looked with a ſweet complacency upon
the


( 177 )
cre
the moon-light ſcene, ſurrounded by the
ſhadowy woods, through which, here and
there, an opening admitted the ſtreaming
ſplendour, diſcovering a cottage, or a ſpark-
ling rivulet. He liſtened, with no painful
einotion, to the merry notes of the guitar
and tamborine ; and, though tears came
to his eyes, when he ſaw che debonnaire
dance of the peaſants, they were not merely
tears of mournful regret. With Emily it
was otherwiſe ; immediate terror for her fa-
ther had now ſubſided into a gentle melan-
choly, which every no:e of joy, by awaken-
ing compariſon, ſerved to heighten.
The dance ceaſed on the approach of the
carriage, which was a phenomenon in theſe
ſequeſtered woods, and the peaſantry flock-
ed round it with eager curioſity. On learn-
ing that it brought a fick ſtranger, ſeveral
girls ran acroſs the curf, and returned with
wine and baſkets of grapes, which they pre-
ſented to the travellers, each with kind
contention preſſing for a preference. Ac
length, the carriageſtopped at a neat cottage,
- and
I 5


, ( 178 )
and his venerable conductor, having aſlifted
St. Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to
a ſmall inner room illumined only by
inoon-beams, which the open caſement ad-
mitted. St. Aubert, rejoicing 'in reſt, ſeat-
ed himſelf in an arm chair, and his ſenſes
were refreſhed by the cool and balmy air,
that lightly waved the embowering honey-
fuckles, and wafted their ſweet breath into
the apartment. His hoft, who was called
La Voiſin, quitted the room, but foon re-
turned with fruits, cream, and all the paſto-
ral luxury his cottage afforded; having ſet
down which, with a ſmile of unfeigned
welcome, he retired behind the chair of his
gueſt. St. Aubert inſiſted on his taking
a ſeat at the table ; and, when the fruit had
allayed the fever of his palate, and he found
"himſelf ſomewhat revived, he began to
converſe with his hoſt, who communica-
ted ſeveral particulars concerning himſelf
and his family, which were intereſting, be.
cauſe they were fpoķen from the heart, and
delineated a picture of the ſweet courteſies
of


( 179)
of family kindneſs. Emily fat by her father,
holding his hand, and while ſhe liſtened to
the old inan, her heart ſwelled with the af.
fectionate fympathy he deſcribed, and her
tears fell to the mournful conſideration that
death would probably ſoon deprive her of
the deareſt bleſſing the then poſſeſſed. The
ſoft moon-light of an autumnal evening,
and the diſtant muſic, which now founded
a plaintive ſtrain, ailed the melancholy of
her mind. The old man continued to talk
of his family, and St. Aubert remained
filent. “ I have only one daughter living,”
ſaid La Voiſin, " but ſhe is happily mar-
ried, and is every thing to me. When I
loft my wife,” he added with a figh, “ I
came to live with Agnes, and her fami-
ly; ſhe has ſeveral children, who are all
dancing on the green yonder, as merry aszt***
graſshoppers-and long may they be ſo!
I hope to die among them, monſieur. I
am old now, and cannot expect to live longi
but there is fome comfort in dying ſura
rounded by one's children."
s, My
s
16


( 189 )
ever
“ My good friend,” faid St. Aubert,
while his voice trembled, “ I hope you will
long live ſurrounded by them.”
“Ah, ſir! at my age I muſt not expect
that !” replied the old man, and he paufed :
“ I can ſcarcely with it," he reſumed, “ for
I truſt that whenever I die I ſhall go to
heaven, where my poor wife is gone before
me. I can ſometimes almoſt fancy I ſee her
of a ftill moon- light night walking among
theſe ſhades ſhe loved ſo well. Do you be-
lieve, monſieur, that we lhall be permitted
to reviſit the earth, after we have quitted
the body?”
Emily could no longer ſtifle the anguilh
of her heart; her tears fell faſt upon her
father's hand, which the yet held. He
made an effort to fpeak, and at length ſaid
in a low voice, “ I hope we ſhall be per.
mitted to look down on thoſe we have left
on the earth, but I can only hope ic. Fu-
turity is much veiled from our eyes, and
faith and hope are our only guides concern-
ing it. We are not enjoined to believe, that
diſem.


( 181 )
-
-
--
diſembodied ſpirits watch over the friends
they have loved, but we may innocently
hope it. It is a hope which I will never
reſign,” continued he, while he wiped the -
tears froin his daughter's eyes, " it will ſweet-
en the bitter moments of death !” Tears
fell Nowly on his cheeks; La Voiſin wept
too, and there was a pauſe of filence. Then,
La Voiſin, renewing the ſubject, ſaid, “ But
you believe, fir, that we ſhall ineet.in another
world the relations we have loved in this; I
muſt believe this.” “ Then do believe it,"
replied St. Aubert: “ ſevere, indeed, would
be the pangs of ſeparation, if we believed it
to be eternal. Look up, my dear Emily,
we ſhall meet again !" He lifted his eyes
towards heaven, and a gleamn of moon-light,
which fell upon his countenance, dif.
covered peace and reſignation, ſtealing on
the lines of ſorrow, ,
La Voiſin felt that he had purſued the
fubject too far, and he dropped it, ſaying,
“ We are in darkneſs, I forgot to bring a
light.”
“No,” ſaid St. Aubert, “this is a light
• I love.
.


( 182 )
I love. Sit down, my good friend. Emi.
ly, my love, I find myſelf better than I
have been all day; this air refreſhes me.
I can enjoy this tranquil hour, and that
muſic, which floats ſo ſweetly at a diſtance.
Let me ſee you ſmile. Who touches that
guitar ſo taſtefully? are there two inſtru.
ments, or is it an echo I hear?”
.“ It is an echo, monſieur, I fancy. That
guitar is often heard at night, when all
is ſtill, but nobody knows who touches it,
and it is ſometimes accompanied by a voice
ſo ſweet, and fo fad, one would almoſt
think the woods were haunted.” “ They
certainly are haunted,” ſaid St. Aubert with
a ſmile, “but I believe it isby mortals."
"* I have ſometimes heard it at midnight,
when I could not neep," rejoined La
Voiſin, not ſeeming to notice this remark,
“ almoſt under my window, and I never
heard any muſic like it. It has often made
me think of my poor wife till I cried.
I have fometimes got up to the win-
dow to look if I could ſee any body, but
as


(183)
as ſoon as I opened the caſement all was
huſhed, and nobody to be ſeen; and I have
liſtened, and liſtened till I have been ſo
timorous, that even the trembling of the
leaves in the breeze has made me ſtart.
They ſay it often comes to warn people of
their death, but I have heard it theſe many i
years, and outlived the warning.”
Emily, though ſhe ſmiled at the mention
of this ridiculous ſuperſtition, could not, in
the preſent tone of her ſpirits, wholly reſiſt
its contagion.
“Well, but, my good friend,” ſaid St.
Aubert,“ has nobody had courage to follow
the ſounds ? If they had, they would proba-
bly have diſcovered who is the muſician.” .
“ Yes, fir, they have followed them ſome
way into the woods, but the muſic has ſtill
retreated, and ſeemed as diſtant as ever, and
the people háve at laſt been afraid of being
led into harm, and would go no further. It
is very feldom that I have heard theſe founds
fo early in the evening. They uſually come
about midnight, when that bright planet,
.
which


( 184 )
which is riſing above the turret yonder, ſecs
below the woods on the left.”.,
What turret ?" aſked St. Aubert with
quickneſs, s. I fee none."
“ Your pardon, monſieur, you do ſee
one indeed, for the moon ſhines full upon
it ;-up the avenue yonder, a long way off ;
the chateau it belongs to is hid among the
trees.”
“Yes, my dear fir," ſaid Emily pointing,
“ don't you ſee ſomething glitter above the
dark woods? It is a fane, I fancy, which
the rays fall upon.”
..“ O yes, I ſee what you mean ; and whon:
does the chateau belong to?”.
« The Marquis de Villeroi was its own-
er,” replied La Voiſin, emphatically.
“Ah !” ſaid St. Aubert with a deep ſigh,
“ are we then ſo near Le-Blanc !” He ap-
peared much agitated.
::" It uſed to be the Marquis's favourite
reſidence,” reſumed La Voiſin, “ but he
took a diſlike to the place, and has not been
there for many years. We have heard
lately


( 185 )
v-
----
lately that he is dead, and that it is fallen
into other hands." St. Aubert, who had
ſat in deep muſing, was rouſed by the laſt
words. "Dead !” he exclaimed, “ Good
God! when did he die ?"
" He is reported to have died about five
weeks fince,” replied La Voiſin. “ Did you
know the Marquis, ſir?”
This is very extraordinary!” ſaid St."
· Aubert without attending to the queſtion.
*“ Why is it ſo, my dear fir?" ſaid Emily,
· in a voice of timid curioſity. He made no
reply, but ſunk again into a reverie ; and
in a few moments, when he ſeemed to have
recovered himſelf, aſked who had ſucceeded
to the eſtates. " I have forgot his title,
monſieur," ſaid La Voiſin; “ but my lord
reſides at Paris chiefly ; I hear no talk of
bis coming hither.”
os The chateau is ſhut up then, ſtill ?”
" Why, little better, fir; the old houſe.
keeper, and her huſband the ſteward, have
the care of it, but they live generally in a
cottage hard by.”
-
66 The


( 186 )
i
“The chateau is ſpacious, I ſuppoſe,”
faid Emily, “ and muſt be deſolate for the
reſidence of only two perſons.”
“ Deſolate enough, mademoiſelle," re-
plied La Voiſin, “ I would not paſs one
night in the chateau, for the value of the
whole domain.”
" What is that?” ſaid St. Aubert, roured
again from thoughtfulneſs. As his hoſt
repeated his laſt ſentence, a groan eſcaped
from St. Aubert, and then, as if anxious
to prevent it from being noticed, he haſtily
ateà La Voiſin how long he had lived
in this neighbourhood. “ Almoſt from my
childhood, fir,” replied his hoft.
“ You remember the late marchioneſs,
then?” ſaid St. Aubert in an altered voice.
"Ah, monſieur!--that I do well. There
are many beſide me who remember her."
“Yes” ſaid St. Aubert, " and I am
one of thoſe.”
.“ Alas, ſir! you remember, then, a moſt
beautiful and excellent lady. She deſerved
a better fate."
Tears


( 189 )
į at a diſtance, and thought it was Clande
playing upon his flute, as he often did of a
fine evening, at the cottage door. But,
i when I came to a place, where the trees
opened, (I ſhall never forget it !) and ſtood
looking up at the north-lights, which ſhoc
up the heaven to a great height, I heard all
of a ſudden ſuch ſounds !--they came ſo as
I cannot deſcribe. It was like the muſic of
angels, and I looked up again almoſt ex-
pecting to ſee them in the ſky. When I
came home, I told what I had heard, but
they laughed at me, and ſaid it muſt be
ſome of the ſhepherds playing on their
pipes, and I could not perſuade them to
the contrary. A few nights after, however,
my wife herſelf heard the ſame founds, and
was as much ſurpriſed as I was, and father.
Denis frightened her ſadly by ſaying, that it
was muſic come to warn her of her child's
death, and that muſic often came to houſes
where there was a dying perſon.”
Emily, on hearing this, ſhrunk, with a
ſuperſtitious dread entirely new to her, and
; could


. .( 190 )
could ſcarcely conceal her agitation froin St.
Aubert.
“ But the boy lived, monſieur, in ſpite
of father Denis.” .
« Father Denis !” ſaid St. Aubert, who
had liſtened to " narrative old age” with
patient attention, “ are we near a convent
then?"
« Yes, fir, the convent of St. Clair ſtands
at no great diſtance, on the ſea !hore yon-
der.”
« Ah!” ſaid St. Aubert, as if ftruck
with ſome fudden remembrance, “the con.
vent of St. Clair !" Emily obſerved the .
clouds of grief, mingled with a faint ex-
preſſion of horror, gathering on his brow;
his countenance became fixed, and, touched
as it now was by the ſilver whiteneſs of the
moon-light, he reſembled one of thoſe mar-
ble ſtatues of a monument, which ſeem to
bend, in hopeleſs forrow, over the aſhes of
the dead, ſhewn:. .
..... “ by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted caſements lends*."
* The Emigrants.
. * But,


' ( 191 )
« But, my dear fir,” ſaid Emily, anxious
to diſſipate his thoughts, “ you forget that
repoſe is neceſſary to you. If our kind
hoft will give me leave, I will prepare your
bed, for I know how you like it to be
made.” St. Aubert, recollecting himſelf,
and ſmiling affectionately, deſired ſhe would
not add to her fatigue by that attention ; ;
and Ea Voiſin, whoſe conſideration for his
gueſt had been ſuſpended by the intereſts,
which his own narrative had recalled, now
ſtarted from his ſeat, and, apologizing for
not having called Agnes from the green,
hurried out of the room."
In a few moments he returned, with his
daughter, a young woman of a pleaſing
countenance, and Emily learned from her,
what ſhe had not before ſuſpected, that, for
their accommodation, it was neceſſary part
of La Voiſin's family ſhould leave their
beds; ſhe lamented this circumſtance, but
Agnes, by her reply, fully proved that Me
inherited, at leaſt, a ſhare of her father's
courteous hoſpitality. It was ſettled, that
ſome


( 192 )
ſome of her children and Michael ſhould
ſleep in the neighbouring cottage.
- If I am better, to-morrow, my dear,”.
ſaid St. Aubert when Emily returned to
him, “I mean to ſet out at an early hour,
that we may reſt, during the heat of the
day, and will travel towards home. In the
preſent ſtate of my health and ſpirits, I can-
not look on a longer journey with pleaſure,
and I am alſo very anxious to reach La
Valleé.” Emily, though the alſo deſired
to return, was grieved at her father's ſudden
wiſh to do ſo, which lie thought indicated
a greater degree of indiſpoſition than he
would acknowledge. St. Aubert now re-
tired to reſt, and Emily to her little cham-
ber, but not to immediate repoſe. Her
thoughts returned to the late converſation,
concerning the ſtate of departed ſpirits; a
ſubject, at this time, particularly affecting
to her, when ſhe had every reaſon to believe,
that her dear father would ere long be num:
bered with them. She leaned penſively on
the little open caſement, and in deep thought
fixed


( 193 )
fixed her eyes on the heaven, whoſe blue
unclouded concave was ſtudded thick with
ſtars, the worlds, perhaps, of ſpirits, un-
ſphered of mortal mould. As her eyes
wandered along the boundleſs æther, her
thoughts roſe, as before, towards the ſubli.
mity of the Deity, and to the contemplation
of futurity. No buſy note of this world
interrupted the courſe of her mind; the
nerry dance had ceaſed, and every cottager
had retired to his home. The ſtill air ſeem-
ed ſcarcely to breathe upon the woods, and,
now and then, the diſtant found of a foli-
tary ſheep-bell, or of a cloſing caſement, was
all that broke on ſilence. At length, even
this hint of human being was heard no
more. Elevated and enrapt, while her
eyes were often wer with tears of ſublime
devotion and ſolemn awe, ſhe continued at
the caſement, till the glcom of midnight
hung over the earth, and the planer, which
La Voiſin had pointed out, funk below the
woods. She then recollected what he had
ſaid concerning this planet, and the myſte-
VOL. I.
К.
rious


( 194 )
sious muſic; and, as the lingered at the
window, half hoping and half fearing that
it would return, her mind was led to the
'remembrance of the extreme emotion her
father had ſhewn on mention of the Mar-
quis La Villeroi's death, and of the fate of
the Marchioneſs, and ſhe felt ſtrongly in-
*tereſted concerning the remote cauſe of this
emotion. Her ſurpriſe and curioſity were
indeed the greater, becauſe ſhe did not re-
collect ever to have heard him mention the
name of Villeroi.
No muſic, however, ſtole on the ſilence
of the night; and Emily, perceiving the late-
neſs of the hour, returned to a ſcene of fa-
tigue, remembered that ſhe was to riſe early
in the morning, and withdrew from the
window to repoſe.
CHAP.


( 195
)
CHAP. VII.
....,“Let thoſe deplore their doom,
Whoſe hope ſtill grovels in this dark ſojourn.
But lofty ſouls can look beyond the tomb,
Can ſmile at fate, and wonder how they mourn.
Shall Spring to theſe fad ſcenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the ſun's eternal bed?
Soon ſhall the orient with new luſtre burn,
And Spring ſhall foon her vital influence ſhed,
Again attune the grove, again adorn the mead!”
BEATTIE.
EMILY, called, as ſhe had requeſted, at
an early hour, awoke, little refreſhed by
Neep, for uneaſy dreams had purſued her,
and marred the kindeſt bleſſing of the un.
happy. But, when ſhe opened her caſe.
ment, looked out upon the woods, bright
with the morning ſun, and inſpired the pure
air, her mind was ſoothed. The ſcene was
filled with that cheering freſhneſs, which
ſeems to breathe the very ſpirit of health, and
ſhe heard only ſweet and pictureſque ſounds, if
K 2
ſuch


( 136 )
tuch an expreſſion may be allowed the ma-
tin-bell of a diſtant convent, the faint mur.
mur of the ſea-waves, the ſong of birds,
and the far-off low of cattle, which ſhe ſaw
coming ſlowly on between the trunks of the
trees. Struck with the circumſtances of
imagery around her, ſhe indulged the pen-
five tranquillity which they inſpired; and
while ſhe leaned on her window, waiting
till St. Aubert ſhould defcend to break-
faſt, her ideas arranged themſelves in the fol-
lowing lines :
THE FIRST HOUR OF MORNING.
How ſweet to wind the foreſt's tangled ſhade,
When early twilight, from the eaſtern bound,
Dawns on the ſleeping landſcape in the glade,
And fades as morning fpreads her bluſh around !
When ev'ry infant Power, that wept in night,
Lifts its chill head ſoft glowing with a tear,
Expands its tender bloſſom to the light,
And gives its incenſe to the genial air,
uus;
How freſh the breeze that wafts the rich perfunie,
And ſwells the melody of waking birds ;
The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,
And woodman's ſong, and low of diſtant herds!
Then,


( 197 )
Then, doubtful gleams the mountain's hoary head,
Seen through the parting foliage from afar ;
And, farther ſtill, the ocean's milty bed,
With fitting ſails, that partial ſun-beams ſhare.
But, vain the ſylvan ſhade-the breath of May,
The voice of muſic foating on the gale,
And forms, that beam through morning's dewy veil,
If health no longer bid the heart be gay!
O balmy hour! 'tis thine her wealth to give,
Here ſpread her bluſh, and bid the parent live!
Emily now heard perſons inoving belo v
in the cottage, and preſently the voice of
Michael, who was talking to his mules, as
he led them forth from a hut adjoining.
As ſhe left her room, St. Aubert, who
was now riſen, met her at the door, appa-
rently as little reſtored by ſleep as herſelf.
She led him down ſtairs to the little parlour,
in which they had ſupped on the preceding
night, where they found a neat breakfaſt
ſet out, while the hoſt and his daughter
waited to bid them good morrow.
“I envy you this cottage, my good
friends,” ſaid St. Aubert, as he met them,
K3
"sic


( 198 )
“it is fo-pleaſant, ſo quiet, and ſo neat; and this
air that one breathes--if any thing could re-
ſtore loſt health, it would ſurely be this air.”
La Voiſin bowed gratefully, and replied,
with the gallantry of a Frenchman, “ Our
Cottage may be envied, fir, ſince you and
Mademoiſelle have honoured it with your
preſence.” Sc. Aubert gave him a friendly
ſmile for his compliment, and ſat down to
a table, ſpread with cream, fruit, new
cheeſe, butter, and coffee. Emily, who
had obferved her father with attention, and
thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to
perſuade himn to defer travelling till the af-
ternoon; but he ſeemed very anxious to be
at home, and his anxiety he expreſſed re-
peatedly, and with an earneſtneſs that was
unuſual with him. He now ſaid, he found
himſelf as well as he had been of late, and
that he could bear travelling better in the
cool hour of the morning, than at any other
time. But, while he was talking with his
venerable hoft, and thanking him for his
kind attentions, Emily obſerved his coun-
tenance


( 199 )
ene
renfance change, and, before ſhe could reach
him, he fell back in his chair. In a few
moments he recovered from the fudden
faintneſs that had come over him, but feft
fo ill, that he perceived himſelf unable to
fet out, and, having remained a little while,
ſtruggling againſt the preſſure of indiſpoſi-
tion, he begged he might be helped up
ftairs to bed. This requeſt renewed all the
terror which Émily had ſuffered on the pre-
ceding evening; but, though ſcarcely able to
fupport herſelf under the ſudden ſhock itgave
her, the tried to conceal her apprehenſions
from St. Aubert, and gave her trenibling arm
to aſſiſt him to the door of his chamber.
When he was once more in bed, he de-
ſired that Emily, who was then weeping
in her own room, might be called ; and, as
ſhe came, he waved his hand for every
other perſon to quit the apartment. When
they were alone, he held out his hand to her;
and fixed his eyes upon her countenance,
with an expreſſion ſo full of tenderneſs and
grief, that all her fortitude forſook her, and.
ſhe
K4


( 200 )
me burit into an agony of tears. St. Au-
bert ſeemed ſtruggling to acquire firmneſs,
but was ſtill unable to ſpeak ; he could
only preſs her hand, and check the tears
that ſtood crembling in his eyes. At length
he commanded his voice, “ My dear child,"
ſaid he, trying to ſmile through his anguiſh,
“ my dear Emily!”—and pauſed again.
He raiſed his eyes to heaven, as if in prayer,
and then, in a firmer tone, and with a look,
in which the tenderneſs of the father was
dignified by the pious ſolemnity of the ſaint,
he faid, “My dear child, I would ſoften
the painful truth I have to tell you, but I
find myſelf quite unequal to the art. Alas!
I would, at this moment, conceal it from
you, but that it would be moſt cruel to de-
ceive you. It cannot be long before we
muſt part; let us talk of it, that our
thoughts and our prayers may prepare us to
bear it.” His voice faltered, while Emily,
ſtill weeping, preſſed his hand cloſe to her
heart, which ſwelled with a convulſive ſigh,
but ſhe could not look up.
“ Let


( 201 )
." Let me not waſte theſe moments," ſaid
St. Aubert, recovering himſelf, “I have
much to ſay. There is a circumſtance of
folemn conſequence, which I have to men-
tion, and a ſolemn promiſe to obtain from
you; when this is done I ſhall be eaſier.
You have obſerved, my dear, how anxious
I am to reach home, but know not all my
reaſons for this. Liſten to what I am go.
ing to ſay..— Yet ſtay--before I ſay more
give nie this promiſe, a promiſe made to
your dying father !”-St. Aubert was in-
terrupted; Emily, ſtruck by his laſt words,
as if for the firſt time, with a conviction of
his immediate danger, raiſed her head: her
Tears ſtopped, and gazing at him for a mo-
ment with an expreſſion of unutterable an-
guiſh, a flight convulſion ſeized her, and
ſhe ſunk ſenſeleſs in her chair. St. Aubert's
cries brought La Voiſin and his daughter
to the room, and they adminiſtered every
means in their power to reſtore her, but,
for a conſiderable time, without effect..
When ſhe recovered, St. Aubert was ſo ex.,
hauſted
K 5


(202)
haufted by the ſcene he had witneſſed, that
it was, many minutes before he had ſtrength
to ſpeak ; he was, however, ſomewhat re-
vived by a cordial, which Emily gave him ;
and, being again alone with her, he exerted
himſelf to tranquillize her fpirits, and to of.
fer her all the comfort of which her ſitua-
tion admitted. She threw herſelf into his
arms, wept on his neck, and grief made her
ſo inſenſible to all he ſaid, that he ceaſed to
offer the alleviations, which he himſelf could
not, at this moment, feel, and mingled his
filent tears with hers. Recalled, at length,
to a ſenſe of duty, fhe tried to ſpare her
father from farther view of her ſuffering;
and, quitting his embrace, dried her tears,
and ſaid ſomething, which ſhe meant for
conſolation. " My dear Emily,” replied
St. Aubert, " my dear child, we muſt look
up with humble confidence to that Being,
who has protected and comforted us in
every danger, and in every amfiction we have
known; to whoſe eye every moment of our
lives has been expoſed; he will not, he does
not,


,' ( 203 )
not, forſake us now; I feel his conſolations
in my heart. I ſhall leave you, my child,
ſtill in his care; and, though I depart from
this world, I lhall be ſtill in his preſence.
Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death
there is nothing new, or furpriſing, ſince we
all know, that we are born to die ; and no-
thing terrible to thoſe, who can confide in'
an all-powerful God. Had my life been
ſpared now, after a very few years, in the
courſe of nature, I muſt have reſigned it; old
age, with all its train of infirmity, its pri-
vations and its ſorrows, would have been
mine; and then, at laſt, death would have
come, and called forth the tears you now
Thed. Rather, my child, rejoice, that I am
ſaved from ſuch ſuffering, and that I am
permitted to die with a mind unimpaired,
and ſenſible of the comforts of faith and
of reſignation.” St. Aubert pauſed, fa-
tigued with ſpeaking. Emily again endea-
voured to aſſume an air of compoſure ;
and, in replying to what he had ſaid, tried
to footh him with a belief, that he had not
ſpoken in vain.
K 6
When


( 204 )
PEL
De
re
When he had repoſed a while, he reſumed
the converſation. « Let me return,” ſaid
he, "to a ſubject, which is very near my
heart. I ſaid I had a ſolemn promiſe to
receive from you; let me receive it now,
before I explain the chief circumſtance
which it concerns; there are others, of
which your peace requires that you ſhould
reſt in ignorance, Promiſe, then, that you
will perform exactly what I ſhall enjoin."
Emily, awed by the earneſt ſolemnity of
his manner, dried her tears, that had be-
gun again to Aow, in ſpite of her efforts to
ſuppreſs them; and, looking eloquently at
St. Aubert, bound herſelf to do whatever
he ſhould require by a vow, at which ſhe
thuddered, yet knew not why.
He proceeded : " I know you too well,
my Emily, to believe, that you would break
any promiſe, much leſs one thus folemnly
given ; your aſſurance gives me peace, and
the obſervance of it is of the utmoſt im- .
portance to your tranquillity. Hear, then,
what I am going to tell you. The cloſet,
which


( 203 )
To
which adjoins my chamber at La Vallée,
has a Niding board in the floor. You will
know it by a renarkable knot in the wood,
and by its being the next board, except
one, to the wainſcot, which fronts the door.
At the diſtance of about a yard from that
end, nearer the window, you will perceive
a line acroſs it, as if the plank had been
joined ;-the way to open it is this :-Preſs
· your foot upon the line, the end of the,
board will then ſink, and you may.ſlide it
with eale beneath the other. Below, you,
will ſee a hollow place." St. Aubert
pauſed for breath, and Emily fat fixed in
deep attention. “Do you underſtand theſe
directions, my dear ?" laid he. Emily,
though ſcarcely able to ſpeak, aſſured him,
that ſhe did.
• When you return home, then," he
added with a deep ſigh-
At the mention of her return home, all
the melancholy circumſtances, that muſt ata
tend this return, ruſhed upon her fancy; ſhe
burit into convulſive grief, and St. Aubert
himſelf,


: ( 206 )
himſelf, affected beyond the reſiſtance of
the fortitude which he had, at firſt, fum-
moned, wept with her. After ſome mo.
ments, he compoſed himſelf. “My dear
child," ſaid he, “ be comforted. When I
am gone, you will not be forſaken-I leave
you only in the more immediate care of
that Providence, which has never yet for-
faken me. Do not affict me with this ex-
ceſs of grief; rather teach me by your
example to bear my own.” He ſtopped
again, and Emily, the more ſhe endeavoured
to reſtrain her emotion, found it the leſs
poſſible to do ſo.
St. Aubert, who now ſpoke with pain,
reſumed the ſubject. “ That cloſet, my
dear, when you return home, go to it;
and, beneath the board I have deſcribed,
you will find a packet of written papers.
Attend to me now, for the promiſe you
have given particularly relates to what I
ſhall direct. Theſe papers you muſt burn-
and, folemnly I command you, without exa-
mining them.”
Emily's


( 207 )
Emily's ſurpriſe, for a moment, over.
came her grief, and ſhe ventured to aſk,
why this muſt be ? St. Aubert replied, :
that," if it had been right for him to explain
his reaſons, her late promiſe would have
been unneceſſarily exacted. It is ſufficient
for you, my love, to have a deep ſenſe of
the importance of obſerving me in this
inſtance." St. Aubert proceeded. “Un-'
der that board you will alſo find about
two hundred louis d’ors, wrapped in a ſilk
purſe ; indeed, it was to ſecure whatever
money might be in the chateau that this
ſecret place was contrived, at a time when
the province was over-run by troops of
men, who took advantage of the tumults,
and became plunderers.,
" But I have yet another promiſe to re-
ceive from you, which is—that you will
never, whatever may be your future cir-
cumſtances, Sell the chateau.” St. Aubert
even enjoined her, whenever ſhe might
marry, to make it an article in the contract,
that the chateau ſhould always be hers.
He


( 208 )
He then gave her a: more minute account
of his preſent circumſtances than he had
yet done, adding, “ The two hundred louis,
with what money you will now find in my
purſe, is all the ready, money I have to
leave you. I have told you how I am cir.
cumſtanced with M, Motteville, at Paris.
Ah, my child! I leave you poor-but not
deſtitute," he added, after a long pauſe.
Emily could make no reply to any thing he
now ſaid, but knelt at the bed-ſide, with
her face upon the quilt, weeping over the
hand ſhe held there.
After this converſation, the mind of St.
Aubert appeared to be much more at eaſe;
but, exhauſted by the effort of ſpeaking, he
ſunk into a kind of doze, and Emily conti-
nued to watch and weep beſide him, till a
gentle tap at the chamber-door rouſed her.
It was La Vaiſin, come to ſay, that a con-
feffor from the neighbouring convent was
below, ready to attend St. Aubert., Emily
would not ſuffer her father to be diſturbed,
but deſired, that the prieſt might not leave
ihe


( 209 )
the cottage. When St. Aubert awoke
from this doze, his ſenſes were confuſed,
and it was ſome moments before he reco.
vered them fufficiently to know that it was
Emily who fat beſide him. He then moved
his lips, and ſtretched forth his hand to
her; as ſhe received which, ſhe ſunk back
in her chair, overcome by the impreſſion
of death on his countenance. In a few
minutes he recovered his voice, and Emily
then aſked, if he wiſhed to ſee the confeſſor;
he replied, that he did; and, when the holy
father appeared, the withdrew. They re.
mained alone together above half an hour;
when Emily' was called in, ſhe found Sc.
Aubert more agitated than when ſhe had.
left him, and ſhe gazed, with a night degree
of reſentment, at the friar, as the cauſe of
this; who, however, looked mildly and
mournfully ar her, and turned away. Sr.
Aubert, in a tremulous voice, ſaid, he
wiſhed her to join in prayer with him, and
aſked if La Voiſin would do ſo too. The
old inan and his daughter came; they both
wepo


( 211 )
deed, ſevere if I had leſs confidence in
you.” He pauſed. La Voiſin aſſured him,
and his tears bóre teſtimony to his fincerity,
that he would do all he could to foften her
affliction, and that, if St. Aubert wiſhed it,
he would even attend her into Gaſcony; an.
offer ſo pleaſing to St. Aubert, that he had
ſcarcely words to acknowledge his ſenſe of
the old man's kindneſs, or to tell him, that
he accepted it. The ſcene, that followed
between St. Aubert and Emily, affected
:, La Voiſin ſo much, that he quitted the
chamber, and ſhe was again left alone with
her father, whoſe ſpirits ſeemed fainting
faſt, but neither his ſenſes, or his voice, yet
failed him; and, at intervals, he employed
much of theſe laſt awful moments in advif-
ing his daughter, as to her future conduct.
Perhaps, he never had thought more juſtly,
or expreſſed himſelf more clearly, than he
did now.
“ Above all, my dear Emily,” ſaid he,' b
“ do not indulge in the pride of fine feeling,
the romaric error of amiable minds. Thoſe,
who
ore


( 212 2
1 2
i
who really poflefs ſenſibility, ought early
to be taught, that it is a dangerous quality,
which is continually extracting the exceſs of
miſery, or delight, from every ſurrounding
circumſtance. And, ſince, in our paſſage
through this world, painful circumſtances
occur more frequently than pleaſing ones,
and ſince our ſenſe of evil is, I fear, more
acute than our ſenſe of good, we become
the victims of our feelings, unleſs we can
in ſome degree command them. I know you
will ſay, (for you are young, my Emily)
I know you will ſay, that you are contented
ſometimes to ſuffer, rather than to give up
your refined ſenſe of happineſs, at others;
but, when your mind has been long ha.
raſſed by viciffitude, you will be content to
reſt, and you will then recover from your
deluſion. You will perceive, that the
phantom of happineſs is exchanged for the
ſubſtance; for happineſs ariſes in a ſtate of
peace, not of tumult. It is of a temperate
and uniform nature, and can no more exiſt
in a heart, that is continually alive to mi-
nute


( 213 )
nute circumſtances, than in one that is dead
to feeling. You ſee, my dear, that, though
I would guard you againſt the dangers of
ſenſibility, I am not an advocate for apa-
thy. Ac your age I hould have ſaid that is
a vice more hateful than all the errors of
ſenſibility, and I ſay ſo ſtill. I call it a
vice, becauſe it leads to poſitive evil; in
this, however, it does no more than an ill.
governed ſenſibility, which, by ſuch a rule,
might alſo be called a vice; but the evil of
the former is of more general conſequence.
I have exhauſted myſelf,” ſaid St. Aubert,
feebly, “ and have' wearied you, my Emily ;
but, on a ſubject ſo important to your fu-
ture comfort, I am anxious to be perfectly
underſtood."
Emily aſſured him, that his advice was
moſt precious to her, and that ſhe would
never forget it, or ceaſe from endeavouring
to profit by it. St: Aubert ſmiled affec-
tionately and ſorrowfully upon her. "I
repeat it,” ſaid he, “I would not teach you
to become inſenſible, if I could ; I would
only
anx101


( 214 )
only warn you of the evils of ſuſceptibility,
and point out how you may avoid them.
Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that
ſelf-deluſion, which has been fatal to the
peace of ſo many perſons; beware of priding
yourſelf on the gracefulneſs of ſenſibility;
if you yield to this vạnity, your happineſs
is loft for ever. Always remember how
much more valuable is the ſtrength of forti.
tude, than the grace of ſenſibility. Do not,
however, confound fortitude with apathy;
apathy cannot know the vircue. Remem-
ber, too, that one act of beneficence, one
act of real uſefulneſs, is worth all the ab-
ſtract ſentiment in the world. Sentiment
is a diſgrace, inſtead of an ornament, unleſs
it lead us to good actions. The miſer, who
thinks himſelf reſpectable, merely becauſe
he poffeſfes wealth, and thus miſtakes the
means of doing good, for the actual accom.
pliſhment of it, is not more blamable than
the man of ſentiment, without active virtue.
You may have obſerved perſons, who de-
light ſo much in this ſort of ſenſibility to
ſencia
meai
m
.
C


( 216 )
kindneſs; you will do this for his fake, who
has often wiſhed to do ſo for yours.”
Emily aſſured him, that, whatever he
requeſted ſhe would religiouſly perform to
the utmoſt of her ability. “Alas !" added
ſhe, in a voice interrupted by ſighs, “that
will ſoon be all which remains for me; it
will be almoſt my only conſolation to fulfil
your wiſhes.”
St. Aubert looked up ſilently in her face,
as if he would have ſpoken, but his fpirit
ſunk a while, and his eyes became heavy
and dull. She felt that look at her heart.
“ My dear father!” ſhe exclaimed; and
then, checking herſelf, preſſed his hand
cloſer, and hid her face with her handker-
chief. Her tears were concealed, but St.
Aubert heard her convulſive fobs. His
ſpirits returned. “O my child !” ſaid
he, faintly, “ let my conſolations be yours.
1 die in peace; for I know, that I am about
to return to the boſom of my Father, who
will ſtill be your Father, when I am gone.
Always


( 217 )
Always truſt in him, my love, and he will
ſupport you in theſe moments, as he ſup.
ports me.”
Emily could only liſten, and weep; but
the extreme compoſure of his manner, and
the faith and hope he expreſſed, fomewhat
ſoothed her anguiſh. Yet, whenever ſhe
looked upon his emaciated countenance,..
and ſaw the lines of death beginning to
prevail over it-faw his ſunk eyes, ſtill bent
on her, and their heavy lids preſſing to a
cloſe, there was a pang in her heart, ſuch as
defied expreſſion, though it required filial
virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt
He deſired once more to bleſs her ;
« Where are you, my dear?” ſaid he, as he
ítretched forth: his hands. Emily had
turned to the window, that he might not
perceive her anguilh ; ſhe now underſtood,
that his fight had failed him. When he
had given her his bleſſing, and it ſeemed to
be the lant effort of expiring life, he ſunk
back on his pillow. She kiſſed his fore-
bead; the damps of death had fettled there,
VOL. I.
L.
and,
VU
10W


...1 220 )
that has paſſed the gates of death, and that,
which ſtill lingers in the body. “In the
ſight of God," ſaid Emily, “ my dear
father now exiſts, as truly as he yeſter-
day exiſted to me; it is to me only thae
he is dead; to God and to himſelf he yet
lives!”
The good monk left her more tranquil
than ſhe had been ſince St. Aubert died ;
and, before ſhe retired to her little cabin for
the night, ſhe truſted herſelf ſo far as to
viſit the corpſe. Silent, and without weep-
ing, ſhe ſtood by its ſide. The features,
placid and ferene, told the nature of the laſt
ſenſations, that had lingered in the now
deſerted frame. For a moment ſhe turned
away, in horror of the ſtillneſs in which
death had fixed that countenance, never till
now ſeen otherwiſe than animated; then
gazed on it with a mixture of doubt ana
awful aſtoniſhment. Her reaſon could
ſcarcely overcome an involuntary and unac-
countable expectation of-feeing that beloved
countenance ftill ſuſceptible. She con-
tinued to gaze wildly ; took up the cold
hand;


( 221 )
ere
ħand; ſpoke; ftill gazed, and then burſt
into a tranſport of grief. La Voiſin, hear-
ing her fobs, came into the room to lead
her away, but ſhe heard nothing, and only
begged that he would leave her.
Again alone, the indulged her tears, and,
when the gloom of evening obſcured the
chamber, and almoſt veiled from her eyes
the object of her diſtreſs, ſhe ſtill hung over
the body; till her ſpirits, at length, were
exhauſted, and ſhe became tranquil. La
Voiſin again knocked at the door, and en-
treated that ſhe would come to the common
apartment. Before ſhe went, ſhe kiſſed the
lips of St. Aubert, as ſhe was wont to do
when the bade him good night. Again The
kiffed them; her heart felt as if it would
break, a few tears of agony ſtarted to her
eyes, ſhe looked up to heaven, then at St.
Aubert, and left the room.
Retired to her lonely cabin, her melan-
choly thoughts ſtill hovered round the body
of her deceaſed parent; and, when ſhe funk
into a kind of number, the images of her
L3 waking


( 222 ) .
waking mind ſtill haunted her fancy. She
thought ſhe ſaw her father approaching her:
with a benign countenance; then, ſmiling
mournfully and pointing upwards, his lips
moved, but, inſtead of words, ſhe heard
ſweet muſic borne on the diſtant air, and
preſently ſaw his features glow with the
wild rapture of a ſuperior being. The
ſtrain ſeemed to ſwell louder, and ſhe awoke.
The viſion was gone, but muſic yet came
to her ear in ſtrains ſuch as angels might
breathe. She doubted, liſtened, raiſed her-
felf in the bed, and again liſtened. It was
muſic, and not an illuſion of her imagina.
tion. After a folemn ſteady harmony, it
pauſed; then roſé again, in mournful ſweet-
neſs, and then died, in a cadence, that ſeem-
ed to bear away the liſtening foul to heaven.
She inſtantly remembered the muſic of the
preceding night, with the ſtrange circum-
ſtances, related by La Voiſin, and the affect-
ing converſation it had led to, concerning
the ſtate of departed ſpirits. All that St.
Aubert had ſaid, on that ſubject, now preſſed
upon
en
a


(223)
apon her heart, and overwhelmed it. What
a change in a few hours ! He, who then
could only conjecture, was now made ac-
quainted with truth ; was himſelf become
one of the departed! As ſhe liſtened, ſhe
was chilled with ſuperſtitious awe, her tears
ſtopped; and the roſe, and went to the win-
dow. All without was obſcured in ſhade; -
but Emily, turning her eyes from the maffy
darkneſs of the woods, whoſe waving out-
fine appeared on the horizon, law, on the
left, that effulgent planet, which the old
man had pointed out, ſetting over the woods.
She remernbered what he had ſaid concern.
ing it, and, the muſic now coming at inter-
vals on the air, ſhe uncloſed the cafement to
liſten to the ſtrains, that ſoon gradually
ſunk to a greater diſtance, and tried to diſ-
cover whence they came. The obſcurity
prevented her from diftinguiſhing any ob.
ject on the green platform below; and the
ſounds became fainter and fainter, till they
ſoftened into filence. She liſtened, but they
returned no inore. Soon after, ſhe obſerved
. L 4
the


of 224 )
the planet trembling between the fringed
tops of the woods, and, in the next moment,
Gink behind them. Chilled with a melan-
choly awe, ſhe retired once more to her bed,
and, at length, forgot for a while her for-
rows in ſleep. . !
On the following morning, ſhe was viſited
by a ſiſter of the conyent, who came, with
kind offices and a ſecond invitation from
the lady abbeſs; and Emily, though ſhe
could not forſake the cottage, while the re-
mains of her father were in it, conſented,
however painful ſuch a viſit muſt be, in the
preſent ſtate of her ſpirits, to pay her re-
{pects to the abbeſs, in the evening.
About an hour before ſun ſet, I.a Voiſin.
fhewed her the way through the woods to
the convent, which ſtood in a ſmall bay of
the Mediterranean, crowned by a woody
amphitheatre ; and Emily, had the been leſs
unhappy, would have admired the extenſive
fea view, that appeared from the green nope,
in front of the edifice, and the rich fhores,
hung with woods and paſtures, that extended
on


( 225 )
on either hand. But her thoughts were now
occupied by one ſad idea, and the features
of nature were to her colourleſs and without
form. The bell for velpers Itruck, as the
paſſed the ancient gate of the convent, and
feemed the funereal note for St. Auberte
Little incidents affect a mind enervated
by ſorrow; Emily ſtruggled againſt the
fickening faintneſs, that came over her,
and was led into the preſence of the abbeſs,
who received her with an air of maternal
tenderneſs; an´air of ſuch gentle ſolici,
tude and conſideration, as touched her with
an inſtantaneous gratitude ; her eyes were
filled with tears, and the words ſhe would
have ſpoken faltered on her lips. The
abbeſs led her to a ſeat, and ſat down beſide
her, ſtill holding her hand and regarding
her in filence, as Emily dried her tears and
attempted to ſpeak. “Be compoſed, my
daughter,” ſaid the abbeſs in a foothing
voice, “do not ſpeak yet; I know all you
would ſay. Your ſpirits mụſt be foothed.
We are going to prayers ;-:Will you attend
L5
QUE:
•


( 226 )
our evening ſervice? It is comfortable, my
child, to look up in our afflictions to a fa.
ther, who ſees and pities us, and who chaſ-
tens in his mercy.”
Emily's tears flowed again, but a thouſand
fweet emotions mingled with them. The
abbeſs ſuffered her to weep without inter-
fuption, and watched over her with a look
of benignity, that might have characterized
the countenance of a guardian angel. Emi-
ly, when ſhe became tranquil, was en-
couraged to ſpeak without reſerve, and to
mention the motive, that made her unwill-
ing to quit the cottage, which the abbeſs
did not oppoſe even by a hint; but praiſed
the filial piety of her conduct, and added a
hope, that ſhe would paſs a few days at the
convent, before ſhe returned to La Vallée.
“ You muſt allow yourſelf a little time to
recover from your firſt ſhock, my daughter,
before you encounter a ſecond; I will not
affect to conceal from you how much I know
your heart muſt ſuffer, on returning to the
ſcene of your former happineſs. Here, you
' will


(227)
will have all, that quiet and ſympathy and
religion can give, to reſtore your ſpirits. But
come,” added ſhe, obſerving the tears ſwell
in Emily's eyes, “ we will go to the chapel.”
Emily followed to the parlour, where the
nuns were aſſembled, to whom the abbels
committed her, ſaying, “ This is a daugh-
ter, for whom I have much efteem; be fifters
to her.”
They paſſed on in a train to the chapel,
where the ſolemn devotion, with which the
ſervice was performed, elevated her mind,
and brought to it the conforts of faith and
reſignation :
Twilight came on, before the abbeſs's
kindneſs would ſuffer Emily to depart, when
ſhe left the convent, with a heart much
Tighter than ſhe had entered it, and was re-
conducted by La Voiſin through the woods,
the penſive gloom of which was in uniſon
with the temper of her mind ; and ſhe pur-
ſued the little wild path, in muſing filence,
till her guide ſuddenly ſtopped, looked
cound, and then ſtruck out of the path into
L 6. :
the


( 228 ) .
the high graſs, ſaying he had miſtaken the
road. He now walked on quickly, and
Emily, proceeding with difficulty over the
obſcured and uneven ground, was left at
ſome diſtance, till her voice arreſted him,
who ſeemed unwilling to ſtop, and ſtill hur-
ried on. “If you are in doubt about the
way,” ſaid Emily, whad we not better en-
quire it at the chateau yonder, between the
trees ?”
“ No," replied La Voiſin, « there is no
occaſion. When we reach that brook,
ma'amfelle, (you ſee the light upon the wa-
ter there, beyond the woods) when we
reach thar brook, we ſhall be at home pre-
ſently. I don't know how 1 happened to
miſtake the path; I feldom come this way
after ſun-ſet.”
“ It is ſolitary enough,” ſaid Emily, “ but
you have no banditti here." No, ma'am-
ſelle—no banditti."
“What are you afraid of then, my good
friend? you are not fuperftitious ?” “ No,
not ſuperſtitious; but, to tell you the truth,
3
lady,


( 229 )
:
W
łady, nobody likes to go near that chateau,
after duſk.” “ By whom is it inhabited,”
ſaid Emily, " that it is ſo formidable?”
" Why, ma'amſelle, it is ſcarcely inhabited,
for our lord the Marquis, and the lord of
all theſe fine woods, too, is dead. He had
not once been in it, for theſe many years,
and his people, who have the care of it, live
in a cottage cloſe by.” Emily now under-
ſtood this to be the chateau, which La
Voiſin had formerly pointed out, as having
belonged to the Marquis Villeroi, on the
mention of which her father had appeared
ſo much affected.
“Ah! it is a deſolate place now,” con-
tinued La Voiſin, “ and ſuch a grand, fine
place, as I remember it !" Emily enquired
what had occaſioned this lamentable change;
but the old man was. filent, and Emily,
whoſe intereſt was awakened by the fear he
had expreſſed, and above all by a recollec-
tion of her father's agitation, repeated the
queſtion, and added, “ If you are neither
afraid of the inhabitants, my good friend,
nor


( 230 )
nor are ſuperſtitious, how happens it, that
you dread to paſs near that chateau in the
dark ?”
"Perhaps, then, I am a little ſuperftitious,
ma'amſelle; and, if you knew what I do,
you might be fo too. Strange things have
happened there. Monſieur, your good fa.
ther, appeared to have known the late Mar.
chioneſs.” « Pray inform me what did hap-
pen?” ſaid Emily, with much emotion..
“Alas! ma'amſelle," anſwered La Voiſin,
(* enquire no further : it is not for me to lay
open the domeſtic fecrets of my lord.”-
Emily, ſurpriſed by the old man's words,
and his manner of delivering them, forbore
to repeat her queſtion ; a nearer intereſt, the
remembrance of St. Aubert, occupied her
thoughts, and ſhe was led to recollect the
muſic ſhe heard on the preceding night,
which ſhe mentioned to La Voiſin. « You.
was not alone, ma'amfelle, in this," he re-
plied, “I heard it too; but I have ſo often
heard it, at the ſame hour, that. I was ſcarce-
ly ſurpriſed."
“ You


( 231 )
.." You doubtleſs believe this muſic tó
have ſome connection with the chateau,"
ſaid Emily ſuddenly, “and are, therefore,
fuperftitious.” “ It may be ſo, ma'amſelle,
but there are other circumſtances, belonging →
to that chateau, which I remember, and fad.
ly too." A heavy ſigh followed: but Emi-
ly's delicacy reſtrained the curioſity theſe
words revived, and the enquired no further,
On reaching the cottage, all the violence
of her grief returned ; it ſeemed as if ſhe.
had eſcaped its heavy preſſure only while the
was removed from the object of it. She
paffed immediately to the chamber, where
the remains of her father were laid, and
yielded to all the anguiſh of hopeleſs grief.
La Voiſin, at length, perſuaded her to leave
the room, and the returned to her own,
where, exhauſted by the ſufferings of the
day, ſhe foon fell into deep ſleep, and awoke
conſiderably refreſhed.
When the dreadful hour arrived, in which
the remains of St. Aubert were to be taken
from her for ever, the went alone to the
chamber
ing


( 232 )
· Chamber to look upon his countenance yet
once again, and La Voiſin, who had waited
patiently below ſtairs, till her deſpair ſhould
ſubſide, with the reſpect due to grief, forbore
to interrupt the indulgence of it, till ſurpriſe,
at the length of hér ſtay, and then appre-
henſion overcame his delicacy, and he went
to lead her from the chamber. Having tap-
ped gently at the door, without receiving an
anſwer, he liſtened attentively, but all was
ſtill; no ſigh, no ſob of anguiſh was heard.
Yet more alarmed by this ſilence, he opened
the door, and found Emily tying ſenſeleſs
acroſs the foot of the bed, near, which ſtood.
the coffin. His ealls procured affiſtance,
and ſhe was carried to her room, where pro-
per applications, at length, reſtored her.
During her ſtate of inſenſibility, La Voiſin
had given directions for the coffin to be
cloſed, and he ſucceeded in perfuading
Emily to forbear reviſiting the chamber.
She, indeed, felt herſelf unequal to this, and
alſo perceived the neceſſity of ſparing her
ſpirits, and collecting fortitude fufficient to'
bear


( 233 )
m
as
bear her through the approaching ſcene. St.
Aubert had given a particular injunction,
that his remains ſhould be interred in the
church of the convent of St. Clair, and,
in njentioning the north chancel, near the
ancient tomb of the Villerois, had pointed
out the exact ſpot, where he wiſhed to be
laid. The ſuperior had granted this place for
the interment, and thither, therefore, the fad
proceſſion now moved, which was met, at the
gates, by the venerable prieſt, followed by a
train of friars. Every perſon, who heard the
folemn chant of the anthem, and the peal
of the organ, that ſtruck up, when the body
entered the church, and ſaw alſo the feeble
ſteps, and the aſſumed tranquillity of Emily,
gave her involuntary tears. She ſhed none,
but walked, her face partly ſhaded by a thin
black veil, between two perſons, who ſup-
ported her, preceded by the abbeſs, and
followed by nuns, whoſe plaintive voices
mellowed the ſwelling harmony of the dirge.
When the proceſſion came to the grave the
muſic ceaſed. Emily drew the veil entirely
over


© 23+ )
over her face, and, in a momentary pauſe,
between the anthem and the reſt of the ſer-
vice, her fobs were diſtinctly audible. The
holy father began the ſervice; and Emily
again commanded her feelings, till the coffin
was let down, and ſhe heard the earth rattle
on its lid. Then, as ſhe ſhuddered, a groan
burſt from her heart, and ſhe leaned for i
ſupport on the perſon who ſtood next to
her, In a few moments the recovered; and,
when ſhe heard thoſe affecting and ſublime
words: “ His body is buried in peace, and
his ſoul returns to Him that gave it,” her
anguilh ſoftened into tears.
The abbeſs led her from the church into
her own parlour, and there adminiſtered all
the conſolations, that religion and gentle
Sympathy can give. Emily ſtruggled againſt
the preſſure of grief; but the abbeſs, ob-
ſerving her attentively; ordered a bed to be v
prepared, and recommended her to retire to
repoſe. She alſo kindly claimed her promiſe
to remain a few days at the convent; and Emi-
ly, who had no wiſh to return to the cottage,
the


( 235 )
the ſcene of all her ſufferings, had leiſure,
now that no immediate care preſſed upon her
attention, to feel the indiſpoſition, which dif-
zabled her from immediately travelling.
i Meanwhile, the maternal kindneſs of the
! abbeſs, and the gentle attenticns of the nuns
did all, that was poſſible, towards ſoothing
her ſpirits and reſtoring her health. But the
Platter was too deeply wounded, through the
· medium of her mind, to be quickly revived.
She lingered for ſome weeks at the convent,
under the influence of a now fever, wiſhing
to return home, yet unable to go thither ;
often even reluctant to leave the ſpot where
her father's relics were depoſited, and ſome-
. times foothing herſelf with the conſideration,
that, if ſhe died here, her remains would re-
poſe beſide thoſe of St. Aubert. In the mean.
while, ſhe fent letters to Madame Cheron
and to the old houſekeeper, informing them
5 of the ſad event, that had taken place, and
of her own ſituation. From her aunt ſhe re-
ceived an anſwer, abounding more in com-
inon place condolement, than in traits of
,
real


:( 236 )
real forrow, which aſſured her, that a ſervard
ſhould be ſent to conduct her to La Va!lée,
for that her own time was ſo much occupies
by company, that ſhe had no leiſure to unders
take ſo long a journey. However Emily
might prefer La Vallée to Tholouſe, the
could not be inſenſible of the indecorous
and unkind conduct of her aunt, in ſuffer-
ing her to return thither, where ſhe had nc
longer a relation to conſole and protect her ;
å conduct, which was the more culpable,
ſince St. Aubert had appointed Madame Che-
ron the guardian of his orphan daughter.
Madame Cheron's ſervant' made the at--
tendance of the good, La Voiſin unnecef-
ſary; and. Emily, who felt ſenſibly her ob-
- ligations to him, for all his kind attention
to her late father, as well as to herſelf, was
glad to ſpare him a long, and what, at his •
time of life, muſt have been a troubleſome
journey.
During her ſtay at the convent, the peace
and ſanctity that reigned within, the tranquil
beauty of the ſcenery without, and the de-
licate


( 237 )
T
licate attentions of the abbeſs and the nuns,
vere circumſtances ſo ſoothing to her mind,
that they almoſt tempted her to leave a
world, where ſhe had loſt her deareſt friends,
and devote herſelf to the cloiſter, in a ſpot,
"rendered ſacred to her by containing the tomb
of St. Aubert. The penſive enthuſiaſm, too,
ſo natural to her temper, had ſpread a beau-
tiful illuſion over the ſanctified retirement of
ca nun, that almoſt hid from her view the
felfiſhneſs of its ſecurity. But the touches,
which a melancholy fancy, ſlightly tinctured
with ſuperſtition, gave to the monaſtic ſcene,
began to fade, as her ſpirits revived, and
obrought once more to her heart an image,
which had only tranſiently been baniſhed
thence. By this ſhe was filently awakened
> to hope and comfort and ſweet affections ;
e , viſions of happineſs gleamed faintly at a
diſtance, and, though ſhe knew them to be
illuſions, ſhe could not reſolve to ſhut them
ont for ever. It was the remembrance of
5 Valancourt, of his taſte, his genius, and of
the countenance which glowed with both,
.. chat,


( 238 )
that, perhaps, alone determined her to return
to the world. The grandeur and ſublimity
of the ſcenes, amidſt which they had firſt met,
had faſcinated her fancy, and had imper-
ceptibly contributed to render Valancourt
more intereſting by ſeeming to communicate
to him ſomewhat of their own character.
The eſteem, too, which St. Aubert had re-
peatedly expreſſed for him, ſanctioned this
kindneſs; but, though his countenance and
manner had continually expreſſed his admi-
ration of her, he had no otherwiſe declared
it, and even the hope of ſeeing him again
was ſo diſtant, that ſhe was ſcarcely con-
ſcious of it, ſtill leſs that it influenced her
conduct on this occaſion.
It was feveral days after che arrival of
Madame Cheron's ſervant before Emily was
ſufficiently recovered to undertake the jour-
ney to La Vallée. On the evening pre-
ceding her departure, ſhe went to the cor-
tage to take leave of La Voiſin and his fa.
mily, and to make them a return for their
kindneſs. The old man ſhe found fittings
on


( 239 )
on a bench at his door, between his daugh-
in ter, and his ſon-in-law, who was juſt returned
from his daily labour, and who was play-
ing upon a pipe, that, in tone, reſeinbled
an oboe. A halk of wine ſtood beſide the
i old man, and, before him, a ſmall table with
a fruit and bread, round which ſtood ſeveral
of his grandſons, fine roſy children, who
*. were tåking their ſupper, as their mother
diſtributed it. On the edge of the little
green, that ſpread before the cottage, were
cattle and a few ſheep repofing under the
trees. The landſcape was touched with the
mellow light of the evening ſun, whoſe long
flanting beams played through a viſta of
the woods, and lighted up the diſtant turrets
of the chateau. She pauſed a moment, be-
fore ſhe emerged from the ſhade, to gaze
upon the happy group before herm-on the
complacency and eaſe of healthy age, de-
pictured on the countenance of La Voiſin;
the maternal tenderneſs of Agnes, as ſhe
I looked upon her children, and the inno.
s cency of infantine pleaſures, reflected in their
ſmiles.


(240 )
ſmiles. Emily looked again at the vene-
rable old man, and at the cottage; the me.
mory of her father roſe with full force upon
her mind, and ſhe haſtily ſtepped forward,
afraid to truſt herſelf with a longer pauſe.
She took an affectionate and affecting leave of
La Voiſin and his family; he ſeemed to love
her as his daughter, and ſhed tears; Emily
ſhed many. She avoided going into the cot.
tage, ſince ſhe knew it would revive emo-
tions, ſuch as ſhe could not now endure.
One painful ſcene yet awaited her, for
the determined to viſit again her father's
grave'; and that ſhe might not be interrupted,
or obſerved in the indulgence of her melan-
choly tenderneſs, ſhe deferred her viſit, till
every inhabitant of the convent, except the
nun who promiſed to bring her the key of
the church, ſhould be retired to reft. Emily
remained in her chamber, till ſhe heard the
convent bell ſtrike twelve, when the nun
came, as ſhe had appointed, with the key of
a private door, that opened into the church,
and they deſcended togetehr the narrow
|


( 241 )
c
winding ſtair-caſe, that led thither. The
nun offered to accompany Emily to the
grave, adding, “ It is melancholy to go
alone at this hour;" but the former, thank-
ing her for the conſideration, could not con-
ſent to have any witneſs of her ſorrow; and
. the ſiſter, having unlocked the door, gave
her the lamp. “ You will remember, fiſter,”
ſaid ſhe, “ that in the eaſt aifle, which you
muſt paſs, is a newly opened grave; hold
the light to the ground, that you may not
ſtumble over the looſe earth.” Emily,
thanking her again, took the lamp, and,
ſtepping into the church, fiſter Mariette
departed. But Emily pauſed a moment at
the door; a ſudden fear came over her, and
ſhe returned to the foot of the ſtair-caſe,
where, as ſhe heard the ſteps of the nun al-
cending, and, while ſhe held up the lamp,
faw her black veil waving over the ſpiral
baluſters, ſhe was tempted to call her back,
While ſhe heſitated, the veil diſappeared,
and, in the next moment, aſhamed of her,
fears, ſhe returned to the church. The cold
VOL. I.
M
air


( 242 )
air of the aiſles chilled her, and their deep
ſilence and extent, feebly ſhone upon by the
moon-light, that ſtreained through a diſtant
gothic window, would at any other time
have awed her into ſuperſtition ; now, grief
occupied all herattention. She ſcarcely heard
the whiſpering echoes of her own ſteps, or
thought of the open grave, till ſhe found her-
ſelf almoſt on its brink. A friar of the con-
vent had been buried there on the preceding
evening, and, as ſhe had fat alone in her
chamber at twilight, ſhe heard, at diſtance,
the monks chanting the requiem for his ſoul.
This brought freſhly to her memory the
circumſtances of her father's death; and, as
the voices, mingling with a low querulous
peal of the organ, ſwelled faintly, gloomy
and affecting viſions had ariſen upon her
mind. Now ſhe remembered them, and,
turning aſide to avoid the broken ground,
theſe recollections made her paſs on with
quicker ſteps to the grave of St. Aubert,
when in the moon-light, that fell athwart a
remote part of the aiſle, ſhe thought ſhe ſaw
a ſhadow


( 243 )
1
a ſhadow gliding berween the pillars. She
ſtopped to liſten, and, not hearing any foot-
ſtep, believed that her fancy had deceived
her, and, no longer apprehenſive of being
obſerved, proceeded. St. Aubert was bu-
ried beneath a plain marble, bearing little
more than his name and the date of his
birth and death, near the foot of the ſtately
monument of the Villerois. Emily remained
at his grave, till a chime, that called the
monks to early prayers, warned her to retire;
then, ſhe wept over it a laſt farewel, and
forced herſelf from the ſpot. After this hour
of melancholy indulgence, ſhe was refreſhed
by a deeper ſleep, than ſhe had experienced
for a long time, and, on awakening, her
mind was more tranquil and reſigned, than
ic had been ſince St. Aubert's death.
But, when the moment of her departure
from the convent arrived, all her grief re-
turned ; the memory of the dead, and the
kindneſs of the living attached her to the
place; and for the ſacred ſpot, where her
father's remains were interred, ſhe ſeemed to
M 2
feel


( 244 )
feel all thoſe tender affections which we
conceive for home. The abbeſs repeated
many kind aſſurances of regard at their
parting, and preſſed her to return, if ever
ſhe ſhould find her condition elſewhere un-
pleaſant; many of the nuns alſo expreſſed
unaffected regret at her departure, and Emi-
ly left the convent with many tears, and fol.
lowed by ſincere wiſhes for her happineſs.
She had travelled ſeveral leagues, before
the ſcenes of the country, through which ſhe
paſſed, had power to rouſe her for a moment
from the deep melancholy, into which the
was ſunk, and, when they did, it was only to
remind her, that, on her laſt view of them,
St. Aubert was at her ſide, and to call up to
her remembrance the remarks he had deli-
vered on ſimilar ſcenery. Thus, without any
particular occurrence, paſſed the day in lan-
guor and dejection. She ſlept that night at
a town on the ſkirts of Languedoc, and, on
the following morning, entered Gaſcony.
Towards the cloſe of this day, Emily
came within view of the plains in the neigh-
bourhood


( 246 )
IS
At length, the chateau itſelf appeared amid
the glowing beauty of St. Aubert's fa-
vourite landſcape. This was an object,
which called for fortitude, not for tears;
Emily dried hers, and prepared to meet
with calmneſs the trying moment of her
return to that home, where there was no
longer a parent to welcome her. « Yes,"
ſaid ſhe, “ let me not forget the leſſons he
has taught nie ! How often he has pointed
out the neceſſity of refifting even virtuous
ſorrow; how often we have admired toge-
ther the greatneſs of a mind, that can at
once ſuffer and reaſon! O my father! if
you are permitted to look down upon your
child, it will pleaſe you to ſee, that ſhe re-
inembers, and endeavours to practiſe, the
precepts you have given her.”
A turn on the road now allowed a nearer
view of the chateau, the chimneys, tipped
with light, riſing from behind St. Aubert's
favourite oaks, whoſe foliage partly con-
cealed the lower part of the building. Emily
could not ſuppreſs a heavy ligh. “ This,
too,


( 247 )
100, was his favourite hour,” ſaid Me, as
the gazed upon the long evening lhadows,
ſtretched athwart the landſcape. “ How
deep the repoſe, how lovely the ſcene ! love-
ly and tranquil as in former days !”
Again (he reſiſted the preſſure of for-
row, till her ear caught the gay melody of
the dance, which ſhe had ſo often liſtened
to, as ſhe walked with St. Aubert, on the -
margin of the Garonne, when all her for-
titude forſook her, and ſhe continued to
weep, till the carriage ſtopped at the little
gate, that opened upon what was now her
own territory. She raiſed her eyes on the
ſudden ſtopping of the carriage, and ſaw
her father's old houſekeeper coming to open
the gate. Manchon alſo came running,
and barking before her ; and, when his
young miſtreſs alighted, fawned, and played
round her, gaſping with joy.
" Dear ma'amſelle !" ſaid Thereſa, and
pauſed, and looked as if he would have of-
fered ſomething of condolement to Emily,
whoſe tears now prevented reply. The dog
M4
TIC
ſtill


( 248 )
mo
ftill fawned and ran round her, and then
flew towards the carriage, with a ſhort
quick bark. “Ah, ma’amſelle ! my poor
maſter !” ſaid Thereſa, whoſe feelings were
more awakened than her delicacy, “Man-
chon’s gone to look for him.” Emily
ſobbed aloud; and, on looking towards
the carriage, which ſtill ſtood with the door
open, faw the animal ſpring into it, and in-
ftantly leap out, and then with his noſe on
the ground run round the horſes.
" Don't cry ſo, ma'amſelle," ſaid The-
Peſa," it breaks my heart to ſee you.” The
dog now came running to Emily, then re-
turned to the carriage, and then back again
to her, whining and diſcontented. “ Poor.
rogue !" ſaid Thereſa, “ thou haſt loſt thy
maſter, thou mayſt well cry! But come,
my dear young lady, be comforted. What
ſhall I get to refreſh you ?” Emily gave
her hand to the old ſervant, and tried to
reſtrain her grief, while ſhe made ſome kind
enquiries concerning her health. But ſhe
ftill lingered in the walk which led to the
chateau,


( 249 )
chateau, for within was no perſon to meet
her with the kiſs of affection; her own heart
no longer palpitated with impatient joy to
meet again the well-known ſmile, and the
dreaded to ſee objects, which would recall
the full remembrance of her former happi-
neſs. She moved ſlowly towards the door,
patiſed, went on, and pauſed again. How
filent, how forſaken, how forlorn did the
chateau appear! Trembling to enter it, yet
blaming herſelf for delaying what ſhe could
not avoid, ſhe, at length, paſſed into the
hall; croſſed it with a hurried ſtep, as if
afraid to look round, and opened the door
of that room, which ſhe was wont to call
her own. The gloom of evening gave fo-
lemnity to its ſilent and deſerted air. The
chairs, the tables, every article of furniture,
ſo familiar to her in happier times, ſpoke
eloquently to her heart. She ſeated herſelf,
without inmediately obſerving it, in a win-
dow, which opened upon the garden, and
where St. Aubert had often fat with her,
watching the ſun retire from the rich and
extenſive
M
5


( 250 )
ON
extenſive proſpect, that appeared beyond
the groves.
Having indulged her tears for ſome time,
ſhe became more compoſed ; and, when
Thereſa, after ſeeing the baggage depoſited
in her lady's room, again appeared, ſhe had
ſo far recovered her ſpirits, as to be able to
converſe with her.
“ I have made up the green bed for you,
ma’amſelle,” ſaid Thereſa, as ſhe ſet the cof.
fee upon the table. “ I thought you would
like it better than your own now; but I
little thought this day month, that you
would come back alone. A-well a day!
the news almoſt broke my heart, when
it did come. Who would have believed,
that my poor maſter, when he went from
home, would never return again !" Emily
hid her face with her handkerchief, and
waved her hand.
" Do taſte the coffee," ſaid Thereſa.
“ My dear young lady, be comforted—we
muſt all die. My dear maſter is a faint.
above.” Emily took the handkerchief
from


( 251 )
from her face, and raiſed her eyes full of
tears towards heaven ; ſoon after ſhe dried
them, and, in a calm, but tremulous voice,
began to enquire concerning ſome of her
late father's penſioners.
“ Alas-a-day !" ſaid Thereſa, as ſhe
poured out the coffee, and handed it to her
miſtreſs, “ all that could come, have been
here every day to enquire after you and my
maſter.” She then proceeded to tell, that
fome were dead whom they had left well;
and others, who were ill, had recovered.
" And ſee, ma’amſelle,” added Thereſa,
- there is old Mary coming up the garden
now ; ſhe has looked every day theſe three
years as if ſhe would die, yet ſhe is alive
ſtill. She has ſeen the chaiſe at the door,
and knows you are come home.”
The light of this poor old woman would
have been too much for Emily, and ſhe i
begged Thereſa would go and tell her, that
he was too ill to ſee any perſon that night.
" To.morrow I ſhall be better, perlaps ;
M6
but


( 252 )
but give her this token of my remem-
brance.”
Emily fat for ſome time, given up to
forrow. Not an object, on which her eye
glanced, but awakened ſome remembrance,
that led immediately to the ſubject of her
grief. Her favourite plants, which St.
Aubert had taught her to nurſe; the little
drawings, that adorned the room, which
his taſte had inſtructed her to execute; the
books, that he had ſelected for her uſe, aod
which they had read together; her muſical
inſtruments, whoſe ſounds he loved ſo well,
and which he ſometimes awakened himſelf
--every object gave new force to forrow.
At length, the roured herſelf from this
melancholy indulgence, and, ſummoning
all her reſolution, ſtepped forward to go.
into thoſe forlorn rooms, which, though
ſhe dreaded to enter, ſhe knew would yet
more powerfully affect her, if ſhe delayed
to viſit them.
Having paſſed through the green-houſe,
her courage for a moment forſook her, when
ſhe
es a


( 253 )
the opened the door of the library; and,
perhaps, the ſhade, which evening and the
foliage of the trees near the windows threw
acroſs the room, heightened the ſolemnity
of her feelings on entering that apartment,
where every thing ſpoke of her father. There
was an arm-chair, in which he uſed to fit ;
ſhe ſhrunk when ſhe obſerved it, for ſhe
had ſo often ſeen him ſeated there, and the
idea of him roſe ſo diſtinctly to her mind,
that ſhe almoſt fancied ſhe ſaw him before
her. But ſhe checked the illuſions of a
diſtempered imagination, though ſhe could
not ſubdue a certain degree of awe, which
now mingled with her emotions. She
walked ſlowly to the chair, and feated her-
ſelf in it; there was a reading.deſk before
it, on which lay a book open, as it had been
left by her father. It was ſome moments
before ſhe recovered courage enough to ex-
amine it; and, when ſhe looked at the open f
page, ſhe immediately recollected, that Sto
Aubert, on the evening before his departure
from the chateau, had read to her ſome pal-
ſages
)


( 257 )
Emily, wandering on, came to St. Au-
bert's favourite plane-tree, where ſo often,
at this hour, they had fat beneath the ſhade
together, and with her dear mother ſo
often had converſed on the ſubject of a fu.
ture ſtate. How often, too, had her father
expreſſed the comfort he derived from be-
lieving, that they ſhould meet in another
world! Emily, overcome by theſe recollec-
tions, left the plane-tree, and, as ſhe leaned
penſively on the wall of the terrace, ſhe
obſerved a group of peaſants dancing gaily
on the banks of the Garonne, which ſpread
in broad expanſe below, and reflected the
evening light. What a contraſt they formed
to the deſolate, unhappy Emily! They
were gay and debonnaire, as they were wont
to be when ſhe, too, was gay–when St.
Aubert uſed to liſten to their merry muſic,
with a countenance beaming pleaſure and
benevolence. Emily, having looked for
a moment on this ſprightly band, turned
away, unable to bear the remembrances it
excited; but where, alas ! could ſhe turn,
and


( 258 )
and not meet new objects to give acuteneſs
to grief?
As ſhe walked Nowly towards the houſe,
ſhe was met by Thereſa. " Dear ma'am-
ſelle,” ſaid ſhe, “ I have been ſeeking you
up and down this half hour, and was afraid
fome accident had happened to you. How
can you like to wander about fo in this
night air ! Do come into the houſe. Think
what my poor maſter would have ſaid, if
he could ſee you. I am ſure, when my dear
lady died, no gentleman could take it more
to heart than he did, yet you know he fel.
dom ſhed a tear.”
• Pray, Thereſa, ceaſe,” ſaid Emily,
wiſhing to interrupt this ill-judged, but
well-meaning harangue ; Thereſa's loqua-
city, however, was not to be filenced ſo
eaſily. “ And when you uſed to grieve fo,”
ſhe added, " he often told you how wrong
it was-for that my miſtreſs was happy.
And, if ſhe was happy, I am ſure he is ſo
too; for the prayers of the poor, they fay,
reach heaven.” During this ſpeech, Emily
had


( 259 )
had walked filently into the chateau, and
Thereſa lighted her acroſs the hall into the
common fitting parlour, where ſhe had laid
the cloth, with one ſolitary knife and fork,
for ſupper. Emily was in the room before
The perceived that it was not her own apart.
ment, but ſhe checked the emotion which
inclined her to leave it, and feated herſelf
quietly by the little ſupper table. Her fi-
ther's hat hung upon the oppoſite wall;
while ſhe gazed at it, a faintneſs came over
her. Thereſa looked at her, and then at
the object, on which her eyes were ſettled,
and went to remove it; but Emily waved
her hand No,” ſaid ſhe, “ let it remain.
I am going to my chamber.” “ Nay,
ma’amſelle, ſupper is ready.” “ I cannot
take it,” replied Emily, “ I will go to my
room, and try to ſleep. To-morrow I ſhall
be better.”
“ This is poor doings !" ſaid Thereſa.
“Dear lády! do take ſome food! I have
dreſſed a pheaſant, and a fine one it is. Old
Monſieur Barreaux ſent it this morning, for
I ſaw


( 260 )
I ſaw him yeſterday, and told him you were
coming. And I know nobody that ſeemed
more concerned, when he heard the fad
news, than he.”
“ Did he?” ſaid Emily, in a tender voice,
while ſhe felt her poor heart warmed for a
moment by a ray of ſympathy.
At length her ſpirits were entirely over-
come, and the retired to her room.
С НАР.


( 261 )
C H A P.
X.
# Can Muſic's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand ſupply
A charm ſo ſuited to my mind,
As blows this hollow guſt of wind?
As drops this little weeping rill,
Soft tinkling down the moſs-grown hill; .
While, thro' the weſt, where links the crimſon day,
Meek Twilight lowly fails, and waves her banners
gray?*
Mason.
EMILY, ſome time after her return to
La Vallée, received letters from her aunt,
Madame Cheron, in which, after ſome con.
mon-place condolement and advice, ſhe in.
vited her to Tholouſe, and added, that, as
her late brother had entruſted Ernily's edu.
cation to her, ſhe ſhould conſider herſelf
bound to overlook her conduct. Emily,
at this time, wiſhed only to remain at La
Vallée,


( 262 )
Vallée, in the ſcenes of her early happineſs,
now rendered infinitely dear to her, as the
late reſidence of thoſe, whom ſhe had loft
for ever, where ſhe could weep unobſerved,
retrace their ſteps, and remember each mi-
nute particular of their manners. But ſhe
was equally anxious to avoid the diſpleaſure
of Madame Cheron.
Though her affection would not ſuffer her
to queſtion, even a moment, the propriety
of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Ma-
dame for her guardian, ſhe was ſenſible, that
this ſtep had made her happineſs depend, in
a great degree, on the humour of her aunt.
In her reply, ſhe begged permiſſion to re-
main, at preſent, at La Vallée, mentioning
the extreme dejection of her ſpirits, and the
neceſſity ſhe felt for quiet and retirement to
reſtore them. Theſe, ſhe knew were not to
be found at Madame Cheron's, whoſe in-
clinations led her into a life of diſſipation,
which her ample fortune encouraged ; and,
having given her anſwer, ſhe felt ſomewhat
more at eaſe.
In


( 263 )
In the firſt days of her affliction, ſhe was
viſited by Monſieur Barreaux, a ſincere
mourner for St. Aubert. " I may well la-
; ment my friend,” ſaid he, “ for I ſhall never
meet with his reſemblance. If I could have
found ſuch a man in what is called ſociety,
I ſhould not have left it.”
M. Barreaux's admiration of her father
endeared him extremely to Emily, whoſe
heart found almoſt its firſt relief in conver-
ſing of her parents, with a man, whom ſhe
ſo much revered, and who, though with
ſuch an ungracious appearance, poffefſed ſo
much goodneſs of heart and delicacy of
mind.
Several weeks paſſed away in quiet retire-
* ment, and Emily's affliction began to ſoften
i into melancholy. She could bear to read
the books ſhe had before read with her
father; to fit in his chair in the libraryto
watch the flowers his hand had planted-to
awaken the tones of that inftrument his
fingers had preſſed, and ſometimes even to
) play his favourite air.
When


( 264 )
When her mind had recovered from the
firſt ſhock of affliction, perceiving the dan-
ger of yielding to indolence, and that activity
alone could reſtore its tone, ſhe ſcrupulouſly
endeavoured to paſs all her hours in em-
ployment. And it was now that ſhe under
ſtood the full value of the education ſhe had
received from St. Aubert, for in cultivating
her underſtanding he had ſecured her an
aſylum from indolence, without recourſe to
diſſipation, and rich and varied amuſement
and information, independent of the ſociety,
from which her ſituation ſecluded her. Nor
were the good effects of this education con-
fined to ſelfiſh advantages, fince, St. Aubert
having nouriſhed every amiable quality of
her heart, it now expanded in benevolence
to all around her, and taught her, when me
could not remove the misfortunes of others,
at leaſt to ſoften them by ſympathy and
tenderneſs;-a benevolence that taught her
Lo feel for all, that could ſuffer.
Madame Cheron returned no anſwer to
Emily's letter, who began to hope, that the
ſhould


( 265 )
ſhould be permitted to remain ſome time
longer in her retirement, and her mind had
now ſo far recovered its ſtrength, that ſhe
ventured to view the ſcenes, which inoſt
powerfully recalled the images of paſt times.
Among theſe was the fiſhing-houſe; and,
to indulge ſtill more the affectionate melan-
choly of the viſit, ſhe took thither her lute,
that ſhe might again hear there the tones, to
which St. Aubert and her mother had ſo
often delighted to liſten. She went alone,
and at that ſtill hour of the evening, which
is ſo ſoothing to fancy and to grief. The
laſt time ſhe had been here ſhe was in com.
pany with Monſieur and Madame St. Au.
bert, a few days preceding that, on which
the latter was ſeized with a fatal illneſs.
Now, when Emily again entered the woods,
that ſurrounded the building, they awaken-
ed ſo forcibly the memory of former times,
that her reſolution yielded for a moment to
exceſs of grief. She ſtopped, leaned for
ſupport againſt a tree, and wept for ſome
minutes, before ſhe had recovered herſelf
-- VOL. I.
N , ſufficiently
COM


( 266 )
fufficiently to proceed. The little path, that
led to the building, was overgrown with
graſs, and the flowers which St. Aubert had
ſcattered careleſsly along the border were
almoſt choked with weeds—the call thiſtle
---the fox-glove and the nettle. She often
pauſed to look on the deſolate ſpot, now fo
ſilent and forſaken ; and when, with a trem-
bling hand, ſhe opened the door of the fiſh-
ing-houſe, “ Ah!” ſaid ſhe, “every thing
every thing remains as when I left it laſt-
left it with thoſe who never muſt return !"
She went to a window, that overhung the
rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes
fixed on the current, was ſoon loſt in melan-
choly reverie. The lute ſhe had brought
lay forgotten beſide her; the mournful figh-
ing of the breeze, as it waved the high pines
above, and its ſofter whiſpers among the
oſiers, that bowed upon the banks below,
was a kind of muſic more in uniſon with
her feelings. It did not vibrate on the
chords of unhappy memory, but was footh-
ing to the heart as the voice of Pity. She
continued


( 267 )
continued to muſe, unconſcious of the gloom
of evening, and that the ſun's laſt light
trembled on the heights above, and would
probably have remained ſo much longer, if
a ſudden footſtep, without the building, had
not alarmed her attention, and firft made
her recollect that ſhe was unprotected. In
the next moment, a door opened, and a
ſtranger appeared, who ſtopped on perceiv-
ing Emily, and then began to apologize for
his intruſion. But Emily, at the ſound of
his voice, loſt her fear in a ſtronger emo-
tion; its tones were familiar to her ear, and,
'though ſhe could not readily diſtinguiſh
through the duſk the features of the perſon
who ſpoke, ſhe felt a remembrance too
ſtrong to be diſtruſted.
He repeated his apology, and Emily then
ſaid ſomething in reply, when the ſtranger,
eagerly advancing, exclaimed, “Good God!
can it be ſurely I am not miſtaken-
ma'amſelle St. Aubert-is it not?”
" It is indeed," ſaid Emily, who was
confirmed in her firſt conjecture, for ſhe
re
N2
now


( 268 )
now diſtinguiſhed the countenance of Va-
lancourt, lighted up with ſtill more than its
uſual animation. A thouſand painful re-
collections crowded to her mind, and the
effort, which ſhe inade to ſupport herſelf,
only ſerved to increaſe her agitation. Va-
lancourt, meanwhile, having enquired anxi-
ouſly after her healch, and expreſſed his
hopes, that M. St. Aubert had found bene.
fit from travelling, learned from the flood
of tears, which ſhe could no longer re.
preſs, the fatal truth. He led her to a ſeat,
and ſat down by her, while Emily continued
to weep, and Valancourt to hold the hand,
which ſhe was unconſcious he had taken,
till it was wet with the tears which grief for
St. Aubert and ſympathy for herſelf had
called forth.
“ I feel,” ſaid he at length, “ I feel how
inſufficient all attempt at conſolation muſt
be on this ſubject. I can only mourn with
you, for I cannot doubt the ſource of your
tears. Would to God I were miſtaken !"
Emily .could ſtill anſwer only by tears,
till


( 269 )
till lhe roſe, and begged they might leave
the melancholy ſpot, when Valancourt,
though he ſaw her feebleneſs, could not
offer to detain her, but took her arm with-
in his, and led her from the fiſhing-houſe.
They walked filently through the woods,
Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to
aſk any particulars concerning St. Aubert ;
and Emily too much diſtreſſed to converſe.
After ſome time, however, ſhe acquired for-
titude enough to ſpeak of her father, and to
give a brief account of the manner of his
death; during which recital Valancourt's
countenance betrayed ſtrong emotion, and,.
when he heard that St. Aubert had died on
the road, and that Emily had been left
among ſtrangers, he preſſed her hand be-
tween his, and involuntarily exclaimed,
" Why was I not there !” but in the next
moment recollected himſelf, for he imme-
diately returned to the mention of her fa-
ther; till, perceiving that her ſpirits were
exhauſted, he gradually changed the ſubject,
and ſpoke of himſelf. Emily thus learned,
N 3
that,


( 290 )
as
that, after they had parted, he had wan-
dered, for ſome time, along the ſhores of
the Mediterranean, and had then returned
through Languedoc into Gaſcony, which
was his native province, and where he uſu-
ally reſided.
When he had concluded his little narra-
tive, he funk into a ſilence, which Emily was
not diſpoſed to interrupt, and it continued,
till they reached the gate of the chateau,
when he ſtopped, as if he had known this
to be the limit of his walk. Here, ſaying
that it was his intention to return to Eſtu.
viere on the following day, he aſked her if
ſhe would permit him to take leave of her
in the morning; and Emily, perceiving that
ſhe could not reject an ordinary civility,
without expreſſing. by her refuſal an expec-
tation of ſomething more, was compelled to
anſwer, that ſhe ſhould be at home.
She paſſed a melancholy evening, during
which the retroſpect of all that had hap-
pened, ſince ſhe had ſeen Valancourt, would
rile to her imagination; and the ſcene of her
father's


( 272 )
C H A P. XI.
“Can ſuch things be,
And overcome us like a ſummer's cloud,
Without our ſpecial wonder ?"
BITH.
N the next morning, Emily ordered a
fire to be lighted in the ſtove of the cham-
ber, 'where St. Aubert uſed to ſleep; and,
as ſoon as ſhe had breakfaſted, went thither
to burn the papers. Having faſtened the
door to prevent interruption, ſhe opened
the cloſet where they were concealed ; as
ſhe entered which, ſhe felt an emotion of
unuſual awe, and ſtood for ſome moments
ſurveying it, trembling, and almoſt afraid
to remove the board. There was a great
chair in one corner of the cloſet, and, op-
poſite to it, ſtood the table, at which ſhe
had ſeen her father ſit, on the evening
that preceded his departure, looking over,
wich


( 273 )
with ſo much emotion, what the believed
to be theſe very papers.
The folitary life, which Emily had led
of late, and the melancholy ſubjects, on
which ſhe had ſuffered her thoughts to dwell,
had rendered her at times ſenſible to the
" thick-coming fancies” of a mind greatly
enervated. It was lamentable, that her ex.
cellent underſtanding ſhould have yielded,
even for a moment, to the reveries of fue
perſtition, or rather to thoſe ſtarts of ima-
gination, which deceive the ſenſes into what
can be called nothing leſs than momentary
madneſs. Inſtances of this temporary failure
of mind had more than once occurred ſince
her return home; particularly when, wan-
dering through this lonely manſion in the
evening twilight, ſhe had been alarmed by
appearances, which would have been un-
feen in her more cheerful days. To this in-
firm ſtate of her nerves may be attributed
what ſhe imagined, when, her eyes glancing
a ſecond time on the arm-chair, which
ſtood in an obfcure part of the cloſet, the
coun
rel
AI
N 5


( 274 )
countenance of her dead father appeared
there. Emily ſtood fixed for a moment to
the floor, after which ſhe left the cloſet. Her
ſpirits, however, foon returned ; ſhe re-
proached herſelf with the weakneſs of thus
ſuffering interruption in an act of ſerious
importance, and again opened the door.
By the directions which St. Aubert had
given her, ſhe readily found the board he
had deſcribed in an oppoſite corner of the
cloſet, near the window ; ſhe diſtinguiſhed
alſo the line he had mentioned, and preſſ-
ing it as he had bade her, it ſlid down,
and diſcloſed the bundle of papers, together
with ſome ſcattered ones, and the purſe of
louis. With a trembling hand ſhe re-
moved them, replaced the board, pauſed a
moment, and was riſing from the poor,
when, on looking up, there appeared to
her alarmed fancy the ſame countenance in
the chair. The illuſion, another inſtance
of the unhappy effect which folitude and -
grief had gradually produced upon her
mind, ſubdued her ſpirits ; the ruſhed for.
ward


( 275 )
ward into the chamber, and tunk almoſt
ſenſelefs into a chair. Returning reaſon
foon overcanie the dreadful, but pitiable at-
tack of imagination, and ſhe turned to the
papers, though ſtill with ſo little recollec-
tion, that her eyes involuntarily ſettled on
the writing of ſome looſe ſheets, which lay
open ; and ſhe was unconſcious, that the
was tranſgreſſing her father's ſtrict injunc-
tion, till a ſentence of dreadful impore,
awakened her attention and her niemory to-
gether. She haſtily put the papers from
her; but the words, which had rouſed
equally her curioſity and terror, ſhe could not
diſmiſs from her thoughts. So powerfully
had they affected her, that ſhe even could
not reſolve to deſtroy the papers immedi-
ately; and the more ſhe dwelt on the cir.
cumſtance, the more it inflamed her imagi-
nation. Urged by the moſt forcible, and
apparently the moſt neceſſary, curioſity to
enquire farther, concerning the terrible and
myſterious ſubject, to which ſhe had ſeen
an alluſion, ſhe began to lament her pro-
N 6 :
mile


( 276 )
miſe to deſtroy the papers. For a moment,
The even doubted, whether it could juftly
be obeyed, in contradiction to ſuch reaſons
'as there appeared to be for further informa.
tion. But the deluſion was momentary.
“ I have given a folenin promiſe,” ſaid
ſhe, “ to obſerve a ſolemn injunction, and
it is not my bufinefs to argue, but to obey.
Let me haſten to remove the temptation,
that would deſtroy my innocence, and em.
bitter my life with the conſciouſneſs of irre.
mediable guilt, while I have ſtrength to re-
ject it."
• Thus re-animated with a fenſe of her
duty, the completed the triumph of inte-
grity over temptation, more forcible than
any ſhe had ever known, and conſigned the
papers to the flames. Her eyes watched
them as they Nowly conſumed, ſhe fhud-
dered at the recollection of the ſentence ſhe
had juſt ſeen, and at the certainty, that the
only opportunity of explaining it was then
paſſing away for ever.


( 278 )
the Marchioneſs of Villeroi, ſhe felt inclined
- to believe that this was her reſemblance ;
yet there appeared no reaſon why he ſhould
have preſerved a picture of that lady, or,
having preſerved it, why he ſhould lament
over it in a manner ſo ſtriking and affecting
as ſhe had witneſſed on the night preceding
his departure.
Emily' ftill gazed on the countenance,
examining its features, but ſhe knew not
where to detect the charm that captivated
her attention, and inſpired fentiments of
fuch love and pity. Dark brown hair
played careleſsly along the open forehead;
the noſe was rather inclined to aquiline;
the lips ſpoke in a ſmile, but it was a melan-
choly one ; the eyes were blue, and were di-
rected upwards with an expreſſion of pecu-
liar meekneſs, while the ſoft cloud of the
brow ſpoke the fine ſenſibility of the temper.
· Emily was rouſed from the muſing mood
into which the picture had thrown her, by
the cloſing of the garden gate ; and, on
turning her eyes to the window, ſhe ſaw
Valancourt


( 279 )
Valancourt coming towards the chateau.
Her ſpirits agitated by the ſubjects that
had lately occupied her mind, ſhe felt un-
prepared to ſee him, and remained a few
moments in the chamber to recover herfelf.
When ſhe met him in the parlour, ſhe was
ſtruck with the change that appeared in his
air and countenance ſince they had parted
in Rouſillon, which twilight and the diſtreſs
The ſuffered on the preceding evening had
prevented her froin obſerving. But de-
jection and languor diſappeared, for a mo.
ment, in the ſmile that now enlightened his
countenance, on perceiving her. “ You
fee,” ſaid he, “ I have availed myſelf of the
permiſſion with which you honoured me
--of bidding you farewell, whom I had the
happineſs of meeting only yeſterday.”
Emily ſmiled faintly, and, anxious to ſay
ſomething, aſked if he had been long in
Gaſcony.“ A few days only,” replied Va.
lancourt, while a bluſh paſſed over his
cheek. “I engaged in a long ramble after
I had the misfortune of parting with the
friends


(280)
friends who had made my wanderings among
the Pyrenées ſo delightful.”
A tear came to Emily's eye, as Valan-
court ſaid this, which he obſerved; and,
anxious to draw off her attention from the
remembrance that had occaſioned it, as
well as ſhocked at his own thoughtleſſneſs,
he began to ſpeak on other fubjects; ex-
preſſing his admiration of the.chateau, and
its proſpects. Emily, who felt ſomewhat
embarraſſed how to ſupport a converſation,
was glad of ſuch an opportunity to conti-
nue it on different topics. They walked
down to the terrace, where Valancourt was
charmed with the river ſcenery, and the
views over the oppoſite ſhores of Guienne.
As he leaned on the wall of the terrace,
watching the rapid current of the Garonne,
“ I was a few weeks ago,” ſaid he, “ at the
ſource of this noble river; I had not then
the happineſs of knowing you, or I fhould
have regretted your abſence—it was a ſcene
ſo exactly ſuited to your taſte. It riſes in a
part of the Pyrenées, ſtill wilder and more
ſublime,


( 281 )
ns
ſublime, I think, than any we paſſed in the
way to Rouſillon.” He then deſcribed its
fall among the precipices of the mountains,
where its waters, auginented by the ſtreams
that deſcend from the ſnowy ſummits
around, ruſh into the Vallée d'Aran, be-
tween whoſe romantic heights it foams
along, purſuing its way to the north weſt
till it emerges upon the plains of Langue-
doc. Then, waſhing the walls of Tholouſe,
and turning again to the north weſt, it al-
ſumes a milder character, as it fertilizes the
paſtures of Gaſcony and Guienne, in its pro-
greſs to the Bay of Biſcay. .
Emily and Valancourt talked of the ſcenes
they had paſſed among the Pyrenean Alps ;
as he ſpoke of which there was often a tremu.
lous tenderneſs in his voice, and ſometimes
he expatiated on them with all the fire of
genius, ſometimes would appear ſcarcely
conſcious of the topic, though he continued
to ſpeak. This ſubject recalled forcibly to
Emily the idea of her father, whoſe image
appeared in every landſcape, which Valan-
court


( 282 )
court particularized, whoſe remarks dwelt
upon her memory, nd whoſe enthuſiaſm
ſtill glowed in her heart. Her filence, at
length, reminded Valancourt how nearly
his converfation approached to the occaſion
of her grief, and he changed the ſubject,
though for one ſcarcely leſs affecting to
Emily. When he admired the grandeur of
the plane-tree, that ſpread its wide branches
over the terrace, and under whoſe ſhade they
now fat, the remembered how often ſhe had
fat thus with St. Aubert, and heard him ex.
preſs the ſame admiration.
“ This was a favourite tree with my dear
father," ſaid ſhe; “ he uſed to love to fit
under its foliage with his family about him,
in the fine evenings of ſummer.”
Valancourt underſtood her feelings, and
was filent; had ſhe raiſed her eyes from the
ground the would have ſeen tears in his.
He roſe, and leaned on the wall of the ter-
race, from which, in a few moments, he re-
turned to his feat, then roſe again, and ap-
peared to be greatly agitated; while Emily
found


( 284 ).
ſume,” he added, “ to intrude this fubject
longer upon your attention at this time, but
I may, perhaps, be permitted to mention,
that theſe parting moments would loſe much
of their bitterneſs if I might be allowed to
hope the declaration I have made would not
exclude me from your preſence in future.”
Emily made another effort to overcome
the confuſion of her thoughts, and to ſpeak.
She feared to truſt the preference her heart
acknowledged towards Valancourt, and to
give him any encouragement for hope, on
ſo ſhort an acquaintance. For though in
this narrow period ſhe had obſerved much
that was admirable in his taſte and diſpoſi-
tion, and though theſe obſervations had been
fanctioned by the opinion of her father, they
were not ſufficient teftimonies of his general
worth to determine her upon a ſubject fo
infinitely important to her future happineſs
as that, which now folicited her attention,
Yet, though the thought of diſmiſſing van
lancourt was ſo very painful to her, that
the could ſcarcely endure to pauſe upon it,
the
were


( 285 )
the conſciouſneſs of this made her fear the
partiality of her judgment, and heſitate ſtill
i more to encourage that ſuit, for which her
I own heart loo tenderly pleaded. The family
i of Valancourt, if not his circumſtances, had
A been known to her father, and known to
E' be unexceptionable. Of his circumſtances,
I Valancourt himſelf hinted as far as deli-
es cacy would permit, when he ſaid he had at
El preſent little elſe to offer but an heart, that
E adored her. He had folicited only for a
i diſtant hope, and ſhe could not refolve to
i forbid, though ſhe ſcarcely dared to permit
it; at length, ſhe acquired courage to ſay,
of that ſhe muſt think herſelf honoured by the
et good opinion of any perſon, whom her fa-
ipin ther had eſteemed.
ta " And was I, then, thought worthy of
bi his eſteem?” ſaid Valancourt, in a voice
trembling with anxiety; then checking him.
1 ſelf, he added, “ But pardon the queſtion; I
od ſcarcely know what I ſay. If I might dare to
I hope, that you think me not unworthy ſuch
i honour, and might be permitted ſometimes


( 286 )
to enquire after your health, I ſhould now
leave you with comparative tranquillity.”
Emily, after a moment's ſilence, ſaid, “I
will be ingenuous with you, for I know you
will underſtand, and allow for my ſituation;
you will conſider it as a proof of my--my
eſteem that I am ſo. Though I live here
in what was my father's houſe, I live here
alone. I have, alas ! no longer a parent
a parent, whoſe preſence might ſanction
your viſits. It is unneceſſary for me to
point out the impropriety of my receiving
them."
“ Nor will I affect to be inſenſible of
this,” replied Valancourt, adding mourn-
fully " but what is to conſole me for my
candour? I diſtreſs you, and would now
leave the ſubject, if I might carry with ine
a hope of being ſome time permitted to re-
new it, of being allowed to make myfelf
known to your family.”
Emily was again confuſed, and again he-
fitated what to reply; ſhe felt moſt acutely
the difficulty-the forlornneſs of her ficu-
ation,


Tie =as a crea oi dear on his
cocotes, that a Emily. The
piezas ci ter hat crercate, in ſome
degree, ter extreme tridy, and, when he
refused his fea, the 12:3, in an accent that
berare. her tocernels, “ You do both
yourfti and me injoftice when you ſay I
think you unworthy of my eſteem ; I will
acknowledge that you have long poffeffed
it, and-and-”
Valancourt wai' ed impatiently for the
concluſion of the ſentence, but the words
died on her lips. Her eyes, however, re-
flected all the emotions of her heart. Va-
lancourt paffed, in an inſtant, from the im.
patience of deſpair, to that of joy and tender-
neſs. “O Emily !” he exclaimed,“ my own
Emily-teach me to ſuſtain this moment!
Let me ſeal it as the moſt ſacred of my life !"
He preſſed her hand to his lips, it was
cold and trembling; and, raiſing his eyes,
he ſaw the paleneſs of her countenance.
Tears came to her relief, and Valancourt
watched in anxious ſilence over her. In a
• few
LO


( 289 )
few moments, ſhe recovered herſelf, and,
ſmiling faintly through her tears, faid,"
- Can you excuſe this weakneſs? My fpirits
have not yet, I believe, recovered from the
Thock they lately received."
“ I cannot excuſe myſelf,” ſaid Valan-
court, “ but I will forbear to renew the
ſubject, which may have contributed to
agitate thein, now that I can leave you
with the ſweet certainty of poſſeſſing your
eſteem.”
Then, forgetting his reſolution, he again
ſpoke of himſelf. “ You know not,” ſaid
he, “ the many anxious hours I have paſſed
near you lately, when you believed me, if
indeed you honoured me with a thought, far
away. I have wandered, near the chateau, in
the ſtill hours of the night, when no eye could
obſerve me. It was delightful to know I was
ſo near you, and there was ſomething par-
ticularly foothing in the thought, that I
watched round your habitation, while you
ſlept. Theſe grounds are not entirely new
to me. Once I ventured within che fence,
VOL. I.
and


( 290 )
and ſpent one of the happieſt, and yet moſt
melancholy hours of my life in walking un-
der what I believed to be your window.”
Emily enquired how long Valancourt had
been in the neighbourhood.“Several days,”
Ire replied. “ It was my deſign to avail
myſelf of the permiſſion M. St. Aubert had
given me. I ſcarcely know how to account
for it; but, though I anxiouſly wiſhed to
do this, ny reſolution always failed, when
the moment approached, and I conſtantly
deferred my viſit. I lodged in a village at
ſome diſtance, and wandered with my dogs,
among the ſcenes of this charming country,
wiſhing continually to meet you, yet not
daring to viſit you."
Having thus continued to converſe, with-
out perceiving the flight of time, Valan-
court, at length, ſeemed to recollect himſelf,
“ I muſt go,” ſaid he mournfully, but it is
with the hope of ſeeing you again, of being
permitted to pay my reſpects to your family;
let me hear this hope confirmed by your
voice.” “ My family will be happy to ſee
any


( 291 )
any friend of my dear father,” ſaid Emily.
Valancourt kiſſed her hand, and ſtill lin-
gered, unable to depart, while Emily fat
ſilently with her eyes bent on the ground;
and Valancourt, as he gazed on her, con-
fidered that it would ſoon be iinpoſſible for
him to recall, even to his memory, the exact
reſemblance of the beautiful countenance he
then beheld ; at this moment an haſty foot- ·
ſtep approached from behind the plane tree,
and, turning her eyes, Emily ſaw Madame
Cheron. She felt a bluth ſteal upon her.
cheek, and her frame trembled with the
emotion of her mind; but ſhe inſtantly roſe
to meet her viſitor. « So, niece!” ſaid Ma-
dame Cheron, caſting a look of ſurpriſe and
enquiry on Valancourt, “ ſo, niece! how do
you do? But I need not aſk, your looks tell
me you have already recovered your loſs.”
« My looks do me injuſtice then, Ma-
dam, my loſs I know can never be reco-
vered."
" Well-well! I will not argue with
you ; I ſee you have exactly your father's
O 2
diſpo.


. ( 292.)
diſpoſition and let me tell you, it would
have been much happier for him, poor man!
if it had been a different one." .
A look of dignified diſpleaſure, with
which Emily regarded Madame Cheron,
while ſhe ſpoke, would have touched al-
moſt any other heart : ſhe made no other re.
ply, but introduced Valancourt, who could
ſcarcely ſtifle the reſentment he felt, and
whoſe bow Madame Cheron returned with
a ſlight curteſy, and a look of ſupercilious
examination. After a few moments he took
leave of Emily, in a manner, that haſtily
expreſſed his pain both at his own departure,
and at leaving her to the ſociety of Madame
Cheron.
" Who is that young man?” ſaid her
aunt, in an accent, which equally implied
inquiſitiveneſs and cenſure. « Some idle
admirer of yours, I ſuppoſe; but I believed,
niece, you had a greater ſenſe of propriety,
than to have received the viſits of any young
man in your preſent unfriended ſituation.
Let me tell you the world will obſerve thoſe
things,


( 293 )
things, and it will talk, aye and very freely
100.”
Emily, extremely ſhocked at this coarſe
ſpeech, attempted to interrupt it; but Ma-
dame Cheron would proceed, with all the
ſelf-importance of a perſon, to whom power
is new.
" It is very neceſſary you ſhould be un-
der the eye of ſome perſon more able to
guide you than yourſelf. I, indeed, have
not much leiſure for ſuch a taſk; however,
ſince your poor father made it his laſt re.
queſt, that I ſhould overlook your conduct
-I muſt even take you under my care.
But this let me tell you, niece, that, unleſs
you will determine to be very conformable
to my direction, I ſhall not trouble myſelf
longer about you."
Emily made no attempt to interrupt Ma-
dame Cheron a ſecond time, grief and the
pride of conſcious innocence kept her ſilent,
till her aunt ſaid, “ I am now come to take
you with me to Tholouſe; I am ſorry to
find, that your poor father died, after all,
O 3
in


( 294 )
in fuch indifferent circumſtances; however,
I ſhall take you home with me. Ah! poor
man, he was always more generous than
provident, or he would not have left his
daughter dependent on his relations.”
“ Nor has he done ſo, I hope, madam,”
ſaid Emily calmly, “ nor did his pecuniary
misfortunes ariſe from that noble generoſity,
which always diſtinguiſhed him. The affairs
of M. de Motteville may, I truſt, yet be
ſettled without deeply injuring his creditors,
and in the mean time I ſhould be very happy
to remain at La Vallée.”
“ No doubt you would,” replied Ma-
dame Cheron, with a ſmile of irony, - and
I ſhall no doubt conſent to this, ſince I ſee
how neceſſary tranquillity and retirement
are to reſtore your fpirits. I did not think
you capable of ſo much duplicity, niece ;
when you pleaded this excuſe for remaining
here, I fooliſhly believed it to be a juſt one,
nor expected to have found with you ſo
agreeable a companion as this M. La
Val -, I forget his name."
Emily


( 295 )
Emily could no longer endure theſe cruel
indignities. " It was a juſt one, inadam,”
ſaid ſhe ; " and now, indeed, I feel inore
than ever the value of the retirement I then
ſolicited; and, if the purport of your viſit
is only to add inſult to the ſorrows of your
brother's child, the could well have (pared
it.??
- " I ſee that I have undertaken a very
troubleſome taſk,” ſaid Madame Cheron,
colouring highly. “ I am ſure, madam,”
ſaid Emily mildly, and endeavouring to re-
ſtrain her tears, “ I am ſure my father did
not mean it ſhould be ſuch. I have the
happineſs to reflect, that my conduct under
his eye was ſuch as he often delighted to ap-
prove. It would be very painful to me to
diſobey the ſiſter of ſuch a parent, and, if
you believe the taſk will really be ſo trou-
bleſome, I muſt lament, that it is yours.”
“ Well! niece, fine ſpeaking ſignifies little.
I am willing, in conſideration of my poor
brother, to overlook the impropriety of your
late
OU-
04


[ 296 )
late conduct, and to try what your future
will be."
Emily interrupted her, to beg ſhe would
explain what was the impropriety ſhe al-
luded to.
" What impropriety! why that of re-
ceiving the viſits of a lover unknown to
your family,” replied Madame Cheron, not
conſidering the impropriety of which the
bad herſelf been guilty, in expoſing her niece
to the poflibility of conduct ſo erroneous.
A faint bluſh paíſed over Emily's coun-
tenance; pride and anxiety ſtruggled in her
breaſt; and, till the recollected, that appear-
ances did, in ſome degree, juſtify her aunt's
fufpicions, ſhe could not reſolve to humble
herſelf ſo far as to enter into the defence of
a conduct, which had been ſo innocent
and undeſigning on her part. She men-
tioned the manner of Valancourt's intro-
duction to her father ; the circumſtance of
his receiving the piſtol ſhot, and of their
afterwards travelling together; with the ac-
cidental way, in which ſhe had inet him, on
the


( 297 )
the preceding evening. She owned he had
declared a partiality for her, and that he had
aſked permiſſion to addreſs her family.
“ And who is this young adventurer,
pray ?” ſaid Madame Cheron, “and what
are his pretenſions ?” 6 Theſe he muſt
himſelf explain, madam,” replied Emily.
« Of his family my father was not ignorant,
and I believe it is unexceptionable.” She :
then proceeded to mention what ſhe knew
concerning it.
“O, then, this it ſeems is a younger bro-
ther,” exclaimed her aunt, “ and of courſe
a beggar. A very fine tale indeed! And
ſo my brother took a fancy to this young
man after only a few days acquaintance!
but that was ſo like him! In his youth
he was always taking theſe likes and dif-
likes, when no other perſon faw any reaſon
for them at all; nay, indeed, I have often
thought the people he diſapproved were
much more agreeable than thoſe he ad-
mired ;- but there is no accounting for
taſtes. He was always ſo much influenced
05
by


( 298 )
by people's countenances; now I, for my
part, have no notion of this, it is all ridicu-
lous enthuſiaſm. What has a man's face to
do with his character? Can a man of good
character help having a diſagreeable face ?"
which laſt ſentence Madame Cheron de-
livered with the deciſive air of a perſon
who congratulates herſelf on having made
a grand diſcovery, and believes the queſtion
to be unanſwerably ſettled.
Emily, deſirous of concluding the conver-
fation, enquired if her aunt would accept
ſome refreſhment, and Madame Cheron ac-
companied her to the chateau, but without
defiſting from a topic, which ſhe diſcuſſed
with ſo much complacency to herſelf, and
ſeverity to her niece.
"I am ſorry to perceive, niece,” ſaid ſhe,
in alluſion to ſomewhat that Emily had ſaid,
concerning phyſiognomy, “ that you have
a great many of your father's prejudices,
and among them are thoſe ſudden predilec-
tions for people from their looks. I can
perceive, that you imagine yourſelf to be
violently


( 299 )
violently in love with this young adventurer,
after an acquaintance of only a few days.
There was ſomething, too, ſo charmingly
romantic in the manner of your meeting !”
Emily checked the tears, that trembled in
her eyes, while ſhe ſaid, “When my con-
duct ſhall deſerve this ſeverity, madam, you
will do well to exerciſe it ; till then juſtice,
if not tenderneſs, ſhould ſurely reſtrain it.
I have never willingly offended you; now I
have loſt my parents, you are the only per-
ſon to whom I can look for kindneſs. Let
me not lament more than ever the loſs of
ſuch parents.” The laſt words were almoſt
ſtified by her emotions, and ſhe burſt into
- tears. Remembering the delicacy and the
tenderneſs of St. Aubert, the happy, happy
days ſhe had paſſed in theſe ſcenes, and con-
traſting them with the coarſe and unfeeling
behaviour of Madame Cheron, and with the
future hours of mortification ſhe muſt ſub-
mit to in her preſence-a degree of grief
ſeized her, that almoſt reached deſpair.
Madame Cheron, more offended by the re-
06
An
proof,


( 300 )
proof, which Emily's words conveyed, than
touched by the ſorrow they expreſſed, ſaid
nothing, that might ſoften her grief; but,
notwithſtanding an apparent reluctance to
receive her niece, ſhe deſired her company.
The love of ſway was her ruling paſſion,
and ſhe knew it would be highly gratified by
taking into her houſe a young orphan, who
had no appeal from her deciſions, and on
whom ſhe could exerciſe without controul
the capricious humour of the moment.
On entering the chateau, Madame Che-
ron expreſſed a deſire, that ſhe would put
up what ſhe thought neceffary to take to
Tholouſe, as ſhe meant to ſet off immedi-
ately. Emily now tried to perſuade her to de-
fer the journey, at leaſt, till the next day, and,
at length, with much difficulty, prevailed.
The day paſſed in the exerciſe of petty
tyranny on the part of Madame Cheron,
and in mournful regret and melancholy an-
ticipation on that of Emily, who, when
her aunt retired to her apartment for the
night, went to take leave of every other
room
1


· ( 301 )
room in this her dear native home, which
ſhe was now quitting for ſhe knew not how
long, and for a world, to which ſhe was
wholly a ſtranger. She could not conquer
a preſentiment, which frequently occurred
to her, this night--that ſhe ſhould never
more return to La Vallée. Having paſſed
a conſiderable time in what had been her fa-
ther's ſtudy, having ſelected ſome of his fa-
vourite authors, to put up with her clothes,
and Med many tears, as ſhe wiped the duſt
from their covers, the feated herſelf in his
chair before the reading deſk, and fat loſt
in melancholy reflection, till Thereſa open-
ed the door to examine, as was her cuſtom
before ſhe went to bed, if all was ſafe. She
ſtarted, on obſerving her young lady, who
bade her come in, and then gave her ſome
directions for keeping the chateau in readi-
neſs for her reception at all times.
" Alas-a-day! that you ſhould leave it !".
faid Thereſa, “ I think you would be hap-
pier here than where you are going, if one
may judge.” Emily made no reply to this
remark;


; ( 302 )
remark ; the ſorrow Thereſa proceeded to
expreſs at her departure affected her, but
ſhe found ſome comfort in the ſimple affec-
tion of this poor old ſervant, to whom ſhe
gave ſuch directions as might beſt conduce
to her comfort, during her own abſence.
Having diſmiſſed Thereſa to bed, Emily
wandered through every lonely apartment of
the chateau, lingering long in what had been
her father's bed-room, indulging melan-
choly, yet not unpleaſing, emotions, and,
having often returned within the door to
take another look at it, ſhe withdrew to her
own chamber. From her window ſhe gazed
upon the garden below, ſhewn faintly by the
moon, riſing over the tops of the palm-trees,
and, at length, the calm beauty of the night
increaſed a deſire of indulging the mournful
ſweetneſs of bidding farewell to the beloved
ſhades of her childhood, till ſhe was tempted
to deſcend. Throwing over her the light
veil, in which ſhe uſually walked, ſhe ſilently
paſſed into the garden, and, haſtening to-
wards the diſtant groves, was glad to breathe
once
m


( 303 )
mo
once more the air of liberty, and to ſigh un.
obſerved. The deep repoſe of the ſcene,
the rich ſcents, that floated on the breeze,
the grandeur of the wide horizon and of the
clear blue arch, ſoothed and gradually ele-
vated her mind to that ſublime compla-
cency, which renders the vexations of this
world ſo inſignificant and mean in our eyes,
that we wonder they have had power for a
moment to diſturb us. Emily forgot Ma-
dame Cheron and all the circumſtances of
her conduct, while her thoughts aſcended
to the contemplation of thoſe unnumbered
worlds, that lie ſcattered in the depths of
æther, thouſands of them hid from human
eyes, and almoſt beyond the flight of human
fancy. As her imagination ſoared through
the regions of ſpace, and aſpired to that
Great Firſt Cauſe, which pervades and go-
verns all being, the idea of her father ſcarce-
Iy ever left her ; but it was a pleaſing idea,
fince the reſigned him to God in the full
confidence of a pure and holy faith. She
purſued her way through the groves to the
terrace,


( 304 )
terrace, often pauſing as memory awakened
the pang of affection, and ás reaſon antici-
pated the exile, into which ſhe was going.
And now the moon was high over the
woods, touching their ſummits with yellow
light, and darting between the foliage long
level beams; while on the rapid Garonne
below the trembling radiance was faintly
obſcured by the lighteſt vapour. Emily
long watched the playing luſtre, liſtened to
the ſoothing murmur of the current, and
the yet lighter ſounds of the air, as it ſtirred,
at intervals, the lofty palm-trees. “ How
delightful is the ſweet breath of theſe
groves !” ſaid ſhe. “ This lovely ſcene!-
how often ſhall I remember and regret it,
when I am far away! Alas! what events
may occur before I ſee it again! O, peace-
ful, happy ſhades !-ſcenes of my infant
delights, of parental tenderneſs now loſt for
ever !—why muſt I leave ye !—In your re-
treats I ſhould ſtill find ſafety and repoſe.
Sweet hours of my childhood-I am now
to leave even your laſt memorials ! No oba
8 .
jects,


( 305 ) -
jects, that would revive your impreſſions,
will remain for me!”
Then drying her tears and looking up,
her thoughts roſe again to the ſublime ſub-
ject ſhe had contemplated; the fame divine
complacency ſtole over her heart, and,
huſhing its throbs, inſpired hope and con-
fidence and reſignation to the will of the
Deity, whoſe works filled her mind with
adoration.
Emily gazed long on the plane-tree, and
then ſeated herſelf, for the laſt time, on the
bench under its ſhade, where ſhe had ſo
often ſat with her parents, and where, only
a few hours before, ſhe had converſed with
Valancourt, at the remembrance of whom,
thus revived, a mingled ſenſation of eſteem,
tenderneſs and anxiety roſe in her breaſt.
With this remembrance occurred a recol-
lection of his late confeffion that he had
often wandered near her habitation in the
night, having even paſſed the boundary of
the garden, and it immediately occurred to
her, that he might be at this moment in the
CI
grounds.


(306 )
grounds. The fear of meeting him, parti-
cularly after the declaration he had made,
and of incurring a cenſure, which her aunt
might ſo reaſonably beſtow, if it was known,
that ſhe was met by her lover, at this hour,
made her inſtantly leave her beloved plane-
tree, and walk towards the chateau. She
caſt an anxious eye around, and often ſtop-
ped for a inoment to examine the ſhadowy
ſcene before ſhe ventured to proceed; but
the paſſed on without perceiving any per-
fon, till, having reached a clump of almond
trees, not far from the houſe, the reſted
to take a retroſpect of the garden, and to
ſigh forth another adieu. As her eyes wan-
dered over the landſcape the thought ſhe .
perceived a perſon emerge from the groves,
and paſs ſlowly along a moon-light alley
that led between them ; but the diſtance,
and the imperfect light would not ſuffer
her to judge with any degree of certainty
whether this was fancy or reality. She
continued to gaze for ſome time on the
ſpot, till on the dead ſtillneſs of the air The
heard


(
)
308
CH A P. XII.
:..." I leave that flowery path for aye
Of childhood, where I ſported many a day,
Warbling and fauntering careleſsly along;
Where every face was innocent and gay,
Each vale romantic, tuneful every tongue,
Sweet, wild, and artleſs all."
THI MINSTREL
AT an early hour, the carriage, which
was to take Emily and Madame Cheron to
Tholouſe, appeared at the door of the cha-
teau, and Madame was already in the break-
faſt-room, when her niece entered it. The
repaſt was filent and melancholy on the
part of Emily; and Madame Cheron,
whoſe vanity was piqued on obſerving her
dejection, reproved her in a manner that
did not contribute to remove it. It was
with much reluctance, that Emily's requeſt
to take with her the dog, which had been a
favourite


( 309 )
favourite of her father, was granted. Her
aunt, impatient to be gone, ordered the car-
riage to draw up; and, while ſhe paſſed to
the hall door, Emily gave another look in-
to the library, and another farewell glance
over the garden, and then followed. Old
Thereſa ſtood at the door to take leave of
her young lady. “God for ever keep you,
ma’amſelle !” ſaid ſhe, while Emily gave
her hand in ſilence, and could anſwer only
with a preſſure of her hand, and a forced
ſmile.
At the gate, which led out of the grounds,
ſeveral of her father's penſioners were aſ-
ſembled to bid her farewell, to whom ſhe
would have ſpoken, if her aunt would have
ſuffered the driver to ſtop; and, having
diſtributed to them almoſt all the money ſhe
had about her, ſhe funk back in the car-
riage, yielding to the melancholy of her
heart. Soon after, ſhe caught, between
the ſteep banks of the road, another view
of the chateau, peeping from among the
high trees, and ſurrounded by green ſlopes
and


(310 )
and tufted groves, the Garonne winding
its way beneath their ſhades, ſometimes loſt
among the vineyards, and then riſing in
greater majeſty in the diſtant paſtures. The
towering precipices of the Pyrenées, that
roſe to the ſouth, gave Emily a thouſand
intereſting recollections of her late journey;
and theſe objects of her former enthuſiaſtic
admiration, now excited only ſorrow and
regret. Having gazed on the chateau and
its lovely ſcenery, till the banks again cloſed
upon them, her mind became too much
occupied by mournful reflections, to permit
her to attend to the converſation, which
Madame Cheron had begun on ſome trivial
topic, ſo that they ſoon travelled in pro-
found ſilence.
Valancourt, mean while, was returned to
Eſtuviere, his heart occupied with the image
of Emily ; ſometimes indulging in reveries
of future happineſs, but more frequently
ſhrinking with dread of the oppoſition he
might encounter from her family. He was
the younger ion of an ancient family of
Gałcony;
a


( 311 ) :
Gaſcony; and, having loſt his parents at an
early period of his life, the care of his edu-
cation and of his finall portion had devolved
to his brother, the Count de Duvarney, his
ſenior by nearly twenty years. Valancourt
had been educated in all the accompliſh.
nients of his age, and had an ardour of ſpi-
rit, and a certain grandeur of mind, that
gave him particular excellence in the exer-
ciſes then thought heroic. His little for-
tune had been diminiſhed by the neceſſary
expences of his education ; but M. La Va-
lancourt, the elder, ſeemed to think, that
his genius and accompliſhments would am-
ply ſupply the deficiency of his inheritance.
They offered flattering hopes of promotion
in the military profeſſion, in thoſe times al-
moſt the only one in which a gentleman
could engage without incurring a ſtain on
his name; and La Valancourt was of courſe
enrolled in the army. The general genius
of his mind was but little underſtood by
his brother. That ardour for whatever is
great and good in the moral world, as well
as


( 312 )
]
as in the natural one, diſplayed itſelf in his
infant years ; and the ſtrong indignation,
which he felt and expreſſed at a criminal,
or a mean action, ſometimes drew upon him
the diſpleaſure of his tutor; who reprobated
it under the general term of violence of
temper; and who, when haranguing on the
virtues of mildneſs and moderation, ſeemed
to forget the gentleneſs and compaſſion,
which always appeared in his pupil towards
objects of misfortune.
He had now obtained leave of abſence
from his regiment when he made the excur-
ſion into the Pyrenées, which was the means
of introducing him to St. Aubert; and, as
this permiſſion was nearly expired, he was
the more anxious to declare hiinſelf to
Emily's family, from whom he reaſonably
apprehended oppoſition, ſince his fortune,
though, with a moderate addition from hers,
it would be ſufficient to ſupport them,
would not ſatisfy the views, either of vanity,
or ambition. Valancourt was not without
the latter, but he ſaw golden viſions of pro-
. motion


( 313 )
motion in the army; and believed, that with
Emily he could, in the mean time, be de.
lighted to live within the limits of his hum-
ble income. His thoughts were now oc-
cupied in conſidering the means of making
himſelf known to her family, to whom,
however, he had yet no addreſs, for he was
entirely ignorant of Emily's precipitate de-
parture from La Vallée, of whom he hoped
to obtain it.
Meanwhile, the travellers purſued their
journey ; Emily making frequent efforts to
appear cheerful, and too often relapſing
into ſilence and dejection. Madame Che.
ron, attributing her melancholy ſolely to the
circumſtance of her being removed to a
diſtance from her lover, and believing, that
the ſorrow, which her niece ſtill expreſſed
for the loſs of St. Aubert, proceeded partly
from an affectation of ſenſibility, endea.
voured to make it appear ridiculous to her,
that ſuch deep regret ſhould continue to be
felt ſo long after the period uſually allowed
for grief.
Vol. I.
P.
1.
At


( 314 )
At length, theſe unpleaſant lectures were
interrupted by the arrival of the travellers
at Tholouſe; and Emily, who had not
been there for many years, and had only a
very faint recollection of it, was ſurpriſed
at the oftentatious ſtyle exhibited in her
aunt's houſe and furniture; the more fo,
perhaps, becauſe it was ſo totally different
from the. modeſt elegance, to which ſhe had
been accuſtomed. She followed Madame
Cheron through a large hall, where ſeveral
ſervants in rich liveries appeared, to a kind
of ſaloon, fitted up with more ſhew, than
taſte; and her aunt, complaining of fa-
tigue, ordered ſupper immediately. “I
ain glad to find myself in niy own houſe
again,” ſaid ſhe, throwing herſelf on a large
i ſettee, « and to have my own people about
me. I diteſt travelling; though, indeed, I
ought to like it, for what I fee abroad al-
ways makes me delighted to return to my
own chateau. What makes you ſo filent,
child ? - What is it that diſturbs you now?"
Emily ſuppreſſed a ſtarting tear, and
tried


( 315 )
c.
tried to ſmile away the expreſſion of an op-
preſſed heart; ſhe was thinking of her home,
and felt too ſenſibly the arrogance and
oftentatious vanity of Madame Cheron's
converſation. “ Can this be my father's
fifter !" ſaid ſhe to herſelf; and then the
conviction that ſhe was ſo, warming her
heart with ſomething like kindneſs towards
; her, ſhe felt anxious to ſoften the harſh im-
preſſion her mind had received of her aunt's
character, and to thew a willingneſs to oblige
her. The effort did not entirely fail;
the liſtened with apparent cheerfulneſs,
while Madame Cheron expätiated on the
fplendour of her houſe, told of the nume-
rous parties the entertained, and what the
ſhould expect of Emily, whoſe diffidence af:
funied the air of a reſerve, which her aunt, be-
lieving it to be that of pride and ignorance
- united, now took occaſion to reprehend.
She knew nothing of the conduct of a mind, .
that fears to truſt its own powers; which,
poffefſing a nice judgment, and inclining to
believe that every other perſon perceives
P2.
ſtill


( 316 )
ftill more critically, fears to commit itſelf to
cenſure, and ſeeks ſhelter in the obſcurity
of ſilence. Emily had frequently bluſhed
at the fearleſs manners, which ſhe had ſeen
admired, and the brilliant nothings, which
ſhe had heard applauded; yet this applauſe,
ſo far from encouraging her to imitate the
conduct that had won it, rather made her
Ihrink into the reſerve, that would protect
her from ſuch abſurdity.
Madame Cheron looked on her niece's
diffidence with a feeling very near to con-
tempt, and endeavoured to overcome it by
reproof, rather than to encourage it by gen.
tleneſs.
The entrance of ſupper ſomewhat inter-
rupted the complacent diſcourſe of Ma-
dame Cheron, and the painful conſiderations
which it had forced upon Emily. When
the repaſt, which was rendered oſtentatious
by the attendance of a great number of ſer-
vants, and by a profuſion of plate, was over,
Madame Cheron retired to her chamber,
and a female ſervant came to ſhew Emily
to


( 317 )
2
. to hers. Having paſſed up a large ſtair-
- caſe, and through ſeveral galleries, they
came to a light of back ſtairs, which led
into a ſhort paſſage in a remote part of the
chateau, and there the ſervant opened the
door of a ſmall chamber, which ſhe ſaid
was ma’amſelle Emily's, who, once more
alone, indulged the tears ſhe had long
tried to reſtrain. .
Thoſe, who know, from experience, how
much the heart becomes attached even to
inanimate objects, to which it has been
long accuſtomed, how unwillingly it re.
ſigns them; how with the ſenſations of an
old friend it meets them, after temporary
abfence, will underſtand the forlornneſs of
Emily's feelings, of Emily ſhut out from
the only home ſhe had known from her in-
fancy, and thrown upon a ſcene, and among
perſons, diſagreeable for more qualities
than their novelty. Her father's favourite
dog, now in the chamber, thus ſeemed to
acquire the character and importance of a
friend; and, as the animal fawned over her
,P 3
when
:


( 320 )
Aubert had been; and her imagination,
piercing the veil of diſtance, brought that
home to her eyes in all its intereſting and
romantic beauty. She experienced an in-
expreſſible pleaſure in believing, that ſhe
beheld the country around it, though no
feature could be diſtinguiſhed, except the
retiring chain of the Pyrenées ; and, inat-
tentive to the ſcene immediately before
her, and to the Aight of time, ſhe continued
to lean on the window of a pavilion, that
terminated the terrace, with her eyes fixed
on Gaſcony, and her mind occupied with
the intereſting ideas which the view of it
awakened, till a ſervant came to tell her
breakfaſt was ready. Her thoughts thus
recalled to the ſurrounding objects, the
ftraight walks, ſquare parterres, and artifi-
cial fountains of the garden, could not fail,
as ſhe paſſed through it, to appear the
worſe, oppoſed to the negligent graces, and
natural beauties of the grounds at La Val-
lé, upon which her recollection had been
ſo intenſely employed.
6 Whither


( 321 )
“ Whither have you been rambling fo-
early?” ſaid Madame Cheron, as her niece
entered the breakfaſt.room. “ I don't ap-
prove of theſe ſolitary walks ;” and Emily
was ſurpriſed, when, having informed her
aunt, that ſhe had been no further than the
gardens, the underſtood theſe to be included
in the reproof. “ I deſire you will not
walk there again at ſo early an hour unat-
tended,” ſaid Madame Cheron; “ my gar-
dens are very extenſive; and a young wo-
man, who can make aſſignations by moon-
light, at La Vallée, is not to be truſted to
her own inclinations elſewhere."
Emily, extremely ſurpriſed and ſhocked,
had ſcarcely power to beg an explanation of
theſe words, and, when ſhe did, her aunt
abſolutely refuſed to give it, though, by her
ſevere looks, and half fentences, ſhe ap-
peared anxious to impreſs Emily with a be-
lief, that ſhe was well informed of ſome de-
grading circumſtances of her conduct, Con.
ſcious innocence could not prevent a bluſh .
from ſtealing over Emily's cheek; ſhe trein-
bled,
P 5


(322)
bled, and looked confuſedly under the bold
eye of Madame Cheron, who bluſhed alſo;
but hers was the bluſh of triumph, ſuch as
ſometimes ſtains the countenance of a per-
ſon, congratulating himſelf on the penetra-
tion which had taught him to fuípect ano-
ther, and who loſes both pity for the ſup-
poſed criminal, and indignation of his guilt,
in the gratification of his own vanity.
Emily, not doubting that her aunt's mif-
take aroſe from the having obſerved her
ramble in the garden on the night preced-
ing her departure from La Vallée, now
mentioned the motive of it, at which Ma-
dame Cheron ſmiled contemptuouſly, re-
fuſing either co accept this explanation, or
to give her reaſons for refuſing it;, and,
ſoon after, ſhe concluded the ſubject by ſay-
ing, “ I never truſt people's affertions, I
always judge of them by their actions; but
I am willing to try what will be your beha. -
viour in future.” . .
Emily, leſs ſurpriſed by her aunt's mode-
ration and myſterious filence, than by the
accuſation


( 323 )
accuſation ſhe had received, deeply conſi-
dered the latter, and ſcarcely doubted, that
it was Valancourt whom ſhe had ſeen at
night in the gardens of La Vallée, and that
he had been obſerved there by Madame
Cheron; who now paſſing from one painful
topic only to revive another almoſt equally
fo, ſpoke of the fituation of her niece's pro-
perty, in the hands of M. Motteville. While
ſhe thus talked with oſtentatious pity of
Emily's misfortunes, ſhe failed not to incul-
cate the duties of humility and gratitude, or
to render Emily fully ſenſible of every cruel
mortification, who 'ſoon perceived, that ſhe
was to be conſidered as a 'dependent, not
only by her aunt, but by her aunt's ſervants.
She was now informed, that a large party
were expected to dinner, on which account
Madame Cheron repeated the leſſon of the
preceding night, concerning her conduct in
company, and Emily wiſhed, that ſhe might
have courage enough to practiſe it. Her
aunt then proceeded to examine the ſimpli-
city of her dreſs, adding, that ſhe expected
P6
to


( 324 )
to ſee her attired with gaiety and taſte; after
which ſhe condeſcended to Thew Emily the
fplendour of her chateau, and to point out
the particular beauty, or elegance, which
ſhe thought diſtinguiſhed each of her nume-
rous ſuites of apartments. She then with-
drew to her toilet, the throne of her homage,
and Emily to her chamber, to unpack her
books, and to try to charm her mind by
reading, till the hour of dreſſing.
When the company arrived, Emily en-
tered the ſaloon with an air of timidity,
which all her efforts could not overcome,
and which was increaſed by the conſciouſ-
neſs of Madamc Cheron's fevere obſervation.
Her mourning dreſs, the mild dejection of
her beautiful countenance, and the retiring
diffidence of her manner, rendered her a
very intereſting objeet to many of the
company, among whom ſhe diſtinguiſhed
Signor Montoni, and his friend Cavigni,
the late viſitors at M. Queſnel's, who now
feemed to converſe with Madame Cheron
with the familiarity of old acquaintance,
ver
and


( 325 )
and ſhe to attend to them with particular
pleaſure.
This Signor Montoni had an air of con.
ſcious ſuperiority, animated by ſpirit, and
ſtrengthened by talents, to which every per-
fon ſeemed involuntarily to yield. The
quickneſs of his perceptions was ſtrikingly
expreſſed on his countenance, yet that
countenance could ſubmit implicitly to oc-
caſion; and, more than once in this day,
the triumph of art over nature might have
been diſcerned in it. His viſage was long,
and rather narrow, yet he was called hand-
fome; and it was, perhaps, the ſpirit and
vigour of his ſoul, ſparkling through his
features, that triumphed for him. Emily
felt admiration, but not the admiration
that leads to eſteem; for it was mixed
with a degree of fear ſhe knew not exactly
wherefore.
Cavigni was gay and inſinuating as for-
merly; and, though he paid almoſt in-
ceſſant attention to Madame Cheron, he
found ſome opportunities of converſing with
Emily,


Emily, to whom he directed, at firſt, the
fallies of his wit, but now and then aſſumed
an air of tenderneſs, which ſhe obſerved,
and ſhrunk from. Though ſhe replied but
little, the gentleneſs and ſweetneſs of her
manners encouraged him to talk, and ſhe
felt relieved when a young lady of the
party, who ſpoke inceffantly, obtruded her-
felf-on his notice. This lady, who pof-
ſelled all the ſprightlineſs of a French
woman, with all her coquetry, affected to
underſtand every ſubject, or rather there
was no affectation in the caſe; for, never
looking beyond the limits of her own igno-
rance, ſhe believed ſhe had nothing to learn.
She attracted notice from all; amuſed fome,
diſguſted others for a moment, and was
then forgotten. :..
This day paſſed without any material
occurrence ; and Emily, though amuſed
by the characters ſhe had feen, was glad
when ſhe could retire to the recollections,
which had acquired with her the character
of duties.
8
A fort-


( 327 )
A fortnight paſſed in a round of dißipa-
tion and company, and Emily, who at-
tended Madame Cheron in all her viſits,
was ſometinies entertained, but oftener
wearied. She was ſtruck by the apparent
talents and knowledge difplayed in the va-
rious converſations ſhe liſtened to, and it
was long before ſhe diſcovered, that the ta-
lents were for the moſt part thoſe of impof-
ture, and the knowledge nothing more than
was neceſſary to aſſiſt them. But what de-
ceived her moſt, was the air of conſtant
gaiety and good ſpirits, diſplayed by every
viſitor, and which ſhe ſuppoſed to ariſe from
content as conſtant, and from benevolence
as ready. At length, from the over-acting
of fome, leſs accompliſhed than the others,
ſhe could perceive, that, though content-
ment and benevolence are the only ſure
fources of cheerfulneſs, the immoderate and
feveriſh animation, uſually exhibited in
large parties, reſults partly from an inſenſi- •
bility to the cares, which benevolence muſt
ſometimes derive from the ſufferings of
others,


( 328 )
others, and partly from a deſire to diſplay
the appearance of that proſperity, which
they know will command ſubmiſſion and
attention to themſelves.
Emily's pleaſanteſt hours were paſſed in
the pavilion of the terrace, to which ſhe re-
tired, when ſhe could ſteal from obſervation,
with a book to overcome, or a lute to in.
dulge, her melancholy. There, as ſhe fat
with her eyes fixed on the far diſtant Pyre-
nées, and her thoughts on Valancourt and
the beloved ſcenes of Gaſcony, ſhe would
play the ſweet and melancholy ſongs of her
native province—the popular ſongs ſhe had
liſtened to from her childhood.
One evening, having excuſed herſelf from
accompanying her aunt abroad, ſhe thus
withdrew to the pavilion, with books and
her lute. It was the mild and beautiful
evening of a ſultry day, and the windows,
which fronted the weſt, opened upon all
the glory of a ſetting fun. Its rays illumi.
nated, with ſtrong ſplendour, the cliffs of
the Pyrenées, and touched their ſnowy tops
with


(329)
with a roſeate hue, that remained, long after
the ſun had funk below the horizon, and
the ſhades of twilligh: had ſtolen over the
landſcape. Emily touched her lute with
that fine melancholy expreſſion, which came
from her heart. The penſive hour and the
ſcene, the evening light on the Garonne,
that flowed at no great diſtance, and whoſe
waves, as they paſſed towards La Vallée,
fhe often viewed with a ſigh,—theſe united
circumſtances diſpoſed her mind to tender-
neſs, and her thoughts were with Valan-
court; of whom ſhe had heard nothing ſince
her arrival at Tholouſe, and now that ſhe
was removed from him, and in uncertainty,
- ſhe perceived all the intereſt he held in her
heart. Before ſhe ſaw Valancourt ſhe had
never met -a mind and taſte ſo accordant
with her own, and, though Madame Che-
ron told her much of the arts of diffimula-
tion, and that the elegance and propriety of
thought, which ſhe ſo much admired in
her lover, were aſſumed for the purpoſe of
pleaſing her, ſhe could ſcarcely doubt their
truth.
CO


(331)
and, after walking awhile on the terrace,
:,' ſhe returned to the chateau.
Madame Cheron, whether ſhe had ſeen a
I rival admired, had loſt at play, or had wit-
- neſſed an entertainment more ſplendid than
E, her own, was returned from her viſit with
a temper more than uſually diſcompoſed;
and Emily was glad, when the hour arrived,
in which ſhe could retire to the ſolitude of
her own apartmenc:
On the following morning, ſhe was fum-
moned to Madame Cheron, whoſe counté.
nance was inflamed with reſentment, and,
i as Emily advanced, ſhe held out a letter to
her.
." Do you know this hand ?" ſaid ſhe, in
in a ſevere tone, and with a look that was in-
tended to ſearch her heart, while Emily ex-
amined the letter attentively, and aſſured
her, that ſhe did not.
“Do not provoke me,” faid her aunt ;
“ you do know it, confeſs the truth imme.
diately. I infiſt upon your confeſſing the
truth inſtantly."
Emily


( 332 )
Wa
Emily was ſilent, and turned to leave the
room, but Madame called her back. “O
you are guilty then,” ſaid ſhe, “ you do
know the hand.” “ If you was before in
doubt of this, madam,” replied Emily calm.
ly, “ why did you accule me of having
told a falſehood ?” Madame Cheron did not
bluſh ; but her niece did, a moment after,
when ſhe heard the name of Valancourt. It
was not, however, with the conſciouſneſs of
deſerving reproof, for, if ſhe ever had ſeen
his hand-writing, the preſent characters did
not bring it to her recollection.
“ It is uſeleſs to deny it," ſaid Madame
Cheron, “ I ſee in your countenance, that
you are no ſtranger to this letter ; and, I
dare ſay, you have received many ſuch from
this impertinent young man, without my
knowledge, in my own houſe." :
Emily, ſhocked at the indelicacy of this
accuſation, ſtill more than by the vulgarity
of the former, inſtantly forgot the pride, that
had impoſed ſilence, and endeavoured to
vindicate


( 333 )
vindicate herſelf from the aſperſion, but Ma-
dame Cheron was not to be convinced.
“ I cannot ſuppoſe," ſhe reſumed, “ that
this young man would have taken the liberty
of writing to me, if you had not encouraged
him to do ſo, and I muſt now”_" You
will allow me to remind you, madam,” ſaid
Emily timidly, “ of ſome particulars of a
converſation we had at La Vallée. I then
told you truly, that I had only not forbade
Monſieur Valancourt from addreſſing my
family."
“ I will not be interrupted,” ſaid Madame,
Cheron, interrupting her niece, “ I was go-
ing to ſay—I-I-have forgot what I was
going to ſay. But how happened it that you
did not forbid him ?” Emily was- ſilent.
“ How happened it that you encouragedi
him to trouble me with this letter?-A
young man that nobody knows ;-an utter
ſtranger in the place, –a young adventurer,
no doubt, who is looking out for a good
fortune. However, on that point he has
miſtaken his aiin.”.
“ His


( 334 )
“ His family was known to my father,”
ſaid Emily modeſtly, and without appear-
ing to be ſenſible of the laſt ſentence.
:“O! that is no recoinmendation at all,"
replied her aunt, with her uſual readineſs
upon this topic; “ he took ſuch ſtrange
fancies to people! He was always judging
perſons by their countenances, and was con-
tinually deceived." " Yet it was but now,
madam, that you judged me guilty by my
. . countenance,” ſaid Emily, with a deſign of
reproving Madame Cheron, to which ſhe
was induced by this diſreſpectful mention of
her father. :
" I called you here,” reſumed her aunt,
colouring, - to tell you, that I will not be
diſturbed in my own houſe by any letters, or
viſits from young men, who may take a
fancy to flatter you. This M. de Valen-
tine- I think you call him-has the imper-
tinence to beg I will permit him to pay his
reſpects to me! I ſhall 'ſend him a proper
anſwer. And for you, Emily, I repeat it
once for all-if you are not contented to
conform


( 335 )
00
conform to my directions, and to my way
of life, I ſhall give up the taſk of overlook-
ing your conduct-I ſhall no longer trouble
myſelf with your education, but ſhall ſend
you to board in a convent.”
“Dear madam,” ſaid Emily, burſting in-
to tears, and overcome by the rude ſuſpi-
cions her aunt had exprefled, “ how have -
I deſerved theſe reproofs ?” She could ſay
no more; and ſo very fearful was the of
acting with any degree of impropriety in the
affair itſelf, that, at the preſent moment,
Madame Cheron might perhaps have pre-
vailed with her to bind herſelf by a promiſe
to renounce Valancourt für ever. Her mind,
weakened by her terrors, would no longer
ſuffer her to view him as ſhe had formerly
done ; ſhe feared the error of her own judg-
ment, not that of Madame Cheron, and
feared alſo, that in her former converſation
with him, at La Vallée, ſhe had not con-
ducted herſelf with ſufficient reſerve, She
knew, that ſhe did not deſerve the coarſe
ſuſpicions, which her aunt had thrown out,
but -


( 336 )
but a thouſand ſcruples roſe to torment her,
ſuch as would never have diſturbed the
peace of Madame Cheron. Thus rendered
anxious to avoid every opportunity of err.
ing, and willing to ſubmit to any reſtric-
tions, that her aunt ſhould think proper,
ſhe expreſſed an obedience, to which Ma.
dame Cheron did not give much confidence,
and which ſhe ſeemed to conſider as the
conſequence of either fear, or artifice.
“ Well then,” ſaid ſhe, “ promiſe me
that you will neither ſee this young man,
nor write to him without my confent.”-
“ Dear madam,” replied Emily, “ can you
ſuppoſe I would do either, unknown to
you!”“ I don't know what to ſuppoſe ;
there is no knowing how young women
will act. It is difficult to place any con-
fidence in them, for they have ſeldom
ſenſe enough to with for the reſpect of the
world.”
“ Alas, madam !” ſaid Emily, “ 1 am
anxious for my own reſpect; my father
taught me the value of that, he ſaid if I de-
ſerved
Plied Ecom.com
uld


(337
ſerved my own eſteem, that of the world
would follow of courſe.”
.66 My brother was a good kind of a man,”
replied Madame Cheron, “ but he did not
know the world. I am ſure I have always
felt a proper reſpect for myſelf, yet— "
She ſtopped, but ſhe might have added,
that the world had not always ſhewn re-
ſpect to her, and this without impeaching
its judgment.
“ Well !" reſumed Madame Cheron,
“ you have not given me the promiſe,
though, that I demand.” Emily readily
gave it, and, being then ſuffered to with-
draw, ſhe walked in the garden ; tried to
compoſe her ſpirits, and, at length, arrived
at her favourite pavilion at the end of the
terrace, where, feating herſelf at one of the
et reembowered windows, that opened upon a
balcony, the ſtillneſs and ſecluſion of the
ſcene allowed her to recollect her thoughts,
and to arrange them ſo as to form a clearer
judgment of her former conduct. She en-
deavoured to review with exactneſs all the
Vol. I,
parti.


( 339 )
conduct. As ſhe repeated the words
“ Thould we ever meet again !" ſhe ſhrunk
as if this was a circumſtance, which had
never before occurred to her, and tears came
to her eyes, which ſhe haſtily dried, for the
heard footſteps approaching, and then the
door of the pavilion open, and, on turning,
ſhe ſaw-Valancourt. An emotion of min-
gled pleaſure, ſurpriſe and apprehenfion
preſſed ſo ſuddenly upon her heart as almoſt
to overcome her ſpirits ; the colour left her
cheeks, then returned brighter than before,
and ſhe was for a moment unable to ſpeak,
or to riſe from her chair. His countenance
was the mirror, in which ſhe ſaw her own
emotions reflected, and it rouſed her to ſelf-
command. The joy, which had animated
his features, when he entered the pavilion,
was ſuddenly repreſſed, as, approaching, he
perceived her agitation, and, in a tremulous
voice, enquired after her health. Recovered
from her firſt ſurpriſe, ſhe anſwered him
with a tempered ſmile; but a variety of op-
poſice emotions ſtill aſſailed her heart, and
Q2
ſtruggled


( 341 )
OD
to permit her to appear tranquil, and, in-
ſtead of avoiding her aunt, the advanced
with Valancourt to meet her. The look of
haughty and impatient diſpleaſure, with
which Madame Cheron regarded them,
mide Emily ſhrink, who underſtood from a
ſingle glance, that this meeting was believed
to have been more than accidental : having
mentioned Valancourt's name, ſhe became
again too much agitated to remain with
them, and returned into the chateau; where
ſhe awaited long, in a ſtate of trembling
anxiety, the concluſion of the conference.
She knew not how to account for Valan-
court's viſit to her aunt, before he had re-
ceived the permiſſion he ſolicited, ſince
ſhe was ignorant of a circumſtance, which
would have rendered the requeſt uſeleſs,
even if Madame Cheron had been inclined
to grant it. Valancourt, in the agitation of
his fpirits, had forgotten to date his letter,
ſo that it was impoſible for Madame Che-
ron to return an anſwer; and, when he re-
collected this circumſtance, he was,
not
Q.3


( 342 )
not fo ſorry for the omiſſion as glad of the
excuſe it allowed him for waiting on her
before ſhe could ſend a refuſal.
Madame Cheron had a long converſa.
tion with Valancourt, and, when the re.
turned to the chateau, her countenance ex.
preffed ill-humour, but not the degree of
ſeverity, which Emily had apprehended.
“ I have diſmiſſed this young man, at laſt,”
faid ſhe,' “ and I hope my houſe will never
again be diſturbed with fimilar viſits. He
aflures me, that your interview was not pre-
concerted.”
« Dear madam!” ſaid Emily in extreme
emotion, “ you ſurely did not aſk him the
queſtion !” “ Moſt certainly I did ; you
could not ſuppoſe I ſhould be ſo imprudent
as to neglect it.”
“Good God!” exclaimed Emily, “what
an opinion muſt he form of me, fince you,
madam, could expreſs a ſuſpicion of ſuch
ill conduct !”
" It is of very little confequence what
opinion he may form of you,” replied her.
aunt,


( 343 )
aunt," for I have put an end to the affair;
but I believe he will not form a worſe
opinion of me for my prudent conduct. I
let him fee, that I was not to be trifled
with; and that I had more delicacy, than
to permit any clandeſtine correſpondence
to be carried on in my houſe.”
Emily had frequently heard Midame
Cheron uſe the word delicacy, but ſhe was
now more than uſually perplexed to under-
ſtand how the meant to apply it in this in-
ſtance, in which her whole conduct appeared
to merit the very reverſe of the term.
“ It was very inconſiderate of my bro-
ther,” reſumed Madame Cheron, “to leave
the trouble of overlooking your conduct to
me; I wiſh you was well ſettled in life. But
if I find, that I am to be further troubled
with ſuch viſitors as this M. Valancourt, I
ſhall place you in a convent at once ;--fo
remember the alternative. This young man
has the impertinence to own to me, --he
owns it ! that his fortune is very ſmall, and
that he is chiefly dependent on an elder
R 4
brother


( 344 )
brother and on the profeſſion he has choſen!
He ſhould have concealed theſe circum-
ftances, at leaſt, if he expected to ſucceed
with me. Had he the preſumption to ſup.
poſe I would marry my niece to a perſon
ſuch as he deſcribes himſelf !”.
Emily dried her tears when ſhe heard of
the candid confeſſion of Valancourt; and,
though the circumſtances it diſcovered were
afflicting to her hopes, his artleſs conduct
gave her a degree of pleaſure, that overcame
every other emotion. But ſhe was compelled,
even thus early in life, to obſerve, that good
ſenſe and noble integrity are not always
ſufficient to cope with folly and narrow
cunning; and her heart was pure enough
to allow her, even at this trying moment,
to look with more pride on the defeat of
the former, than with mortification on the
conqueſts of the latter.
Madame Cheron purſued her triumph.-
• He has alſo thought proper to tell me,
that he will receive his diſmiſſion from no
perſon but yourſelf ; this favour, however,
I have


( 348 )
ſcenery of woods around were circumſtances,
that unitedly formed a characteriſtic and
ſtriking picture of French feſtivity. Emily
ſurveyed the gaiety of the ſcene with a
melancholy kind of pleaſure, and her emo-
tion may be imagined when, as the flood
with her aunt, looking at one of the groups,
The perceived Valancourt; ſaw him dancing
with a young and beautiful lady, ſaw him
converſing with her with a mixture of at-
tention and familiarity, ſuch as ſhe had fel.
dom obſerved in his inanner. She turned,
haſtily from the ſcene, and attempted to
draw away Madame Cheron, who was con-
verſing with Signor Cavigni, and neither
perceived Valancourt, or was willing to be
interrupted. A faintneſs ſuddenly came
over Emily, and, unable to ſupport herſelf,
ſhe ſat down on a turf bank beneath the
trees, where ſeveral other perſons were
ſeated. One of theſe, obſerving the ex-
treme paleneſs of her countenance, enquired
if ſhe was ill, and begged ſhe would allow
him to fetch her a glaſs of water, for which
politeneſs


( 350
held in her heart ; and, having tried to ata
tend to the Count's converſation and to
join in it, ſhe, at length, recovered her ſpirits.
But, when he made ſome obſervation on
Valancourt's partner, the fear of Thewing,
that ſhe was intereſted in the remark, would
have betrayed it to him, had not the Count,
while he fpoke, looked towards the perſon
of whom he was ſpeaking. « The lady,”
faid he, “ dancing with that young cheva-
lier, who appears to be accompliſhed in
every thing, but in dancing, is ranked
among the beauties of Tholoufe. She is.
handſome, and her fortune will be very
large. I hope ſhe will make a better choice
in a partner for life than ſhe has done in a
partner for the dance, for I obſerve he has
juſt put the ſet into great confuſion; he
does nothing but commit blunders. I am
ſurpriſed, that, with his air and figure, he
has not taken more care to accompliſh him-
ſelf in dancing."
Emily, whoſe heart trembled at every
word, that was now uttered, endeavoured to
turn


( 351 )
СО
turn the converſation from Valancourt, by
enquiring the name of the lady, with whom
he danced ; but, before the Count could re-
ply, the dance concluded, and Emily, per-
ceiving that Valancourt was coming towards
her, roſe and joined Madame Cheron.
" Here is the Chevalier Valancourt, ma-
dam,” ſaid ſhe in a whiſper,“ pray let us
go.” Her aunt iminediately moved on, but
not before Valancourt had reached them,
who bowed lowly to Madame Cneron, and
with an earneſt and dejected look to Emily,
with whom, notwithſtanding all her effort,
an air of more than common reſerve pre-
vailed. The preſence of Madame Cheron.
prevented Valancourt from remaining, and
he paſſed on with a countenance, whoſe me
lancholy reproached her for having increaſed
is. Emily was called from the muſing fir,
into which ſhe had fallen, by the Count Bau
villers, who was known to her aunt.
“ I have your pardon to beg, ma’amſelle,"
faid he, “ for a rudeneſs, which you will
readily believe was quite unintentional. I
did


( 352 )
W
did not know, that the Chevalier was your
acquaintance, when I ſo freely criticiſed his
dancing." Emily bluſlied and ſmiled, and
Madame Cheron ſpared her the difficulty of
replying. “ If you mean the perſon, who
has juít paſſed us,” ſaid ſhe, “ I can aſſure
you he is no acquaintance of either mine, or
ma’amſelle St. Aubert's : I know nothing
of him.”
“O! that is the Chevalier Valancourt,"
faid Cavigni careleſsly, and looking back.
“ You know him then ?” ſaid Madame
Cheron. “ I am not acquainted with
him," replied Cavigni. " You don't
know, then, the reaſon I have to call him
impertinent ;-he has had the preſumption
to admire my niece !" .
“If every man deſerves the title of im-
pertinent, who admires ma’amſelle St. Au-
bert,” replied Cavigni, “ I fear there are a
great many impertinents, and I am willing to
acknowledge myſelf one of the number.”
" O ſignor !” ſaid Madame Cheron, with
an affected ſmile, “ I perceive you have
learnt


( 355 )
walk. 6 Pray, who is it, that has ſo much
engaged your friend this evening ?” aſked
Madame Cheron, with an air of chagrin,
“I have not ſeen him once.”
“ He had a very particular engagement
with the Marquis La Riviére," replied Ca-
vigni, " which has detained him, I per.
ceive, till this moment, or he would have
done himſelf the honour of paying his re-
ſpects to you, madam, ſooner, as he com-
miſſioned me to ſay. But, I know not how
it is your converſation is ſo faſcinating
--that it can charm even memory, I think,
or I ſhould certainly have delivered my
friend's apology before.”
“ The apology, fir, would have been more
ſatisfactory from himſelf,” ſaid Madame
Cheron, whoſe vanity was more mortified
by Montoni's neglect, than flattered by Ca.
vigni's compliment. Her manner, at this
moment, and Cavigni's late converſation,
now awakened a ſufpicion in Einily's mind,
which, notwithſtanding that ſome recollec-
tions ſerved to confirm it, appeared prepo-
ſterous.


( 356 )
ſterous. She thought ſhe perceived, that
Montoni was paying ſerious addreſſes to
her aunt, and that the not only accepted
then, but was jealouſly watchful of any
appearance of neglect on his part.-That
Madame Cheron at her years ſhould elect
a ſecond huſband was ridiculous, though
her vanity made it not impoſible; but that
Montoni, with his diſcernment, his figure,
and pretenſions, ſhould make a choice of
Madame Cheron-appeared moſt wonder-
ful. Her thoughts, however, did not dwell
long on the ſubject ; nearer intereſts preſſed
upon them; Valancourt, rejected of her
aunt, and Valancourt dancing with a gay
and beautiful partner, aliernately tormented
her mind. As the paſſed along the gardens
ſhe looked timidly forward, half fearing and
half hoping that he might appear in the
crowd ; and the diſappointment ne felt on
not ſeeing him, told her, that ſhe had hoped
more than the had feared.
Montoni ſoon after joined the party.
He muttered over ſome ſhort ſpeech about
regret


( 357 )
regret for having been ſo long detained
elſewhere, when he knew he ſhould have
the pleaſure of ſeeing Madame Cheron here;
and the, receiving the apology with the air
of a petrilh girl, addreſſed herſelf entirely
to Cavigni, who looked archly at Montoni,
as if he would have ſaid, " I will not tri-
umpli over you too much; I will have the
goodneſs to bear my honours meekly ; but
look ſharp, ſignor, or I ſhall certainly run
away with your prize.”
The fupper was ſerved in different pavi-
lions in the gardens, as well as in one large
ſaloon of the chateau, and with more of
taſte, than either of ſplendour, or even of
plenty. Madanie Cheron and her party
fupped with Madame Clairval in the ſa-
loon, and Emily, with difficulty, diſguiſed
her emotion, when ſhe ſaw Valancourt
placed at the ſame table with herſelf. There,
Madame Cheron having ſurveyed him with
high diſpleaſure, ſaid to ſome perſon who
ſat next to her, “ Pray, who is that young
man?” “ It is the Chevalier Valancourt,"
was


( 358 )'
was the anſwer. “ Yes, I am not ignorant
of his name, but who is this Chevalier Va.
lancourt, that thus intrudes himſelf at this
table?” The attention of the perſon, to
whom ſhe ſpoke, was called off before ſhe
received a ſecond reply. The table, at
which they fat, was very long, and, Valan-
court being ſeated, with his partner, near
the bottom, and Emily near the top, the
diſtance between them may account for his
not immediately perceiving her. She avoid-
ed looking to that end of the table, but,
whenever her eyes happened to glance to-
wards it, the obſerved him converſing with
his beautiful companion, and the obſervation
did not contribute to reſtore her peace, any
more than the accounts ſhe heard of the
fortune and accompliſhments of this ſame
lady.
Madame Cheron, to whom theſe remarks
were ſometimes addreſſed, becauſe they
ſupported topics for trivial converſation,
feemed indefatigable in her attempts to de-
preciate Valancourt, towards whom ſhe felt
all


( 357 )
all the petty reſentment of a narrow pride.
“ I admire the lady,” ſaid ſhe," but I muſt
condemn her choice of a partner.” “Oh,
the Chevalier Valancourt is one of the moſt
accompliſhed young men we have,” replied
the lady, to whom this remark was ad-
dreſſed ; « it is whiſpered, that Mademoi-
felle D'Emery, and her very large fortune,
are to be his.”
“ Impoſſible!” exclaimed Madame Che-
ron, reddening with vexation, it is impof-
ſible that ſhe can be ſo deſtitute of taſte; he
has ſo little the air of a perſon of condition,
that, if I did not ſee him at the table of
Madame Clairval, I ſhould never have ſur-
pected him to be one. I have beſides par-
ricular reaſons for believing the report to
be erroneous."
“ I cannot doubt the truth of it,” replied
the lady gravely, diſguſtel by the abrupt
contradiction ſhe had received, concerning
her opinion of Valancourt's merit. “ You
will, perhaps, doubt it,” ſaid Madame
Cheron, “ when I aſſure you, that it was
only this morning that I rejected his ſuit.”
This


( 360 )
: This was ſaid without any intention of im-
poſing the meaning it conveyed, bui ſimply
from a habit of conſidering herſelf to be the
moſt important perſon in every affair that
concerned her niece, and becauſe literally
The had rejected Valancourt. “Your rea-
ſons are indeed ſuch as cannot be doubted,"
replied the lady, with an ironical ſmile. -
" Any more than the diſcernment of the
Chevalier Valancourt,” added Cavigni, who
ſtood by the chair of Madame Cheron,
and had heard her arrogate to herſelf, as he
thouglit, a diſtinction which had been paid
to her niece. " His diſcernment may be
juſtly queſtioned, fignor,” ſaid Madame
Cheron, who was not flattered by what ſhe
underſtood to be an encomium on Emily.
." Alas !” exclaimed Cavigni, ſurvey.
ing Madame Cheron with affected ecſtaſy,
“ how vain is that affertion, while that face
—that ſhape-that air----combine to refute
it! Unhappy Valancourt ! his diſcernment
has been his deſtruction."
Emily looked ſurpriſed and embarraſſed;
the lady, who had lately ſpoken, aſtoniſhed,
and


( 361 )
and Madame Cheron, who, though ſhe
did not perfectly underſtand this ſpeech,
was very ready to believe herſelf compli-
mented by it, ſaid ſmilingly, “O Signor !
you are very gallant; but thoſe, who hear
you vindicate the chevalier's diſcernment,
will ſuppoſe that I am the object of it."
“ They cannot doubt it,” replied Caviga
ini, bowing low.
« And would not that be very mortify.
ing, Signor ?"
“Unqueſtionably it would,” ſaid Ca.
vigni. .. .
“ I cannot endure the thought,” fait
Madame Cheron.
“ It is not to be endured,” replied Ca-
vigni.
- What can be done to prevent fo hu.
miliating a miſtake?” rejoined Madame
Cheron.
“ Alas ! I cannot aſſiſt you,” replied Ca-
vigni, with a deliberating air. “ Your only
chance of refuting the calumny, and of
making people underſtand what you wiſh
VOL. I.
R
them


( 362 )
them to believe, is to perſiſt in your firſt
aſſertion ; for, when they are told of the
chevalier's want of diſcernment, it is poſſi-
ble they may ſuppoſe he never preſumed to
diſtreſs you with his admiration.—But then
again that diffidence, which renders you
ſo inſenſible to your own perfections--they
will conſider this, and Valancourt's taſte
will not be doubted, though you arraign it.
In ſhort, they will, in ſpite of your endea.
vours, continue to believe, what might very
naturally have occurred to them without
any hint of mine that the chevalier has
taſte enough to admire a beautiful woman.”
“ All this is very diſtreſſing !" ſaid Ma-
dame Cheron, with a profound ſigh.
6 May I be allowed to aſk what is ſo
diſtreſſing ?” ſaid Madame Clairval, who
was ſtruck with the rueful countenance
and doleful accent, with which this was
delivered.
“ It is a delicate ſubject,” replied Madame
Cheron, “a very mortifying one to me.”
“ I am concerned to hear it,” ſaid Ma.
5
was
dame


( 364 )
not have thought him a gentleman, if I
had not ſeen him at this table.” “Well !
buť the report,” ſaid Madame Clairval,
“ let me underſtand the ſubject of your di-
ſtreſs.” “Ah! the ſubject of my diſtreſs,"
replied Madame Cheron; “ this perſon,
whom nobody knows-(I beg pardon, ma-
dam, I did not conſider what I faid)—this
impertinent young man, having had the
preſumption to addreſs my niece, has, I
fear, given riſe to a report, that he had de-
clared himſelf my admirer. Now only con-
ſider how very mortifying ſuch a report
muſt be! You, I know, will feel for my
ſituation. A woman of my condition !
think how degrading even the rumour of
ſuch an alliance muſt be.”
“ Degrading indeed, my poor friend !”
ſaid Madame Clairval. “ You may rely up.
on it, I will contradict the report wherever
I go;" as ſhe ſaid which, ſhe turned her at-
- tention upon another part of the company;
and Cavigni, who had hitherto appeared a
grave ſpectator of the ſcene, now fearing
he


( 366 )
as
riage, and Cavigni, with an arch folemnity
of countenance, followed with Emily, who,
as ſhe wiſhed them good night, and drew
up the glaſs, faw Valancourt among the
crowd at the gates. Before the carriage
drove off, he diſappeared. Madame Che-
ron forbore to mention him to Emily, and,
as ſoon as they reached the chateau, they
ſeparated for the night.
. On the following morning, as Emily fat
at breakfaſt with her aunt, a letter was
brought to her, of which ſhe knew the
hand-writing upon the cover; and, as ſhe
received it with a trembling hand, Madame
Cheron haftily enquired from whom it
came, Emily, with her leave, broke the
feal, and, obſerving the ſignature of Valan.
court, gave it unread to her aunt, who re-
ceived it with impatience; and, as ſhe
Jooked it over, Emily endeavoured to read
on her countenance its contents, Having
returned the letter to her niece, whoſe eyes
aſked if ſhe might examine it, “Yes, read
it, child," ſaid Madame Cheron, in a man-
ner
;
.


( 369 )
Telf by any promiſe, or fay, that I ſhall con-
ſider him as my nephew, yet I ſhall per-
mit the intercourſe, and ſhall look forward
to any further connection as an event which
may poſſibly take place in a courſe of years,
provided the chevalier riſes in his pro-
feffion, or any circumſtance occurs, which
may make it prudent for him to take a wife.
But Monſ. Valancourt will obſerve, and you
too, Emily, that, till that happens, I poſi-
tively forbid any thoughts of marrying.”
Emily's countenance, during this coarſe
fpeech, varied every inſtant, and, towards
its concluſion, her diſtreſs had ſo much in-
creaſed, that ſhe was on the point of leaving
the room. Valancourt meanwhile, ſcarcely
Jeſs embarraſſed, did not dare to look at
her, for whom ſhe was thus diſtreſſed; but,
when Madame Cheron was 'Gilent, he ſaid,
“ Flatcering, madam, as your approbation
is to me-highly as I am, honoured by ita
I have yet ſo much to fear, that I ſcarcely
dare to hope.” “ Pray, ſir, explain your,
ſelf,"
R 5


(390 )
erca
felf,” ſaid Madame Cheron ; an unexpected
requiſition, which embarraſſed Valancourt
again, and almoſt overcame him with confu-
fion, at circumſtances, on which, had he
been only a ſpectator of the ſcene, he would
have fmiled.
« Till I receive Mademoiſelle St. Au.
bert's permiſſion to accept your indul.
gence," ſaid 'he, falteringly—“ till the al-
lows me to hope"
“O! is that all ?" interrupted Madame
Cheron. “ Well, I will take upon me to
anſwer for her. But at the ſame time, ſir,
give me leave to obſerve to you, that I am
her guardian, and that I expect, in every
inſtance, that my will is hers.”
As ſhe ſaid this, the roſe and quitted the
room, leaving Emily and Valancourt in a
ſtate of mutual embarraſſment; and, when
Valancourt's hopes enabled him to over-
come his fears, and to addreſs her with
the zeal and ſincerity fo natural to him, it
was a conſiderable time before ſhe was ſuffi.
ciently


( 371 )
ciently recovered to hear with diftinét ne 1
his ſolicitations and enquiries.
, The conduct of Madame Cheron in this
affair had been entirely governed by ſelfiſh
vanity. Valancourt, in his firſt interview,
had with great candour laid open to her
the true ſtate of his preſent circumſtances,
and his future expectancies, and ſhe, with
more prudence than humanity, had abſo-
Jutely and abruptly rejected his fuit. She
wiſhed her niece to marry ambitiouſly, not
becauſe the deſired to ſee her in poffef-'
ſion of the happineſs, which rank and
wealth are uſually believed to beſtow, but
becauſe the deſired to partake the import-
ance, which ſuch an alliance would give.
When, therefore, the diſcovered that Va.
lancourt was the nephew of a perſon of ſo
much conſequence as Madame Clairval, the
became anxious for the connection, ſince
the proſpect it afforded of future fortune
and diſtinction for Emily, promiſed the ex-
altation ſhe coveted for herſelf. Her cal-
culations concerning fortune in this alli-
R 6
ance
ce


( 372 )
ance were guided rather by her wiſhes,
than by any hint of Valancourt, or ſtrong
appearance of probability; and, when ſhe
reſted her expectation on the wealth of
· Madame Clairval, ſhe ſeemed totally to have
forgotten, that the latter had a daughter,
„Valancourt, however, liad not forgotten this
.circumſtance, and the conſideration of it
had made him ſo modeſt in his expectations
from Madame Clairval, that he had not even
named the relationſhip in his firit converſa-
tion with Madame Cheron. But, whatever
might be the future fortune of Emily, the
preſent diſtinction, which the connection
would afford for herſelf, was certain, ſince
the ſplendour of Madame Clairval's efta.
bliſhment was ſuch as to excite the general
envy and partial imitation of the neigh-
bourhood. Thus had ſhe conſented to
involve her niece in an engagement, to
which ſhe ſaw only a diſtant and uncertain
concluſion, with as little conſideration of her
happineſs, as when ſhe had ſo precipitately
forbade it: for though ſhe herſelf poſ-
ſeſſed


( 374 )
Thus paſſed the winter months, not only
in peace, but in happinels, to Valancourt
and Emily; the ſtation of his regiment be-
ing ſo near Tholouſe, as to allow this fre-
quent intercourſe. The pavilion on the
terrace was the favourite ſcene of their in-
terviews, and there Emily, with Madame
Cheron, would work, while Valancourt
read aloud works of genius and taſte, lif-
tened to her enthuſiaſın, expreſſed his own,
and cai ght new opportunities of obſerving
that their minds were formed to conſtitute
the happineſs of each other, the fame taſte,
the ſame noble and benevolent ſenciments
animating each.
CHA P. •


( 376 )
and offered to give Emily a dower, provided
Madame Clairval-obferved equal terms, on
the part of her nephew. Madame Clairval
liſtened to the propoſal, and, conſidering
that Fmily was the apparent heireſs of
her aunt's wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile
Emily knew nothing of the tranſaction, till
Madame Cheron informed her, that ſhe muſt
make preparation for the nuptials, which
would be celebrated without further delay;
then, aſtoniſhed and wholly unable to ac-
count for this ſudden concluſion, which Va-
lancourt had not folicited (for he was igno-
rant of what had paſſed between the elder
ladies, and had not dared to hope ſuch good
fortune), ſhe deciſively objected to it. Ma-
dame Cheron, however, quite as jealous of
contradiction now, as ſhe had been formerly,
contended for a ſpeedy marriage with as
much vehemence as ſhe had formerly op-
poſed whatever had the moſt remote poſſi-
bility of leading to it; and Emily's ſcruples
diſappeared, when ſhe again law Valancourt,
who was now informed of the happineſs, de.
ſigned


( 379 )
over I ſhall do ſo no longer, and I wiſh
to announce to my ſervants, that they muſt
receive the Signor Montoni for their maſter.”
Emily made a feeble attempt to congratu-
late her on theſe apparently imprudent nup-
tials. “I ſhall now celebrate my marriage
with ſome ſplendour," continued Madame
Montoni, « and to ſave time I ſhall avail
myſelf of the preparation that has been made
for yours, which will, of courſe, be delayed
a little while. Such of your wedding clothes
as are ready I ſhall expect you will appear
in, to do honour to this feſtival. I alſo
wiſh you to inform Monſieur Valancourt,
that I have changed my name, and he will
acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days
I ſhall give a grand entertainment
I ſhall requeſt their preſence.”
Emily was ſo loſt in ſurpriſe and various
thought, that ſhe made Madame Montoni
ſcarcely. any reply, but, at her defire, ſhe
returned to inform Valancourt of what had
paſſed. Surpriſe was not his predominant
emotion on hearing of theſe hafty nuptials;
and,


( 381 )
WOU,
Montoni tco often revolted, had apartments
aſſigned to him, and received from the do.
meſtics an equal degree of obedience with
the maſter of the manſion.
. Within a few days; Madame Montoni,
as ſhe had promiſed, gave a magnificent
entertainment to a very numerous com-
pany, among whom was Valancourt; but
at which Madame Clairval excuſed her-
ſelf from attending. There was a con-
cert, ball and ſupper. Valancourt was,
of courſe, Emily's partner, and though,
when he gave a look to the decorations
of the apartments, he could not but re-
member, that they were deſigned for other
feſtivities, than thoſe they now contributed
to celebrate, he endeavoured to check his
concern by conſidering, that a little while
only would elapſe before they would be
given to their original deſtination. During
this evening, Madame Montoni danced,
laughed and talked inceſſantly; while Mon-
'toni, filent, reſerved, and ſomewhat haughty,
ſeemed
CO


( 382 )
ſeemed weary of the parade, and of the fri-
volous company it had drawn together.
This was the firſt and the laſt entertain-
ment, given in celebration of their nuptials. -
Montoni, though the ſeverity of his temper
and the gloomineſs of his pride prevented
him from enjoying ſuch feſtivities, was ex-
tremely willing to promote them. It was
ſeldom, that he could meet in any company
a man of more addreſs, and ſtill feldomer
one of more underſtanding, than himſelf ;
the balance of advantage in ſuch parties, or
in the connections, which might ariſe from
them, muſt, therefore, be on his ſide; and,
knowing, as he did, the ſelfiſh purpoſes, for
which they are generally frequented, he had
no objection to meaſure his talents of diffi-
mulation with thoſe of any other competitor
for diſtinction and plunder. But his wife,
who, when her own intereſt was immediately
concerned, had ſometimes more diſcernment
than vanity, acquired a conſciouſneſs of her
inferiority to other women, in perſonal at-
tractions,
CO


( 386 ).
to accuſe herſelf with thoſe of compaſſion
and tenderneſs to the feelings of others,
and eſpecially to thoſe of Emily. It was
the ſame ambition, that lately prevailed
upon her to ſolicit an alliance with Ma.
dame Clairval's family, which induced her
to withdraw from it, now that her mar-
riage with Montoni had exalted her felf.
conſequence, and, with it, her views for
her niece. '
Emily was, at this time, too much affect-
ed to employ either remonftrance, or en.
treaty on this topic ; and when, at length,
The attempted the latter, her emotion over-
came her ſpeech, and ſhe retired to her apart-
ment, to think, if in the preſent ſtate of her
mind to think was poſſible, upon this ſud-
den and overwhelming ſubject. It was very
long, before her ſpirits were ſufficiently com-
poſed to permit the reflection, which, when
it caine, was dark and even terrible. She
ſaw, that Montoni fought to aggrandite him-
ſelf in his diſpoſal of her, and it occurred,
that his friend Cavigni was the perſon, for
whom


( 387 ) :
whom he was intereſted.' The proſpect of
going to Italy was ſtill rendered darker,
when the conſidered the tumultuous ſitua-
tion of that country, then torn by civil coin-
·motion, where every petty ſtate was at war
with its neighbour, and even every caſtle
liable to the attack of an invader. She conſi-
dered the perfon, to whoſe immediate guid-
ance ſhe would be committed, and the vaſt
diſtance, that was to ſeparate her from Valan-
court, and, at the recollection of him, every
other image vaniſhed from her mind, and
every thought was again obſcured by grief.
In this perturbed ſtate the paſſed ſome
hours, and, when ſhe was ſummoned to din-
ner, ſhe entreated permiſſion to remain in
her own apartment; but Madame Montoni
was alone, and the requeſt was reſuſed.
Emily and her aunt ſaid liile during the
repaſt; the one occupied by her griefs, the
other engroſſed by the diſappointment, which
the unexpected abſence of Montoni occa-
fioned; for not only was her vanity piqued
by the neglect, but her jealouſy alarmed by
S 2
what


( 389)
i
we may converſe. But you tremble-you
are ill! Let me lead you to a feat.”
He obſerved the open door of an apart-
ment, and haſtily took her hand to lead
her thither; but ſhe attempted to withdraw
it, and ſaid, with a languid iimile,“ I am
better already; if you wiſh to ſee my aunt
ſhe is in the dining-parlour." " I muſt
ſpeak with you, my Emily," replied Valan-
court. " Good God! is it already come to
this ? Are you indeed ſo willing to reſign
me? But this is an improper place-I am
overheard. Let me entreat your attention,
`if only for a few minutes.” “When you
have ſeen my aunt,” ſaid Emily. "I was
wretched enough when I came hither," ex.
claimed Valancourt, “ do not increaſe my
miſery by this coldneſs--this cruel refu-
fal.”
The deſpondency, with which he ſpoke
this, affected her almoſt to tears, but ſhe
perſiſted in refuſing to hear him, till he had
converſed with Madame Montoni. “ Where
is her huſband, where, then, is Montoni!"
S 3
ſaid
CO


(393 )
were no longer agreeable, much leſs, that
you would ſeek a clandeſtine interview with
my niece, and that ſhe would grant one."
Valancourt, perceiving it neceſſary to vin-
dicate Emily from ſuch a deſign, explained
that the purpoſe of his own viſit had been
to requeſt an interview with Montoni, and
he then entered upon the ſubject of it, withi
the tempered ſpirit which the fex, rather
than the reſpectability, of Madaine Mon-
toni demanded.
His expoftulations were anſwered with
ſevere rebuke ; ſhe lamented again, that her
prudence had ever yielded to what the
termed compaſſion, and added, that ſhe
was ſo ſenſible of the folly of her former
conſent, that, to prevent the poſſibility of
a repetition, ſhe had committed the affair
entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.
The feeling eloquenceof Valancourt, how-
ever, at length, made her ſenſible in ſome
meaſure of her unworthy conduct, and the
becameſuſceptible to ſhame, but notremorſe :
the hared Valancourt, who awakened her to
this painful ſenſation, and, in proportion as
S 5 :
ne


( 394 )
The grew diffatisfied with herſelf, her abhor.
rence of him increaſed. This was alſo the
more inveterate, becauſe his tempered words
and manner were fuch as, without accuſing
her, compelled her to accuſe herſelf, and
neither left her hope, that the odious portrait
was the caricature of his prejudice, or afford.
ed her an excuſe for expreſſing the violent
reſentment, with which ſhe contemplated it.
At length, her anger roſe to ſuch an height,
that Valancourt was compelled to leave the
houſe abruptly, left he ſhould forfeit his
own eſteem by an intemperate reply. He
was then convinced, that from Madame
Montoni he had nothing to hope, for what
of either pity or juſtice could be expected
from a perſon, who could feel the pain of
guile without the humility of repentance ?
To Montoni he looked with equal de.
ſpondency, ſince it was nearly evident, that
this plan of ſeparation originated with him,
and it was not probable, that he would re-
linquiſh his own views to entreaties, or re.
monſtrances, which he muſt have foreſeen
and
ou


( 397)
hatred, which reſults from both, that made
Montoni ſhun the man he had injured, he
was peremptory in his refuſal, and was nei.
ther ſoftened to pity by the agony, which
Valancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awaken:
ed to a repentance of his own injuſtice by
the ſtrong remonftrances he employed. At
length, Valancourt's letters were returned
unopened, and then, in the firſt moments of
paſſionate deſpair, he forgot every promiſe
to Emily, except the ſolemn one, which
bound him to avoid violence, and haſtened
to Montoni's chateau, determined to ſee him
by whatever other means might be neceſ-
fary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt,
when he afterwards enquired for Madame,
and Ma’amſelle St. Aubert, was abſolutely
refuſed admittance by the ſervants. Not
chooſing to ſubmit himſelf to a conteſt with
theſe, he at length departed, and, return-
ing home in a ſtate of mind approaching to
phrenſy, wrote to Emily of what had paſſed,
expreſſed without reſtraint all the agony of
his heart, and entreated, that, ſince he muſt
not


( 398 )
not otherwiſe hope to ſee her immediately,
The would allow him an interview unknown
to Montoni. Soon after he had diſpatched
this, his paſſions becoming more temperate,
he was ſenſible of the error he had commit-
ted in having given Emily new ſubject of
diſtreſs in the ſtrong mention of his own
ſuffering, and would have given half the
world, had it been his, to recover the letter.
Emily, however, was ſpared the pain The
'muſt have received from it, by the ſuſpi-
cious policy of Madame Montoni, who had
ordered, that all letters, addreſſed to her
niece, ſhould be delivered to herſelf, and
who, after having peruſed this and indulged
:.the expreſſions of reſentment, which Valan-
court's mention of Montoni provoked, had
conſigned it to the flames.
Montoni, meanwhile, every day more im-
patient to leave France, gave repeated or-
ders for diſpatch to the ſervants employed
in preparations for the journey, and to the
perſons, with whom he was tranſacting ſome
particular buſineſs. He preſerved a ſteady
filence


l 401 )
forined her that it had, adding, that after
the provocation ſhe had herſelf received from
Valancourt, in their laſt interview, and the
perſecution, which the Signor had ſuffered
from his letters,' no entreaties ſhould avail
to procure it.
« If the Chevalier expected this favour
from us,” ſaid ſhe, 6 he ſhould have con-
ducted himſelf in a very different manner;
he ſhould have waited patiently, till he knew
whether we were diſpoſed to grant it, and
*not have come and reproved me, becauſt
I did not think proper to beſtow niy niece
upon him,and then have perſiſted in
troubling the Signor, becauſe he did not
think proper to enter into any diſpute about
ſo childiſh an affair. His behaviour through.
out has been extremely preſumptuous and
impertinent, and I deſire, that I may never
hear his name repeated, and that you will
get the better of thoſe fooliſh ſorrows and.
whims, and look like other people, and not
appear with that diſmal countenance, as if
you were ready to cry. For, though you
ſay


( 406 )
No
landſcape, ſhadowy and ſoft; its groves,
and plains extending gradually and indir-
tinctly to the eye, its diſtant mountains
catching a ſtronger glean, and the nearer
river reflecting the moon, and trembling to
her rays.
Emily, as ſhe approached the lattice,
was ſenſible of the features of this ſcene
only as they ſerved to bring Valancourt
more immediately to her fancy. “ Ah!"
ſaid ſhe, with a heavy ſigh, as ſhe threw
herſelf into a chair by the window, “ how
often have we ſat together in this ſpot-
often have looked upon that landſcape!
Never, never more ſhall we view it together
-never-never more, perhaps, ſhall we
look upon each other !”
Her tears were ſuddenly ſtopped by ter-
tor-a voice ſpoke near her in the pavilion;
The ſhrieked-it ſpoke again, and ſhe diſtin-
guiſhed the well-known tones of Valan-
court. It was indeed Valancourt who ſup.
ported her in his arms! For ſome moments
their emotion would not ſuffer either to
ſpeak.


( 411 )
an
when your words tell me I am dear to you;
and, wanting theſe, I relapſe into doubt,
and too often into deſpondency.” Then
ſeeming to recollect himſelf, he exclaimed,
“ But what a wretch am I, thus to torture
you, and in theſe moments, too! I, who
ought to ſupport and comfort you !”
This reflection overcame Valancourt with
tenderneſs, but, relapſing into deſpondency,
he again felt only for himſelf, and lamented
again this cruel ſeparation, in a voice and
words ſo impaſſioned, that Emily could no
longer ſtruggle to repreſs her own grief, or
to footh his.. Valancourt, between theſe
emotions of love and pity, loſt the power,
and almoſt the wiſh, of repreſſing his agi-
iation; and, in the intervals of convulſive
ſobs, he, at one inoment, kiſſed away her
tears, then told her cruelly, that poſſibly ſhe
might never again weep for him, and then
tried to ſpeak more calmly, but only ex-
claimed, “ O Emily--my heart will break!
I cannot-cannot leave you! Now-I
gaze upon that countenance, now I hold
such
alued
nabi/
T2
you


( 413 ) :
V
enforced at a moment, when it ſeemed
ſcarcely poſſible for her to oppoſe it ;
when her heart was ſoftened by the ſorrows
of a ſeparation, that might be eternal, and
her reaſon obſcured by the illuſions of love:
and terror, encouraged him to hope, that
it would not be rejected. “ Speak, my
Emily!" ſaid Valancourt eagerly, “ let me
hear your voice, let me hear you confirm
my fate.” She ſpoke not; her cheek was
cold, and her ſenſes ſeemed to fail her, but
ſhe did not faint. To Valancourt's terri.
fied imagination the appeared to be dying;
he called upon her name, roſe to go to the
chateau for afiſtance, and then, recollecting
her ſituation, feared to go, or to leave her
for a moment.
After a few minutes, ſhe drew a deep
ſigh, and began to revive. The conflict
The had ſuffered, between love and the duty
ſhe at preſent owed to her father's fifter ;
her repugnance to a clandeſtine marriage, her
fear of emerging on the world with embar-
raſſments, ſuch as might ultimately involve
the
I 3


( 415 )
defpair had concealed before, and love,
which had but lately prompted him to pro-
poſe a clandeſtine and immediate marriage,
now induced him to renounce it. The
triumph was almoſt too much for his heart;
for Einily's ſake, he endeavoured to ſtile
his grief, but the ſwelling anguiſh would
not be reſtrained. “O Emily !” ſaid he,
“ I muſt leave you—I muſt leave you, and
I know it is for ever.”
Convulſive fobs again interrupted his
words, and they wept together in filence,
till Emily, recollecting the danger of being
diſcovered, and the impropriety of pro-
longing an interview, which might ſubje&t
her to cenſure, ſummoned all her fortitude
to utter a laſt farewell. . . . .
“Stay!" ſaid Valancourt, “ I conjure you
ſtay, for I have much to tell you. The
agitation of my mind has hitherto ſuffered
me to ſpeak only on the ſubject that occu-
pied it; ---I have forborne to mention a doubt
of much importance, partly, left it ſhould
appear as if I told it with an ungenerous
view
T4


( 416 )
view of alarming: you into a compliance
with my late propoſal.”.
Emily, much agitated, did not leave Va-
lancourt, but ſhe led him from the pavi-
lion, and, as they walked upon the terrace,
he proceeded as follows:
" This Montoni: I have heard fome
ſtrange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Queſnel's family,
and that his fortune is what it appears to
be ?»
“ I have no reaſon to doubt either," re-
plied Emily, in a voice of alarm. “ Of the
firſt, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no
Certain means of judging of the latter, and
I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard.”
” That I certainly will, but it is very
imperfect and unſatisfactory information.
I gathered it by accident from an Italian,
who was ſpeaking to another perſon of this
Montoni. They were talking of his mar-
riage; the Italian ſaid, that if he was the
perſon he meant, he was not likely to make
Madame


( 417 )
Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to
ſpeak of him in general terms of dilike,
and then gave ſome particular hints, con-
cerning his character, that excited my curi-
oſity, and I ventured to aſk him a few queſ-
tions. He was reſerved in his replies,
but, after heſitating for ſome time, he
owned, that he had underſtood abroad, that
Montoni was a man of deſperate fortune
and character. He ſaid ſomething of a
caſtle of Montoni's, ſituated among the
Apennines, and of ſome ſtrange circuni-
ſtances, that might be mentioned, as to his
former mode of life. I preſſed him to in-
form me further, but I believe the ſtrong
intereſt I felt was viſible in my manner,
and alarıned him; for no entreaties could
prevail with him to give any explanation of
the circumſtances he had alluded to, or to
mention any thing further concerning Mon-
toni. I obſerved to him, that, if Montoni'
was poſſeſſed of a caſtle in the Apennines,
it appeared from ſuch a circumſtance, that
he was of ſome family, and alſo ſeemed to
T 5
con


( 418 )
contradict the report, that he was a man of
entirely broken fortunes. He ſhook his
head, and looked as if he could have ſaid a-
great deal, bút made no reply.
.“ A hope of learning ſomething more fa-
tisfactory, or more poſitive, detained me in
his company a conſiderable time, and I re-
newed the ſubject repeatedly, but the Italian
wrapped himſelf up in reſerve, ſaid that
what he had mentioned he had caught only.
from a floating report, and that reports fre-
quently aroſe from perſonal malice, and
were very little to be depended upon. I
forbore to preſs the ſubject farther, ſince it
was obvious that he was alarmed for the
conſequence of what he had already ſaid,
and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty
on a point where ſuſpenſe is almoſt intole-
rable. Think, Emily, what I muſt ſuffer
to ſee you depart for a foreign country,
committed to the power of a man of ſuch
doubtful character as is this Montoni! But
I will not alarm you unneceſſarily ;-it is
poffible, as the Italian ſaid, at firſt, that
this


( 420)
HS
hints. The thought of being ſolely in his
power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to
her, but it was not by terror alone that ſhe
was urged to an immediate marriage with
Valancourt. The tendereſt love had already
pleaded his cauſe, but had been unable to
overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her
diſintereſted conſiderations for Valancourt,
and the delicacy which made her revolt from
a clandeſtine union. It was not to be ex-
pected, that a vague terror would be more
powerful, than the united influence of love
and grief. But it recalled all their energy,
and rendered a ſecond conqueſt neceffary,
With Valancourt, whoſe imagination was
now awake to the ſuggeſtion of every paſſion;
, whoſe apprehenſions for Emily had acquired
ſtrength by the mere mention of them, and be-
came every inſtant more powerful, as his mind
brooded over them with Valancourt no fe-
cond conqueſt was attainable. He thought
he ſaw in the cleareft light, and love af-
fifted the fear, that this journey to Italy
would involve Emily in miſery; he deter-
mined,


(421)
mined, therefore, to perſevere in oppofing
it, and in conjuring her to beſtow upon him
the title of her lawful protector.
“ Emily !” ſaid he, with folemn earneſt-
neſs, “ this is no time for ſcrupulous dif-
tinctions, for weighing the dubious and
comparatively trifling circumſtances, that
may affect our future comfort. I now ſee,
much more clearly than before, the train of
ſerious dangers you are going to encounter
with a man of Montoni's character. Thoſe
dark hints of the Italian ſpoke much, but
not more than the idea I have of Montoni's
diſpoſition, as exhibited even in his counte-
nance, I think I ſee at this moment all that
could have been hinted, written there. He
is the Italian whom I fear, and I conjure
you for your own fake, as well as for mine,
to prevent the evils I Mudder to foreſee. O
Emily ! let my tenderneſs, my arms with-
hold you from then--give me the right to
defend you !"
Emily only ſighed, while Valancourt pro.
ceeded to remonſtrate and to entreat with
.
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