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The Mysteries of Udolpho

by Ann Ward Radcliffe · English · Gutenberg #3268 · 1,699,790 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Mysteries of Udolpho

Author: Ann Ward Radcliffe


        
Release date: June 1, 2002 [eBook #3268]
                Most recently updated: December 1, 2022

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/3268

Credits: Karalee Coleman and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPHO ***




cover 



The Mysteries of Udolpho

 A Romance 

 Interspersed With Some Pieces of Poetry 

 By Ann Radcliffe



Contents


 VOLUME I
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V
 CHAPTER VI
 CHAPTER VII
 CHAPTER VIII
 CHAPTER IX
 CHAPTER X
 CHAPTER XI
 CHAPTER XII
 CHAPTER XIII

 VOLUME II
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V
 CHAPTER VI
 CHAPTER VII
 CHAPTER VIII
 CHAPTER IX
 CHAPTER X
 CHAPTER XI
 CHAPTER XII

 VOLUME III
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V
 CHAPTER VI
 CHAPTER VII
 CHAPTER VIII
 CHAPTER IX
 CHAPTER X
 CHAPTER XI
 CHAPTER XII
 CHAPTER XIII

 VOLUME IV
 CHAPTER I
 CHAPTER II
 CHAPTER III
 CHAPTER IV
 CHAPTER V
 CHAPTER VI
 CHAPTER VII
 CHAPTER VIII
 CHAPTER IX
 CHAPTER X
 CHAPTER XI
 CHAPTER XII
 CHAPTER XIII
 CHAPTER XIV
 CHAPTER XV
 CHAPTER XVI
 CHAPTER XVII
 CHAPTER XVIII
 CHAPTER XIX



Fate sits on these dark battlements, and frowns,
And, as the portals open to receive me,
Her voice, in sullen echoes through the courts,
Tells of a nameless deed.




VOLUME 1



CHAPTER I

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 château 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 vine, and
plantations of olives. To the south, the view was bounded by the
majestic Pyrenees, whose summits, veiled in clouds, or exhibiting awful
forms, seen, and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were
sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and
sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy pine, that swept downward to
their base. These tremendous precipices were contrasted by the soft
green of the pastures 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 repose. 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 pastoral
simplicity, having mingled in the gay and in the busy scenes of the
world; but the flattering portrait of mankind, which his heart had
delineated in early youth, his experience had too sorrowfully
corrected. Yet, amidst the changing visions of life, his principles
remained unshaken, his benevolence unchilled; and he retired from the
multitude “more in _pity_ than in anger,” to scenes of simple nature,
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
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 retired to a small
estate in Gascony, where conjugal felicity, and parental duties,
divided his attention with the treasures of knowledge and the
illuminations of genius.

To this spot he had been attached from his infancy. He had often made
excursions to it when a boy, and the impressions of delight given to
his mind by the homely kindness of the grey-headed peasant, to whom it
was intrusted, and whose fruit and cream never failed, had not been
obliterated by succeeding circumstances. The green pastures along which
he had so often bounded in the exultation of health, and youthful
freedom—the woods, under whose refreshing shade he had first indulged
that pensive 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 distant plains, which seemed boundless as his
early hopes—were never after remembered by St. Aubert but with
enthusiasm and regret. At length he disengaged himself from the world,
and retired hither, to realise the wishes of many years.

The building, as it then stood, was merely a summer cottage, rendered
interesting to a stranger by its neat simplicity, or the beauty of the
surrounding scene; and considerable additions were necessary to make it
a comfortable family 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 removed, so that the new building,
adapted to the style of the old one, formed with it only a simple and
elegant residence. The taste of Madame St. Aubert was conspicuous in
its internal finishing, where the same chaste simplicity was observable
in the furniture, and in the few ornaments of the apartments, that
characterised the manners of its inhabitants.

The library occupied the west side of the château, and was enriched by
a collection 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
melancholy and pleasing shade; while from the windows the eye caught,
beneath the spreading branches, the gay and luxuriant landscape
stretching to the west, and overlooked on the left by the bold
precipices of the Pyrenees. 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 neighbouring
mountains, which afforded a luxurious feast to the mind of the
naturalist, he often passed the day in the pursuit of his favourite
science. He was sometimes accompanied in these little excursions by
Madame St. Aubert, and frequently 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 lowly children to abstract them from
the observance of her stupendous works. When weary of sauntering among
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 their
simple 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 Languedoc, 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 congenial to her taste,
and in which native genius, assisted by the instructions of Monsieur
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-ash, and myrtle, to the
distant landscape, where the Garonne wandered.

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 sprightly 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 character to the
scene entirely French.

The front of the château, which, having a southern aspect, opened upon
the grandeur of the mountains, was occupied on the ground floor by a
rustic hall, and two excellent sitting 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. Aubert had made very tasteful
improvements; yet, such was his attachment to objects he had remembered
from his boyish days, that he had in some instances sacrificed taste to
sentiment. There were two old larches that shaded 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 majestic canopy towards the river, St.
Aubert loved to sit in the fine evenings of summer, with his wife and
children, watching, beneath its foliage, the setting sun, the mild
splendour of its light fading from the distant landscape, till the
shadows of twilight melted its various features into one tint of sober
grey. Here, too, he loved to read, and to converse with Madame St.
Aubert; or to play with his children, resigning himself to the
influence of those sweet affections, which are ever attendant on
simplicity and nature. He has often said, while tears of pleasure
trembled in his eyes, that these were moments infinitely more
delightful 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 nothing else could impart to a man of moral perceptions like his,
and which refined his sense of every surrounding blessing.

The deepest shade of twilight did not send him from his favourite
plane-tree. He loved the soothing 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 tenderness, and often elevates
it to sublime contemplation. When the moon shed her soft 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 sweetness, 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 simplicity 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 character, with anxious
fondness, he endeavoured, with unremitting effort, to counteract those
traits in her disposition, which might hereafter lead her from
happiness. She had discovered in her early years uncommon delicacy of
mind, warm affections, and ready benevolence; but with these was
observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite 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 interesting object to persons of a
congenial disposition. 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 possessor to be allowed the character of a
blessing. He endeavoured, therefore, to strengthen her mind; to enure
her to habits 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 resist 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 struggles which his
caution occasioned her.

In person, Emily resembled her mother; having the same elegant symmetry
of form, the same delicacy of features, and the same blue eyes, full of
tender sweetness. But, lovely as was her person, it was the varied
expression of her countenance, 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 understanding with the most scrupulous care.
He 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 she 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-informed mind,” he would
say, “is the best security against the contagion of folly and of vice.
The vacant mind is ever on the watch for relief, and ready to plunge
into error, to escape from the languor of idleness. Store it with
ideas, teach it the pleasure of thinking; and the temptations of the
world without, will be counteracted 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 sensations of indolence, and afford a sublime pleasure in
the taste they create for the beautiful, and the grand; in the latter,
they make dissipation less an object of necessity, 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 landscape that she most
delighted; she loved more the wild wood-walks, that skirted the
mountain; and still more the mountain’s stupendous recesses, where the
silence 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 along, wrapt in a melancholy charm, till
the last gleam of day faded from the west; till the lonely sound 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,
flitting on the twilight; the cottage-lights, now seen, and now
lost—were circumstances that awakened her mind into effort, and led to
enthusiasm and poetry.

Her favourite walk was to a little fishing-house, belonging to St.
Aubert, in a woody glen, on the margin of a rivulet that descended from
the Pyrenees, and, after foaming among their rocks, wound its silent
way beneath the shades it reflected. Above the woods, that screened
this glen, rose the lofty summits of the Pyrenees, which often burst
boldly on the eye through the glades below. Sometimes the shattered
face of a rock only was seen, crowned with wild shrubs; or a shepherd’s
cabin seated on a cliff, overshadowed by dark cypress, or waving ash.
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 by distance, melted from the eye into one rich harmonious
tint.

This, too, was the favourite retreat of St. Aubert, to which he
frequently withdrew from the fervour of noon, with his wife, his
daughter, and his books; or came at the sweet evening hour to welcome
the silent dusk, or to listen for the music of the nightingale.
Sometimes, too, he brought music of his own, and awakened every fairy
echo with the tender accents of his oboe; and often have the tones of
Emily’s voice drawn sweetness from the waves, over which they trembled.

It was in one of these 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 the fairy scene,
When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,
Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;
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 say:
Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!
How oft the flow’ret’s silken 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 beguile!


These lines were not inscribed to any person; Emily therefore could not
apply them to herself, though she was undoubtedly the nymph of these
shades. Having glanced round the little circle of her acquaintance
without being detained by a suspicion as to whom they could be
addressed, she was compelled to rest in uncertainty; 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, trifling at first, to
swell into importance by frequent remembrance. The little vanity it had
excited (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 constitution.
Madame St. Aubert and Emily attended him with unremitting care; but his
recovery was very slow, and, as he advanced towards health, Madame
seemed to decline.

The first scene he visited, after he was well enough to take the air,
was his favourite fishing-house. A basket of provisions 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 employing himself, for about an hour, in botanizing, dinner was
served. It was a repast, to which gratitude, for being again permitted
to visit this spot, gave sweetness; and family happiness once more
smiled beneath these shades. Monsieur St. Aubert conversed with unusual
cheerfulness; every object delighted his senses. The refreshing
pleasure from the first view of nature, after the pain of illness, and
the confinement of a sick-chamber, 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, reanimated by the cheerfulness and recovery of her
husband, was no longer sensible of the indisposition which had lately
oppressed her; and, as she sauntered along the wood-walks of this
romantic glen, and conversed with him, and with her daughter, 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 Emily, and weep the more. He felt the tender enthusiasm
stealing upon himself in a degree that became almost painful; his
features assumed a serious air, and he could not forbear secretly
sighing—“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 anticipation; 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 such sweet pathos.
As she drew near the fishing-house, she was surprised to hear the tones
of the instrument, which were awakened by the hand of taste, and
uttered a plaintive air, whose exquisite melody engaged all her
attention. She listened in profound silence, afraid to move from the
spot, lest the sound of her steps should occasion her to lose a note of
the music, or should disturb the musician. Everything without the
building was still, and no person appeared. She continued to listen,
till timidity succeeded to surprise and delight; a timidity, increased
by a remembrance of the pencilled lines she had formerly seen, and she
hesitated whether to proceed, or to return.

While she paused, the music ceased; and, after a momentary hesitation,
she recollected courage to advance to the fishing-house, which she
entered with faltering steps, and found unoccupied! Her lute lay on the
table; everything seemed undisturbed, and she began to believe it was
another instrument she had heard, till she remembered, that, when she
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, interrupted
only by the light trembling of leaves, heightened her fanciful
apprehensions, and she was desirous of quitting the building, but
perceived herself grow faint, and sat down. As she tried to recover
herself, the pencilled lines on the wainscot met her eye; she started,
as if she had seen a stranger; but, endeavouring to conquer the tremor
of her spirits, 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, she thought she heard the sound of a step without the
building, and again alarmed, 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, shadowed by palm-trees, and overlooking
the valleys and plains of Gascony, they seated 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
played and sung several of their favourite airs, with the delicacy of
expression in which she so much excelled.

Music and conversation detained them in this enchanting spot, till the
sun’s last light slept upon the plains; till the white sails 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 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 striking resemblance,
and which had been painted only a few months before. When Emily was
convinced that the bracelet was really gone, she 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
unreasonable to believe, that the poet, the musician, and the thief
were the same person. But though the music she had heard, the written
lines she had seen, and the disappearance of the picture, formed a
combination of circumstances very remarkable, she was irresistibly
restrained from mentioning them; secretly determining, however, never
again to visit the fishing-house without Monsieur or Madame St. Aubert.

They returned pensively to the château, Emily musing on the incident
which had just occurred; St. Aubert reflecting, with placid gratitude,
on the blessings he possessed; 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
sound of voices was distinctly 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 château, a
landau, with smoking horses, appeared on the little lawn before it. St.
Aubert perceived the liveries of his brother-in-law, and in the parlour
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; splendour 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 overlooked; or that his pure taste, simplicity, and
moderated wishes, were considered as marks of a weak intellect, and of
confined views. The marriage of his sister with St. Aubert had been
mortifying to his ambition, for he had designed that the matrimonial
connection she formed should assist 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 she perceived, that
happiness and splendour were not the same, and she did not hesitate to
forego the last for the attainment of the former. Whether Monsieur
Quesnel thought them the same, or not, he would readily have sacrificed
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 permitted. Madame
St. Aubert, though she concealed this insult from her husband, felt,
perhaps, for the first time, resentment lighted in her heart; and,
though a regard for her own dignity, united with considerations of
prudence, restrained her expression 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 Italian, and an heiress by birth; and, by nature and education,
was a vain and frivolous woman.

They now determined to pass the night with St. Aubert; and as the
château was not large enough to accommodate their servants, the latter
were dismissed to the neighbouring village. When the first compliments
were over, and the arrangements for the night made M. Quesnel began the
display of his intelligence and his connections; while St. Aubert, who
had been long enough in retirement to find these topics recommended by
their novelty, listened, with a degree of patience and attention, which
his guest mistook 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 ostentation; 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
Navarre was received, M. St. Aubert recollected 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 delivered by M. Quesnel, were such
as St. Aubert forebore 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 expressing to Madame St. Aubert her
astonishment, 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 sister
of the Queen. She described with equal minuteness the magnificence she
had seen, and that from which she had been excluded; while Emily’s
vivid fancy, as she listened with the 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, 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. “It is near five years since I have been
there,” 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 difficult to
steal away even for a month or two.” St. Aubert remaining silent, M.
Quesnel proceeded: “I have sometimes wondered how you, who have lived
in the capital, and have been accustomed to company, can exist
elsewhere;—especially in so remote a country as this, where you can
neither hear nor see anything, 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 thousand 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 Ramont, to pass a month or two with me.” To
St. Aubert’s enquiry, as to these intended improvements, he replied,
that he should take down the whole east wing of the château, and raise
upon the site a set of stables. “Then I shall build,” said he, “a
_salle à manger_, a _salon_, a _salle au commune_, and a number of
rooms for servants; for at present there is not accommodation for a
third part of my own people.”

“It accommodated our father’s household,” said St. Aubert, grieved that
the old mansion was to be thus improved, “and that was not a small
one.”

“Our notions are somewhat enlarged since those days,” said M.
Quesnel;—“what was then thought a decent style of living would not now
be endured.” Even the calm St. Aubert blushed at these words, but his
anger soon yielded to contempt. “The ground about the château is
encumbered with trees; I mean to cut some of them down.”

“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 before the whole south side of the
château, and which is so ancient that they tell me the hollow of its
trunk will hold a dozen men. Your enthusiasm will scarcely contend that
there can be either use, or beauty, in such a sapless old tree as
this.”

“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 maturity when the present mansion was built. How
often, in my youth, have I climbed among its broad branches, and sat
embowered 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 a book
in my hand, sometimes reading, and sometimes looking 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 his
feelings, “I am talking of times and feelings as old-fashioned as the
taste that would spare that venerable tree.”

“It will certainly come down,” said M. Quesnel; “I believe I shall
plant some 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, “where its
spiry form is intermingled with the pine, and the cypress, and where it
plays over light and elegant porticos and colonnades, it,
unquestionably, adorns the scene; but among the giants of the forest,
and near a heavy gothic mansion—”

“Well, my good sir,” said M. Quesnel, “I will not dispute with you. You
must return to Paris before our ideas can at all agree. But _à propos_
of Venice, I have some thoughts of going thither, next summer; events
may call me to take possession 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 presence to be so necessary
at Paris, that it was with difficulty he could steal away for a month
or two; but St. Aubert understood the self-importance of the man too
well to wonder at this trait; and the possibility, that these projected
improvements might be deferred, gave him a hope, that they might never
take place.

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
supper-room, seemed much disturbed, and a shade of sorrow sometimes
fell upon his features that alarmed Madame St. Aubert. 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: she
considered that, if St. Aubert wished her to be acquainted with the
subject of his concern, he would not wait on her enquiries.

On the following day, before M. Quesnel departed, he had a second
conference with St. Aubert.

The guests, after dining at the château, set out in the cool of the day
for Epourville, whither they gave him and Madame St. Aubert a pressing
invitation, prompted rather by the vanity of displaying their
splendour, than by a wish to make their friends happy.

Emily returned, with delight, to the liberty which their presence had
restrained, to her books, her walks, and the rational 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
imposed.

Madame St. Aubert excused herself from sharing their usual evening
walk, complaining that she was not quite well, and St. Aubert and Emily
went out together.

They chose a walk towards the mountains, intending to visit some old
pensioners of St. Aubert, which, from his very moderate income, he
contrived to support, though it is probable M. Quesnel, with his very
large one, could not have afforded this.

After distributing to his pensioners their weekly stipends, listening
patiently to the complaints of some, redressing the grievances of
others, and softening the discontents of all, by the look of sympathy,
and the smile of benevolence, St. Aubert returned 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.
                    THOMSON


“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 enthusiasm, 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 a 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 chestnut:
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 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?”

Emily laughed. “Well, my dear sir,” 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 _almost_, 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, sir,” said Emily,
“while I disclose her images, I need _not_ envy them. The lines go in a
sort of tripping measure, which I thought might suit the subject 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 soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,
And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay
Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow’rs, unprest,
Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music’s softest sounds they dance away the hour,
Till moonlight steals down among the trembling leaves,
And checquers all the ground, and guides them to 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 sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev’ning 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 in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,
While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,
And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,
Till I shrink into my 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 yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun 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.

O! 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 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 commendation, 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.
                    THOMSON.


St. Aubert continued silent till he reached the château, where his wife
had retired to her chamber. The languor and dejection, that had lately
oppressed her, and which the exertion called forth by the arrival of
her guests had suspended, now returned with increased effect. On the
following day, symptoms of fever appeared, and St. Aubert, having sent
for medical advice, learned, that her disorder was a 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
constitution 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. Aubert, 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 admitted a presentiment,
that this illness would be a fatal one. But he effectually concealed
this from her, and from his daughter, whom he endeavoured to reanimate
with hopes that her constant assiduities would not be unavailing. The
physician, when asked by St. Aubert for his opinion of the disorder,
replied, that the event of it depended upon circumstances which he
could not ascertain. Madame St. Aubert seemed 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 anticipated the sorrow that awaited them, and
that seemed to say, it was for their sakes 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 observed, 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
deceive me,” said she, “I feel that I cannot long survive. I am
prepared for the event, I have long, I hope, been preparing for it.
Since I have not long to live, do not suffer a mistaken compassion to
induce you to flatter my family with false hopes. If you do, their
affliction will only be the heavier when it arrives: I will endeavour
to teach them resignation by my example.”

The physician was affected; he promised 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 received
this information; but a consideration of the increased affliction which
the observance 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 mother would yet recover,
and to this she pertinaciously adhered almost to the last hour.

The progress of this disorder was marked, on the side of Madame St.
Aubert, by patient suffering, and subjected wishes. The composure, with
which she awaited her death, could be derived only from the retrospect
of a life governed, as far as human frailty permits, by a consciousness
of being always in the presence of the Deity, and by the hope of a
higher world. But her piety could not entirely subdue the grief of
parting from those whom she so dearly loved. During these her last
hours, she conversed much with St. Aubert and Emily, on the prospect of
futurity, and on 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, frequently affected St. Aubert so much as to
oblige him to leave the room. Having indulged his tears a while, he
would dry them and return to the chamber with a countenance 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 she practised them with a triumph so complete. But when the last
was over, she sunk at once under the pressure 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.



 CHAPTER II

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word
Would harrow up thy soul.
                    SHAKESPEARE


Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her
husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long
train of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent
woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert 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 command his voice as to speak. It
trembled 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 servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn
voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the
departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon
the book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure
devotion gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally
brought comfort to his heart.

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he
tenderly kissed Emily, and said, “I have endeavoured to teach you, from
your earliest youth, the duty 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 rectitude
and virtue, but as it limits the indulgences 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 innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be
the sunshine 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 shown you to be wise.

“Your sorrow is useless. Do not receive this as merely a commonplace
remark, but let reason _therefore_ restrain sorrow. I would not
annihilate your feelings, my child, I would only teach you to command
them; for whatever may be the evils resulting from a too susceptible
heart, nothing can be hoped from an insensible one; that, on the other
hand, is all vice—vice, of which the deformity is not softened, or the
effect consoled 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 occasions, are so often repeated to destroy
even the sources of honest emotion, or which merely display the selfish
ostentation of a false philosophy. I will show my Emily, that I can
practise what I advise. I have said thus much, because I cannot bear to
see you wasting in useless sorrow, 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 sunk into habit, weighs down
the elasticity of the spirits so as to render conquest nearly
impossible; this is to come. You, my Emily, will show that you are
willing to avoid it.”

Emily smiled through her tears upon her father: “Dear sir,” said she,
and her voice trembled; she would have added, “I will show myself
worthy of being your daughter;” but a mingled emotion of gratitude,
affection, and grief overcame her. St. Aubert suffered her to weep
without interruption, and then began to talk on common 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 society, to live in a pleasant château, 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; for, though he had often
pressed him to come to the château, 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 sole idea that occupied his mind. It
was in manners, more than in words, that he appeared to sympathise 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. Aubert was likewise visited by Madame
Cheron, his only surviving sister, who had been some years a widow, and
now resided on her own estate near Thoulouse. The intercourse between
them had not been very frequent. In her condolements, words were not
wanting; she understood not the magic of the look that speaks at once
to the soul, or the voice that sinks like balm to the heart: but she
assured St. Aubert that she sincerely sympathised with him, praised the
virtues of his late wife, and then offered what she considered to be
consolation. Emily wept unceasingly while she spoke; St. Aubert was
tranquil, listened to what she said in silence, and then turned the
discourse upon another subject.

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 consecrated. The presence of his
wife had sanctified every surrounding scene, and, each day, as it
gradually softened the acuteness of his suffering, assisted the tender
enchantment that bound him to home.

But there were calls which must be complied 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 château. He sighed to think of what had passed
since 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 delighted him when a boy, and whose melancholy
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 gateway that led into the courts, the drawbridge, and the dry
fossé which surrounded the whole.

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 wainscotting, 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 mansion loved to display his hospitality, and whence the peal of
laughter, and the song of conviviality had so often resounded, was now
removed; even the benches that had surrounded the hall were no longer
there. The heavy walls were hung with frivolous ornaments, and
everything that appeared denoted the false taste and corrupted
sentiments of the present owner.

St. Aubert followed a gay Parisian servant to a parlour, where sat
Mons. and Madame Quesnel, who received him with a stately politeness,
and, after a few formal words of condolement, seemed to have forgotten
that they ever had a sister.

Emily felt tears swell into 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 exactly
knowing wherefore.

After some general conversation, St. Aubert requested to speak with him
alone; and Emily, being left with Madame Quesnel, soon learned that a
large party was invited to dine at the château, and was compelled to
hear that nothing which was past and irremediable ought to prevent the
festivity of the present hour.

St. Aubert, when he was told that company were expected, felt a mixed
emotion of disgust and indignation against the insensibility of
Quesnel, which prompted him to return home immediately. But he was
informed, 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 it
himself, by conduct which would be resented as indecorous, by the very
persons who now showed 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 features manly and
expressive, but whose countenance 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—inferior in
dignity, but equal to him in penetration of countenance, and superior
in insinuation 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
melancholy smile, that he felt himself much as usual; but Emily’s fears
made her now fancy 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 passed during dinner, which was served in a
style of splendour 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 with warmth, and then lamented the
probable consequences of the tumults. His friend spoke with equal
ardour, of the politics of his country; praised the government and
prosperity of Venice, and boasted of its decided superiority 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 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,
or Parisian operas; and her modesty, simplicity, 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 between them; the pursuits and events
of his early days crowded fast to his mind, with the figures and
characters of friends—long since 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 lost amid the scenes of years which fancy called up, till the
succession 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 early 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 château she felt more depressed than ever, for she more
than ever missed the presence of that dear parent, who, whenever she
had been from home, used to welcome her return with smiles and
fondness; 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 was mellowed to that tenderness
which the feeling heart cherishes as sacred. St. Aubert, on the
contrary, visibly declined in health; though Emily, who had been so
constantly with him, was almost the last person who observed it. His
constitution had never recovered from the late attack of the fever, and
the succeeding shock it received from Madame St. Aubert’s death had
produced its present infirmity. His physician now ordered him to
travel; for it was perceptible that sorrow had seized upon his nerves,
weakened as they had been by the preceding illness; and variety of
scene, it was probable, 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 domestics. Emily
seldom opposed her father’s wishes by questions or remonstrances, or
she would now have asked why he did not take a servant, and have
represented that his infirm health made one almost necessary. But when,
on the eve of their departure, she found that he had dismissed Jacques,
Francis, and Mary, and detained only Theresa the old housekeeper, she
was extremely surprised, 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, towards Provence.

They retired early to their chamber on the night before their
departure; but Emily had a few books and other things to collect, and
the clock had struck twelve before she had finished, or had remembered
that some of her drawing instruments, which she meant to take with her,
were in the parlour below. As she went to fetch these, she passed her
father’s room, and, perceiving the door half open, concluded that he
was in his study—for, since the death of Madame St. Aubert, it had been
frequently his custom to rise from his restless bed, and go thither to
compose his mind. When she was below stairs she looked into this room,
but without finding him; and as she returned 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 glimmered 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,
considering that her sudden appearance at this hour might alarm him,
she removed her light to the staircase, and then stepped softly to the
closet. On looking through the panes of glass, she saw him seated 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 detained there by a mixture of curiosity and tenderness.
She could not witness his sorrow, without being anxious to know the
subject of; and she therefore continued to observe him in silence,
concluding that those papers were letters of her late mother. Presently
he knelt down, and with a look so solemn as she had seldom seen him
assume, and which was mingled with a certain wild expression, that
partook more of horror than of any other character, he prayed silently
for a considerable time.

When he rose, a ghastly paleness was on his countenance. Emily was
hastily retiring; but she saw him turn again to the papers, and she
stopped. He took from among them a small case, and from thence a
miniature picture. The rays of light fell strongly upon it, and she
perceived it to be that of a lady, but not of her mother.

St. Aubert gazed earnestly and tenderly upon his portrait, put it to
his lips, and then to his heart, and sighed with a convulsive force.
Emily could scarcely believe what 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 picture to its case; and Emily,
recollecting that she was intruding upon his private sorrows, softly
withdrew from the chamber.



 CHAPTER 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!
.....
These charms shall work thy soul’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 Pyrenees to Languedoc, chose one that, winding over the
heights, afforded more extensive 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 château, and
who, when he was told the purpose of St. Aubert’s visit, expressed a
degree of concern, such as his friend had thought it was scarcely
possible for him to feel on any similar occasion. They parted with
mutual regret.

“If anything could have tempted me from my retirement,” said M.
Barreaux, “it would have been the pleasure of accompanying you on this
little tour. I do not often offer compliments; you may, therefore,
believe 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 the château, in the plain
below; tender images crowded to his mind; his melancholy imagination
suggested 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 general landscape, and St. Aubert
seemed to

Drag at each remove a lengthening chain.


He and Emily continued sunk in musing silence for some leagues, from
which melancholy reverie Emily first awoke, and her young fancy, struck
with the grandeur of the objects around, gradually yielded to
delightful impressions. The road now descended 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 frequently 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 she looked over the pine
forests of the mountains upon the vast plains, that, 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 its source among the Pyrenees, 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 themselves 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 enjoyment of
St. Aubert was touched with that pensive melancholy, which gives to
every object a mellower tint, and breathes a sacred charm over all
around.

They had provided against part of the evil to be encountered from a
want of convenient inns, by carrying a stock of provisions in the
carriage, so that they might take refreshment on any pleasant spot, in
the open air, and pass the nights wherever they should happen to meet
with a 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 further among the mountains, and, bending his way rather more
to the south, to emerge into Rousillon, 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. Here was shade, 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
lost 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 savoury 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, the situation of great
towns, and the boundaries of provinces, which science, rather than the
eye, enabled him to describe. Notwithstanding this occupation, when he
had talked awhile he suddenly became silent, thoughtful, and tears
often swelled to his eyes, which Emily observed, and the sympathy of
her own heart told her their cause. The scene before them bore some
resemblance, though it was on a much grander scale, to a favourite one
of the late Madame St. Aubert, within view of the fishing-house. They
both observed this, and thought how delighted she 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
presaging thoughts which had then arisen in his mind, and were now,
even thus soon, realised! The recollections subdued him, and he
abruptly rose from his seat, and walked away to where no eye could
observe his grief.

When he returned, his countenance had recovered its usual serenity; he
took Emily’s hand, pressed it affectionately, without speaking, and
soon after called to the muleteer, who sat at a little distance,
concerning a road among the mountains towards Rousillon. Michael said,
there were several that way, but he did not know how far they extended,
or even whether they were passable; and St. Aubert, who did not intend
to travel after sunset, 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 shut in.

St. Aubert, after some hesitation, determined 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 a 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 lamenting, rattled, in a full gallop, along the edge of a
precipice, which it made the eye dizzy 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 possess a greater portion of the latter quality
than their master; 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 prospects, 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 lizard, scrambling among the rocks, and
often hanging upon points so dangerous, that fancy shrunk from the view
of them. This was such a scene as _Salvator_ would have chosen, had he
then existed, for his canvas; St. Aubert, impressed 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 solitary 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 chestnut, herds of cattle
were grazing. Groups of them, too, were often seen reposing on the
banks of the rivulet, or laving their sides in the cool stream, and
sipping its wave.

The sun was now setting upon the valley; its last light gleamed upon
the water, and heightened the rich yellow and purple tints of the heath
and broom, that overspread 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 behind, 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 sort of chant, one of the most dismal ditties
his present auditors had ever heard, and St. Aubert at length
discovered it to be a vesper-hymn to his favourite saint.

They travelled on, sunk in that thoughtful melancholy, with which
twilight and solitude 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 repeated;
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 sounded, that made the mountains
ring. He looked again from the window, and then saw a young man spring
from the bushes into the road, followed by a couple of dogs. The
stranger was in a hunter’s dress. His gun was slung across 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 assisted 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 concerning the hamlet
they were in search of. The stranger informed him, that it was only
half a league distant, that he was going thither himself, and would
readily show 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 accommodated,” said he: “the
inhabitants of these mountains 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.”

“I perceive you are not one of its inhabitants, sir,” said St. Aubert.

“No, sir, 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
perplexity. 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,
sir?” said she.

St. Aubert looked, and perceived that it was the snowy summit of a
mountain, so much higher than any around it, that it still reflected
the sun’s rays, while those below lay in deep shade.

At length, the village lights were seen to twinkle through the dusk,
and, soon after, some 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. Aubert, on further enquiry, found not
only that there was no inn in the place, but not any sort of house of
public reception. The stranger, however, offered to walk on, and
enquire for a cottage to accommodate them; for which further civility
St. Aubert returned his thanks, and said, that, as the village was so
near, he would alight, and walk with him. Emily followed slowly in the
carriage.

On the way, St. Aubert asked his companion what success he had had in
the chase. “Not much, sir,” he replied, “nor do I aim at it. I am
pleased with the country, and mean to saunter away a few weeks among
its scenes. My dogs I take with me more for companionship than for
game. This dress, too, gives me an ostensible business, and procures me
that respect from the people, which would, perhaps, be refused to a
lonely stranger, who had no visible motive for coming among them.”

“I admire your taste,” said St. Aubert, “and, if I was a younger man,
should like 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 amusement.” St. Aubert sighed, and
paused; and then, seeming to recollect himself, he resumed: “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, sir, seem to be acquainted with the country, 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 commenced 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 timidity.
Nothing like a bed could be found, and he had ceased to enquire for
one, when Emily joined him, who observed 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
examined, 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 second by the family, which generally consisted of
six or eight children, with their parents, who slept 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 Pyrenees, 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 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
circumstances 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,” said he, “that an invalid, like
you, lies on hard skins, while I sleep in a bed. Besides, sir, your
refusal wounds my pride; I must believe you think my offer unworthy
your acceptance. Let me show you the way. I have no doubt my 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 deficient 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 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. Eggs 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 homely fare; an invitation, which was readily accepted, and they
passed an hour in intelligent conversation. St. Aubert was much pleased
with the manly frankness, simplicity, and keen susceptibility to the
grandeur of nature, which his new acquaintance discovered; and, indeed,
he had often been heard to say, that, without a certain simplicity 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 sound. 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 Michael quarrelling with the hostess, because she had refused to
let his mules lie in a little room where he and three of her sons were
to pass the night. The place was wretched 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. 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 Valancourt, who drew the hostess
aside, and desired she would let the muleteer and his beasts have the
place in question to themselves, while her sons should have the bed of
skins designed for him, for that he would wrap himself in his cloak,
and sleep on the bench by the cottage door. But this she thought it her
duty to oppose, and she felt it to be her inclination to disappoint the
muleteer. Valancourt, however, was positive, 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 room volumes of Homer, Horace, and Petrarch;
but the name of Valancourt, written in them, told him to whom they
belonged.



 CHAPTER 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 sad vicissitude amus’d his soul;
And if a sigh would sometimes intervene,
And down his cheek a tear of pity roll,
A sigh, a tear, so sweet, he wish’d not to control.
                    THE MINSTREL


St. Aubert awoke at an early hour, refreshed by sleep, and desirous to
set forward. He invited the stranger to breakfast with him; and,
talking again of the road, Valancourt said, that, some 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.

“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 offer, and they set out together,
the young stranger on foot, for he refused the invitation 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 that
fluttered from the mountains.

The travellers were frequently met at this early hour, for the sun had
not yet risen upon the valley, by shepherds driving immense flocks from
their folds to feed upon the hills. St. Aubert had set out thus early,
not only that he might enjoy the first appearance of sunrise, but that
he might inhale the first pure breath of morning, which above all
things is refreshing to the spirits of the invalid. In these regions it
was particularly so, where an abundance of wild flowers and aromatic
herbs breathed forth their essence 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 points of the
mountain’s brow, and glanced in long sloping 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
often stopped to speak with the travellers, and with social feeling to
point out to them the peculiar objects of his admiration. St. Aubert
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 spot where the roads parted, and his
heart took a more affectionate leave of him than is usual after so
short an acquaintance. Valancourt talked long by the side of the
carriage; 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 observed 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 whatever reason, soon after looked from the window, and saw
Valancourt standing upon the bank of the road, resting on his pike with
folded arms, and following the carriage with his eyes. He waved his
hand, and Valancourt, seeming to awake from his reverie, returned the
salute, 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 summits 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 rivulet, which had hitherto accompanied them, now expanded into a
river; and, flowing deeply and silently along, reflected, as in a
mirror, the blackness of the impending shades. Sometimes a cliff was
seen 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 gigantic arms, here scathed 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 towering round the beetling cliff.

Often, as the carriage moved slowly over uneven ground, St. Aubert
alighted, and amused himself with examining the curious plants that
grew on the banks of the road, and with which these regions 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 valley, under the spreading shade of cedars; and then set
forward towards Beaujeu.

The road now began to descend, 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 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 proceeded with caution, for he could
scarcely distinguish the road; his mules, however, seemed to have more
sagacity, and their steps were sure.

On turning the angle of a mountain, a light appeared at a distance,
that illumined 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 numerous banditti, that infested the Pyrenees, and he
became watchful and anxious to know whether the road passed near this
fire. He had arms with him, which, on an emergency, might afford some
protection, though certainly a very unequal one, against a band of
robbers, so desperate too as those usually were who haunted these wild
regions. 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 Michael, or his
mules were obstinate, for they did not quit the old pace. Horses’ feet
were now heard; a man rode up to the carriage, 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 report of the pistol was followed by a groan, 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 and
went to his assistance, found him still sitting 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 muleteer, assisted him to dismount, and he sat down on the
bank of the road, where St. Aubert tried to bind up his arm, but his
hands trembled so excessively that he could not accomplish it; and,
Michael being now gone in pursuit of the horse, which, on being
disengaged from his rider, had galloped off, he called Emily to his
assistance. Receiving no answer, he went to the carriage, and found her
sunk on the seat in a fainting fit. Between the distress of this
circumstance and that of leaving Valancourt bleeding, he scarcely 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 voice. Valancourt, who heard
these calls, and also the repeated name of Emily, instantly understood
the subject of his distress; and, almost forgetting his own condition,
he hastened to her relief. She was reviving when he reached the
carriage; and then, understanding that anxiety for him had occasioned
her indisposition, he assured her, in a voice that trembled, but not
from anguish, that his wound was of no consequence. 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 stopped the effusion of the blood;
but St. Aubert, dreading the consequence of the wound, enquired
repeatedly how far they were from Beaujeu; when, learning that it was
at two leagues’ distance, his distress increased, since he knew not how
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 the subject of his anxiety, Valancourt entreated that
he would not suffer himself to be thus alarmed on his account, for that
he had no doubt he should be able to support himself very well; and
then he talked of the accident as a slight one. The muleteer being now
returned with Valancourt’s horse, assisted him into the chaise; and, as
Emily was now revived, they moved slowly on towards Beaujeu.

St. Aubert, when he had recovered from the terror occasioned him by
this accident, expressed 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 determined, 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 mountains than the spot I have left. Besides,”
added he, hesitating for an instant, “I will own, and why should I not?
that I had some hope of overtaking you.”

“And I have made you a very unexpected return for the compliment,” said
St. Aubert, who lamented again the rashness which had produced the
accident, and explained the cause of his late alarm. But Valancourt
seemed anxious only to remove from the minds of his companions every
unpleasant feeling relative to himself; and, for that purpose, still
struggled against a sense of pain, and tried to converse with gaiety.
Emily meanwhile was silent, 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 of the
Pyrenees, and lived partly by plundering the traveller. Emily looked
with some degree of terror on the savage countenances of these people,
shown by the fire, which heightened the romantic effects 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
obscurity, which the eye feared to penetrate.

They were preparing their supper; a large pot stood by the fire, over
which several figures were busy. The blaze discovered a rude kind of
tent, round which many children and dogs were playing, and the whole
formed a picture highly grotesque. The travellers saw plainly their
danger. Valancourt was silent, but laid his hand on one of St. Aubert’s
pistols; St. Aubert drew forth another, and Michael was ordered to
proceed as fast as possible. They passed the place, however, without
being attacked; the rovers being probably unprepared for the
opportunity, and too busy about their supper to feel much interest, at
the moment, in anything besides.

After a league and a half more, passed in darkness, the travellers
arrived at Beaujeu, and drove up to the only inn the place afforded;
which, though superior to any they had seen since they entered the
mountains, was bad enough.

The surgeon of the town was immediately sent for, if a surgeon he could
be called, who prescribed for horses as well as for men, and shaved
faces at least as dexterously 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 a
solemn 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 anguish; and,
his spirits thus reanimated, he wished to partake of the conversation
of St. Aubert and Emily, who, released from so many apprehensions, were
uncommonly cheerful. Late as it was, however, St. 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 she
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 evening; but St. Aubert was fatigued
with his journey; and, as Valancourt seemed again sensible of pain,
they separated soon after supper.

In the morning St. Aubert found that Valancourt had passed a restless
night; 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 rejected. St. Aubert, however, had no
favourable 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 likely to
afford better advice, he altered the plan of his journey, and
determined to await the recovery 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, some 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 mountain-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 indisposition detained the travellers at Beaujeu several
days, during which interval St. Aubert had observed his disposition and
his talents with the philosophic inquiry so natural to him. He saw a
frank and generous nature, full of ardour, highly susceptible of
whatever is grand and beautiful, but impetuous, wild, and somewhat
romantic. Valancourt had known little of the world. His perceptions
were clear, and his feelings just; his indignation of an unworthy, or
his admiration of a generous action, were expressed in terms of equal
vehemence. St. Aubert sometimes smiled at his warmth, but seldom
checked it, and often repeated to himself, “This young man has never
been at Paris.” A sigh sometimes followed this silent ejaculation. He
determined not to leave Valancourt till he should be perfectly
recovered; and, as he was now well enough to travel, though not able to
manage his horse, St. Aubert invited him to accompany him for a few
days in the carriage. This he the more readily did, since he had
discovered that Valancourt was of a family of the same name in Gascony,
with whose respectability he was well acquainted. The latter accepted
the offer with great pleasure, and they again set forward among these
romantic wilds about Rousillon.

They travelled leisurely; stopping wherever a scene uncommonly grand
appeared; frequently alighting to walk to an eminence, whither the
mules could not go, from which the prospect opened in greater
magnificence; and often sauntering over hillocks covered with lavender,
wild thyme, juniper, and tamarisc; and under the shades of woods,
between those boles they caught the long mountain-vista, sublime beyond
anything that Emily had ever imagined.

St. Aubert sometimes amused 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 such 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 pensively 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
pauses became more frequent; till Emily, only, betrayed an anxiety to
interrupt them; and she; who had been hitherto reserved, would now talk
again, and again, of the woods and the valleys and the mountains, to
avoid the danger of sympathy and silence.

From Beaujeu the road had constantly ascended, conducting the
travellers into the higher regions of the air, where immense glaciers
exhibited their frozen horrors, and eternal snow whitened the summits
of the mountains. They often paused to contemplate 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—so 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 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 sound, 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 perspective of mountain-tops,
tinged with ethereal blue, or white with snow; valleys of ice, and
forests of gloomy fir. The serenity and clearness of the air in these
high regions 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 solemn expression characterised 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 thinness 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 so
near, were, in reality, so distant. The deep silence of these solitudes
was broken only at intervals by the scream of the vultures, seen
cowering round some cliff below, or by the cry of the eagle sailing
high in the air; except when the travellers listened to the hollow
thunder that sometimes muttered 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 excluding the country below, and now opening, 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 assuming new forms of sublimity.

After traversing these regions for many leagues, they began to descend
towards Rousillon, 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 shaded by cedars, the playful group of
mountaineer-children, and the flowery nooks that appeared among the
hills.

As they descended, they saw at a distance, on the right, one of the
grand passes of the Pyrenees into Spain, gleaming with its battlements
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 reflecting a rosy hue.

St. Aubert began to look out for the little town he had been directed
to by the people of Beaujeu, and where he meant to pass the night; but
no habitation yet appeared. 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
Beaujeu, there had been no variety of tracks to perplex or mislead.

The sun now gave his last light, and St. Aubert bade the muleteer
proceed with all possible dispatch. He found, indeed, the lassitude of
illness return upon him, after a day of uncommon fatigue, both of body
and mind, and he longed for repose. 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 exhibited 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 over the Pyrenees, had
been encountered, 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 sunset; but, as they
wound along the valley, the saw, on a rude Alpine bridge, that united
two lofty crags of the glen, a group of mountaineer-children, amusing
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 sullen sound, which the echoes
of the mountains prolonged. Under the bridge was seen a perspective of
the valley, with its cataract descending among the rocks, and a cottage
on a cliff, overshadowed with pines. It appeared, that they could not
be far from some small town. St. Aubert bade the muleteer stop, and
then called to the children to enquire 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 tremendous
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 continued
to travel long after twilight had obscured 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 anything like a building, but the sounds seemed to come
from some woods, that overhung an acclivity to the right. Valancourt
proposed to go in search of this convent. “If they will not accommodate
us with a night’s lodging,” said he, “they may certainly inform us how
far we are from Montigny, and direct us towards it.” He was bounding
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 awhile in the road with the carriage, they began 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 moonbeams, that glided down 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
returned upon the air, together with the wildness of the surrounding
scene, struck Emily with a degree of fear, which, however, the voice
and conversation of Valancourt somewhat 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 moonlight. He sat down upon the turf, between Emily and
Valancourt. The bell had now ceased, and the deep repose of the scene
was undisturbed by any sound, for the low dull murmur of some distant
torrents might be said to sooth, rather than to interrupt, the silence.

Before them, extended the valley they had quitted; its rocks, and woods
to the left, just silvered by the rays, formed a contrast to the deep
shadow, that involved the opposite cliffs, whose fringed summits only
were tipped with light; while the distant perspective of the valley was
lost in the yellow mist of moonlight. The travellers sat for some time
wrapt in the complacency which such scenes inspire.

“These scenes,” said Valancourt, at length, “soften 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 trembled, and he paused.

St. Aubert was silent; 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 rouse himself. “Yes,” said he, with a half-suppressed sigh,
“the memory of those we love—of times for ever 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 harmonious as this landscape,
sleeping in the mellow moonlight.” After the pause of a moment, St.
Aubert added, “I have always fancied, that I thought with more
clearness, and precision, at such an hour than at any other, and that
heart must be insensible in a great degree, that does not soften to its
influence. But many such there are.”

Valancourt sighed.

“Are there, indeed, many such?” said Emily.

“A few years hence, my Emily,” replied 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 saw, upon a turfy hillock above,
the convent of which they were in search. A high wall, that surrounded
it, led them to an ancient gate, at which they knocked; and the poor
monk, who opened it, conducted them into a small adjoining room, where
he desired 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 returned, 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 him. He
received them with courtesy, though he did not rise from his seat; and,
having asked them a few questions, granted their request. After a short
conversation, formal and solemn on the part of the superior, they
withdrew to the apartment where they were to sup, and Valancourt, whom
one of the inferior 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 sometimes on Valancourt; who
having, at length, convinced him that he had nothing to fear either for
himself, or his master; and having disposed of him, for the night, in a
cottage on the skirts of the woods, returned to sup with his friends,
on such sober 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 accommodate and relieve St. 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 retired to their respective
apartments. Emily was shown 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 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 awakened 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
convent, as to be alarmed by this circumstance; her fears, ever alive
for her father, suggested that he was very ill, and she rose in haste
to go to him. Having paused, however, to let the persons in the gallery
pass before she 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 still, she forbore to go to St. Aubert’s room. Her mind was not
disposed for immediate sleep, and the moonlight, that shone into her
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 midnight hymn of the monks rose softly from a chapel,
that stood on one of the lower cliffs, a holy strain, that seemed to
ascend through the silence of night to heaven, and her thoughts
ascended with it. From the consideration 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 earth, or to the vast regions
of space, glowing with worlds beyond the reach of human thought, the
sublimity 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 distinctions of human system, which
lifts the soul above this world, and seems to expand it into a nobler
nature; such devotion as can, perhaps, only be experienced, when the
mind, rescued, for a moment, from the humbleness of earthly
considerations, aspires to contemplate His power in the sublimity of
His works, and His goodness in the infinity of His blessings.

Is it not now the hour,
The holy hour, when to the cloudless height
Of yon starred concave climbs the full-orbed moon,
And to this nether world in solemn stillness,
Gives sign, 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 blessing.
                    CARACTACUS


The midnight chant of the monks soon after dropped into silence; but
Emily remained at the casement, watching the setting moon, and the
valley sinking into deep shade, and willing to prolong her present
state of mind. At length she retired to her mattress, and sunk into
tranquil slumber.



 CHAPTER V

While in the rosy vale
Love breath’d his infant sighs, 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 Valancourt, 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 recesses
appeared among the mountains, covered with bright verdure and flowers;
or a pastoral valley opened its grassy bosom in the shade of the
cliffs, with flocks and herds loitering along the banks 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 flinty 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 unveiled to
him. He found great pleasure in conversing with Valancourt, and in
listening to his ingenuous remarks. The fire and simplicity 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, unbiased by intercourse with the
world. He perceived, that his opinions were formed, rather than
imbibed; were more the result of thought, than of learning. Of the
world he seemed to know nothing; for he believed well of all mankind,
and this opinion gave him the reflected 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 observing with a look of tender seriousness, 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
simplicity were so little known 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 combine in real love. How then
are we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness,
dissipation, 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 dangerous 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 and of balm,
thyme, and lavender, that enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines,
beech, and chestnuts, that overshadowed them, rendered this a most
delicious retreat. Sometimes, the thick foliage excluded all view of
the country; at others, it admitted some partial catches of the distant
scenery, which gave hints to the imagination 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 formerly interrupted the
conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today 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
understanding, for her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter
under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of
the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had
continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery it
exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.
Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his
own, echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain 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 Valancourt 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 most manfully among the
cliffs above, till he made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately
answered the call, and endeavoured to make his way through the thicket
that clothed the steeps, following the direction 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 carriage 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 himself passed.

Meanwhile St. Aubert and Emily approached the cottage, and rested
themselves on a rustic bench, fastened between two pines, which
overshadowed it, till Valancourt, whose steps they had observed, should
return.

The eldest of the children desisted from 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 sunk 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 dissipate 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 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 toilsome than the long and broken road, and he determined to
attempt it; but Emily, ever watchful of his ease, proposing 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 observe her. She
took the youngest of the children in her arms, and, perceiving the
strangers, hastily dried her tears, and proceeded to the cottage. St.
Aubert, on enquiring the occasion of her sorrow, learned that her
husband, who was a shepherd, and 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 infested the neighbourhood, had driven away several of his
master’s sheep. “Jacques,” added the shepherd’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 flocks, 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
value 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, and they walked towards the
cliff; but Valancourt lingered behind, and spoke to the shepherd’s
wife, who was now weeping with gratitude and surprise. He enquired 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 distressed. “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 considering 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 his coat, came forward with a
loitering step. His forlorn and melancholy look determined Valancourt
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 slowly
up the steep. Valancourt had seldom felt his heart so 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 uncommon vivacity of his countenance: “What has pleased
you so much?” said he. “O what a lovely day,” replied Valancourt, “how
brightly the sun shines, how pure is this air, what enchanting
scenery!” “It is indeed enchanting,” said St. Aubert, whom early
experience had taught to understand 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 brightly as at
this moment; may your own conduct always give you the sunshine of
benevolence and reason united!”

Valancourt, highly flattered by this compliment, could make no reply
but by a smile of gratitude.

They continued to wind under the woods, between the grassy knolls of
the mountain, and, as they reached the shady summit, which he had
pointed out, the whole party burst 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 contrasted 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 cedars, 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 tufted
tops of the chesnut woods, that clothed their base, among which peeped
forth the shepherd’s cottage, just left by the travellers, with its
bluish smoke curling high in the air. On every side appeared the
majestic summits of the Pyrenees, some exhibiting tremendous crags of
marble, whose appearance was changing every instant, as the varying
lights fell upon their surface; others, still higher, displaying only
snowy points, while their lower steeps were covered almost invariably
with forests of pine, larch, and oak, that stretched down to the vale.
This was one of the narrow valleys, that open from the Pyrenees into
the country of Rousillon, and whose green pastures, and cultivated
beauty, form a decided and wonderful contrast to the romantic grandeur
that environs it. Through a vista of the mountains appeared 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 beacon, over
which were seen circling flights of sea-fowl. Beyond, appeared, now and
then, a stealing sail, white with the sunbeam, and whose progress was
perceivable by its approach to the light-house. Sometimes, too, was
seen a sail 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, immediately opposite to the spot where
the travellers rested, a rocky pass opened toward Gascony. Here no sign
of cultivation appeared. The rocks of granite, that screened 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, indeed, 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 ventured 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 less
terrific struck her,—a gibbet standing 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 spirits, and made her anxious to hasten forward, that
they might with certainty reach Rousillon before night-fall. It was
necessary, however, that St. Aubert should take some refreshment, and,
seating themselves on the short dry turf, they opened the basket 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 soul, there drink reviving gales
Profusely breathing from the piney groves,
And vales of fragrance; there at a distance hear
The roaring floods, and cataracts.
                    THOMSON


St. Aubert was revived by rest, and by the serene air of this summit;
and Valancourt 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 simple repast, they gave a
long farewell look to the scene, and again began to ascend. St. Aubert
rejoiced when he reached the carriage, which Emily entered with him;
but Valancourt, willing to take a more extensive view of the enchanting
country, into 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 slow pace, at which the mules travelled, allowed him
to overtake them with ease. Whenever a scene of uncommon magnificence
appeared, he hastened 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 lower alps, that bind Rousillon,
and form a majestic barrier round that charming country, leaving it
open only on the east to the Mediterranean. The gay tints of
cultivation 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 foliage; while,
sloping to the plains, extensive vineyards spread their treasures.
Beyond these, woods and pastures, and mingled towns and hamlets
stretched towards the sea, on whose bright surface gleamed many a
distant sail; while, over the whole scene, was diffused the purple glow
of evening. This landscape with the surrounding alps did, indeed,
present a perfect picture of the lovely and the sublime, of “beauty
sleeping in the lap of horror.”

The travellers, having reached the plains, proceeded, between hedges of
flowering myrtle and pomegranate, to the town of Arles, where they
proposed to rest for the night. They met with simple, but neat
accommodation, and would have passed a happy evening, after the toils
and the delights of this day, had not the approaching separation thrown
a gloom over their spirit. It was St. Aubert’s plan to proceed, on the
morrow, to the borders of the Mediterranean, and travel along its
shores into Languedoc; and Valancourt, since he was now nearly
recovered, and had no longer a pretence for continuing with his new
friends, resolved to leave them here. St. Aubert, who was much pleased
with him, invited him to go further, but did not repeat the invitation,
and Valancourt had resolution enough to forego the temptation of
accepting it, that he might prove himself not unworthy of the favour.
On the following morning, therefore, they were to part, St. Aubert to
pursue his way to Languedoc, and Valancourt to explore new scenes among
the mountains, on his return home. During this evening he was often
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.



 CHAPTER 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 shows 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 sleep. The languor of illness
still hung over St. Aubert, and to Emily’s fears his disorder appeared
to be increasing fast upon him. She watched his looks with anxious
affection, and their expression was always faithfully reflected in her
own.

At the commencement of their acquaintance, 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 countenance 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 sound of the
carriage wheels, which were to bear away St. Aubert and Emily.
Valancourt started from his chair, and went to the window; it was
indeed the carriage, and he returned to his seat without speaking. The
moment was now come when they must part. St. Aubert told Valancourt,
that he hoped he would never pass La Vallée without favouring him with
a visit; and Valancourt, eagerly thanking him, assured him that he
never would; as he said which he looked timidly at Emily, who tried to
smile away the seriousness of her spirits. They passed a few minutes in
interesting conversation, and St. Aubert then led the way to the
carriage, Emily and Valancourt following in silence. The latter
lingered at the door several minutes after they were seated, and none
of the party seemed to have courage enough to say—Farewell. At length,
St. Aubert pronounced the melancholy word, which Emily passed to
Valancourt, 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 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 sighed, and sunk again
into a reverie; and, as Emily looked back upon the road they had
passed, Valancourt was seen, at the door of the little inn, following
them with his eyes. Her perceived her, and waved his hand; and she
returned the adieu, till the winding road shut her from his sight.

“I remember when I was about his age,” resumed St. Aubert, “and I
thought, and felt exactly as he does. The world was opening upon me
then, now—it is closing.”

“My dear sir, do not think so gloomily,” said Emily in a trembling
voice, “I hope you have many, many years to live—for your own sake—for
_my_ sake.”

“Ah, my Emily!” replied St. Aubert, “for thy sake! Well—I hope it is
so.” He wiped away a tear, that was stealing down his cheek, threw a
smile upon his countenance, and said in a cheering voice, “there is
something in the ardour and ingenuousness 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 sunshine. Valancourt is this spring to me.”

Emily, who pressed her father’s hand affectionately, 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 Pyrenees, and, on the other, by the ocean; and,
soon after noon, they reached the town of Colioure, situated on the
Mediterranean. 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 Languedoc. Emily gazed with enthusiasm on the
vastness 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 Perpignan, 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 sought for one,
in which Valancourt had been reading the day before, and hoped for the
pleasure of retracing a page, over which the eyes of a beloved friend
had lately passed, of dwelling on the passages, which he had admired,
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 nowhere, 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 characterised the feelings of
the author. She hesitated 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 pleasure,
and observed the lines of his pencil drawn along the various passages
he had read aloud, and under others more descriptive 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 tone
and countenance, with which he had recited these sonnets, and of the
soul, which spoke in their expression, pressed to her memory, and she
wept over the memorial of his affection.

They arrived at Perpignan soon after sunset, where St. Aubert found, as
he had expected, 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
immediately began to talk on other topics. Emily, though she forbore to
press the one most interesting to her, was greatly affected by her
father’s manner, and passed a night of sleepless solicitude.

In the morning they pursued their journey along the coast towards
Leucate, another town on the Mediterranean, situated on the borders of
Languedoc and Rousillon. On the way, Emily renewed the subject of the
preceding night, and appeared so deeply affected by St. Aubert’s
silence and dejection, that he relaxed from his reserve. “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 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 concurred to ruin him, and—I am ruined with him.”

St. Aubert paused to conceal his emotion.

“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.”

“Must we then quit La Vallée?” said Emily, after a long pause of
silence. “That is yet uncertain,” replied St. Aubert, “it will depend
upon the compromise Motteville 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 father,” 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 in
your income. Be comforted, my dear sir; 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 consolations. 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 sir, poverty cannot deprive us of intellectual
delights. It cannot 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
nature—those sublime spectacles, so infinitely superior to all
artificial luxuries! are open for the enjoyment of the poor, as well as
of the rich. Of what, then, have we to complain, so long as we are not
in want of necessaries? 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 bosom, their tears
flowed together, but—they were not tears of sorrow. After this language
of the heart, all other would have been feeble, and they remained
silent for some 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 Leucate early in the day, but St.
Aubert was weary, and they determined to pass the night there. In the
evening, he exerted himself so far as to walk with his daughter to view
the environs that overlook the lake of Leucate, the Mediterranean, part
of Rousillon, with the Pyrenees, 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 song, that was wafted on the breeze, and
anticipated, with apparent pleasure, their next day’s journey over this
gay region. He designed, however, still to wind along the sea-shore. To
return home immediately was partly his wish, but from this he was
withheld 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 recommenced their journey through
Languedoc, winding the shores of the Mediterranean; the Pyrenees still
forming the magnificent 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 his cheerfulness was sometimes artificial, and sometimes a
shade of melancholy would steal upon his countenance, and betray him.
This was soon 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 enfeebled 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 returned upon St. Aubert, required immediate repose, and
the evening was now far advanced; but from necessity there was no
appeal, and he ordered Michael to proceed.

The rich plains of Languedoc, which exhibited all the glories of the
vintage, with the gaieties of a French festival, no longer awakened St.
Aubert to pleasure, whose condition formed a mournful contrast to the
hilarity and youthful beauty which surrounded 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 Pyrenees that stretched
towards the west, “these luxuriant 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 sound 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 expression 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 silent, while she seemed to understand that sigh, for she
pressed his hand affectionately, and then turned to the window to
conceal her tears. The sun now threw a last 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 autumnal
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 accommodate us for the
night.” He sunk back in the carriage, and Michael, cracking his whip in
the air, set off, and continued on the full gallop, till St. Aubert,
almost fainting, called to him to stop. Emily looked anxiously from the
window, and saw a peasant walking at some little distance on the road,
for whom they waited, till he came up, when he was asked, if there was
any house in the neighbourhood that accommodated travellers. He
replied, that he knew of none. “There is a château, indeed, among those
woods on the right,” added he, “but I believe it receives nobody, and I
cannot show you the way, for I am almost a stranger here.” St. Aubert
was going to ask him some further question concerning the château, but
the man abruptly passed on. After some consideration, he ordered
Michael to proceed slowly to the woods. Every moment now deepened the
twilight, and increased the difficulty of finding the road. Another
peasant soon after passed. “Which is the way to the château in the
woods?” cried Michael.

“The château in the woods!” exclaimed 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 see 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 it was delivered, looked out from the carriage. “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 château belong?”

“I scarcely know myself, Monsieur.”

“It is uninhabited, then?”—“No, not uninhabited; the steward and
housekeeper are there, I believe.”

On hearing this, St. Aubert determined to proceed to the château, and
risk the refusal of being accommodated for the night; he therefore
desired the countryman would show 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 peasant 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
ancient 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 almost
shuddered as she passed along; and, recollecting the manner in which
the peasant had mentioned the château, she gave a mysterious meaning to
his words, such as she had not suspected when he uttered them. These
apprehensions, however, she tried to check, considering that they were
probably the effect of a melancholy imagination, which her father’s
situation, and a consideration of her own circumstances, had made
sensible to every impression.

They passed slowly 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 soil, made it necessary to proceed
with caution. On a sudden Michael stopped the carriage; and, as St.
Aubert looked from the window to enquire the cause, he perceived a
figure at some 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 wild place,” said Michael; “there is no house hereabout,
don’t your honour think we had better turn back?”

“Go a little farther, 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: probably the gloominess
of the spot made him more liable to alarm than usual; however this
might be, he now stopped Michael, and bade him call to the person in
the avenue.

“Please your honour, he may be a robber,” 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 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, sir!” 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 their air; it was to Emily
the voice of Hope. “Oh! we are near some human habitation!” said she,
“help may soon be had.”

She listened anxiously; the sounds were distant, 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
moonlight something like a château. It was difficult, however, to reach
this; St. Aubert was now too ill to bear the motion of the carriage;
Michael could not quit his mules; and Emily, who still supported her
father, feared to leave him, and also feared to venture alone to such a
distance, 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 senseless.—“My dear,
dear father!” cried Emily in great agony, who began to fear that he was
dying, “speak, if it is only one word to let me hear the sound of your
voice!” But no voice spoke in reply. In the agony of terror she bade
Michael bring water from the rivulet, that flowed along the road; and,
having received some in the man’s hat, with trembling hands she
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 emotion of
selfish fear now gave way to a stronger influence, and, committing St.
Aubert to the care of Michael, who refused to go far from his mules,
she stepped from the carriage in search of the château she had seen at
a distance. It was a still moonlight 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 so entirely
occupied by anxiety and terror for her father, that she felt none for
herself, till the deepening gloom of the overhanging foliage, which now
wholly excluded the moonlight, 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 paused in terrified
perplexity, till a sense of her father’s condition again overcoming
every consideration for herself, she proceeded. The lane terminated in
the woods, but she looked round in vain for a house, or a human being,
and as vainly listened for a sound to guide her. She hurried on,
however, 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 moonlight spot, arrested her attention. The
wildness of this avenue brought to her recollection the one leading to
the turreted château, 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 doubting but
it was that of Michael, her first impulse was to hasten back; but a
second thought changed her purpose; she believed that nothing less than
the last extremity could have prevailed with Michael to quit his mules,
and fearing that her father was now dying, she rushed forward, with a
feeble hope of obtaining assistance from the people in the woods. Her
heart beat with fearful expectation, as she drew near the spot whence
the voices issued, and she often startled when her steps disturbed the
fallen leaves. The sounds led her towards the moonlight glade she had
before noticed; at a little distance from which she stopped, and saw,
between the boles of the trees, a small circular level of green turf,
surrounded by the woods, on which appeared a group of figures. On
drawing nearer, she distinguished these, by their dress, to be
peasants, and perceived several cottages scattered round the edge of
the woods, which waved loftily over this spot. While she gazed, and
endeavoured to overcome the apprehensions that withheld her steps,
several peasant girls came out of a cottage; music instantly struck up,
and the dance began. It was the joyous music of the vintage—the same
she had before heard upon the air. Her heart, occupied with terror for
her father, could not feel the contrast, which this gay scene offered
to her own distress; she stepped hastily forward towards a group of
elder peasants, who were seated at the door of a cottage, and, having
explained her situation, entreated their assistance. Several of them
rose 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 she 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 farther,
he renewed his enquiries for an inn, and concerning the château in the
woods. “The château cannot accommodate you, sir,” said a venerable
peasant who had followed Emily from the woods, “it is scarcely
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 value of the offer
enhanced by the manner which accompanied it. He had too much delicacy
to apologise, or to appear to hesitate about availing himself of the
peasant’s hospitality, but immediately accepted it with the same
frankness with which it was offered.

The carriage again moved slowly on; Michael following the peasants up
the lane, which Emily had just quitted, till they came to the moonlight
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 moonlight scene, surrounded by the shadowy woods,
through which, here and there, an opening admitted the streaming
splendour, discovering a cottage, or a sparkling rivulet. He listened,
with no painful emotion, to the merry notes of the guitar and
tamborine; and, though tears came to his eyes, when he saw the
_debonnaire_ dance of the peasants, they were not merely tears of
mournful regret. With Emily it was otherwise; immediate terror for her
father had now subsided into a gentle melancholy, which every note of
joy, by awakening comparison, served to heighten.

The dance ceased on the approach of the carriage, which was a
phenomenon in these sequestered woods, and the peasantry flocked round
it with eager curiosity. On learning that it brought a sick stranger,
several girls ran across the turf, and returned with wine and baskets
of grapes, which they presented to the travellers, each with kind
contention pressing for a preference. At length, the carriage stopped
at a neat cottage, and his venerable conductor, having assisted St.
Aubert to alight, led him and Emily to a small inner room, illuminated
only by moonbeams, which the open casement admitted. St. Aubert,
rejoicing in rest, seated himself in an arm-chair, and his senses were
refreshed by the cool and balmy air, that lightly waved the embowering
honeysuckles, and wafted their sweet breath into the apartment. His
host, who was called La Voisin, quitted the room, but soon returned
with fruits, cream, and all the pastoral 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 communicated several particulars concerning himself and his
family, which were interesting, because they were spoken from the
heart, and delineated a picture of the sweet courtesies of family
kindness. Emily sat by her father, holding his hand, and, while she
listened to the old man, her heart swelled with the affectionate
sympathy he described, and her tears fell to the mournful
consideration, that death would probably soon deprive her of the
dearest blessing she then possessed. The soft moonlight of an autumnal
evening, and the distant music, which now sounded a plaintive strain,
aided the melancholy of her mind. The old man continued to talk of his
family, and St. Aubert remained silent. “I have only one daughter
living,” said La Voisin, “but she is happily married, and is everything
to me. When I lost my wife,” he added with a sigh, “I came to live with
Agnes, and her family; she has several children, who are all dancing on
the green yonder, as merry as grasshoppers—and long may they be so! I
hope to die among them, monsieur. I am old now, and cannot expect to
live long, but there is some comfort in dying surrounded by one’s
children.”

“My good friend,” said 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 paused: “I can scarcely wish 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 still moonlight night,
walking among these shades she loved so well. Do you believe, monsieur,
that we shall be permitted to revisit the earth, after we have quitted
the body?”

Emily could no longer stifle the anguish of her heart; her tears fell
fast upon her father’s hand, which she yet held. He made an effort to
speak, and at length said in a low voice, “I hope we shall be permitted
to look down on those we have left on the earth, but I can only hope
it. Futurity is much veiled from our eyes, and faith and hope are our
only guides concerning it. We are not enjoined to believe, that
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 from his daughter’s eyes, “it will sweeten
the bitter moments of death!” Tears fell slowly on his cheeks; La
Voisin wept too, and there was a pause of silence. Then, La Voisin,
renewing the subject, said, “But you believe, sir, that we shall meet
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 gleam of moonlight, which fell upon his countenance, discovered
peace and resignation, stealing on the lines of sorrow.

La Voisin felt that he had pursued the subject 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. Sit down, my good
friend. Emily, 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 instruments, 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 so sad, one would almost think the
woods were haunted.” “They certainly are haunted,” said St. Aubert with
a smile, “but I believe it is by mortals.” “I have sometimes heard it
at midnight, when I could not sleep,” 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 sometimes got up to the window to look if I could see anybody,
but 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 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 probably have discovered
who is the musician.” “Yes, sir, they have followed them some way into
the woods, but the music has still retreated, and seemed as distant as
ever, and the people have at last been afraid of being led into harm,
and would go no further. It is very seldom that I have heard these
sounds so early in the evening. They usually come about midnight, when
that bright planet, which is rising above the turret yonder, sets below
the woods on the left.”

“What turret?” asked St. Aubert with quickness, “I see 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 château it belongs
to is hid among the trees.”

“Yes, my dear sir,” 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 who does the château belong to?”

“The Marquis de Villeroi was its owner,” replied La Voisin,
emphatically.

“Ah!” said St. Aubert, with a deep sigh, “are we then so near
Le-Blanc!” He appeared 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 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 since,” 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 sir?” 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 his
coming hither.”

“The château is shut up then, still?”

“Why, little better, sir; the old housekeeper, and her husband the
steward, have the care of it, but they live generally in a cottage hard
by.”

“The château is spacious, I suppose,” said Emily, “and must be desolate
for the residence of only two persons.”

“Desolate enough, mademoiselle,” replied La Voisin, “I would not pass
one night in the château, for the value of the whole domain.”

“What is that?” said St. Aubert, roused 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
asked La Voisin how long he had lived in this neighbourhood. “Almost
from my childhood, sir,” replied his host.

“You remember the late marchioness, then?” said St. Aubert in an
altered voice.

“Ah, monsieur!—that I do well. There are many besides 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 stood in St. Aubert’s eyes; “Enough,” said he, in a voice almost
stifled by the violence of his emotions,—“it is enough, my friend.”

Emily, though extremely surprised by her father’s manner, forbore to
express her feelings by any question. La Voisin began to apologise, but
St. Aubert interrupted him; “Apology is quite unnecessary,” said he,
“let us change the topic. You were speaking of the music we just now
heard.”

“I was, monsieur—but hark!—it comes again; listen to that voice!” They
were all silent;

At last a soft and solemn-breathing sound
Rose, like a stream of rich distilled perfumes,
And stole upon the air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ’ware, and wished she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still, to be so displaced.
                    MILTON.


In a few moments the voice died into air, and the instrument, which had
been heard before, sounded in low symphony. St. Aubert now observed,
that it produced a tone much more full and melodious than that of a
guitar, and still more melancholy and soft than the lute. They
continued to listen, but the sounds returned no more. “This is
strange!” said St. Aubert, at length interrupting the silence. “Very
strange!” said Emily. “It is so,” rejoined La Voisin, and they were
again silent.

After a long pause, “It is now about eighteen years since I first heard
that music,” said La Voisin; “I remember it was on a fine summer’s
night, much like this, but later, that I was walking in the woods, and
alone. I remember, too, that my spirits were very low, for one of my
boys was ill, and we feared we should lose him. I had been watching at
his bedside all the evening while his mother slept; for she had sat up
with him the night before. I had been watching, and went out for a
little fresh air, the day had been very sultry. As I walked under the
shades and mused, I heard music at a distance, and thought it was
Claude playing upon his flute, as he often did of a fine evening, at
the cottage door. But, when I came to a place where the trees opened,
(I shall never forget it!) and stood looking up at the north-lights,
which shot 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 expecting 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 sounds, 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 scarcely conceal her agitation from 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, sir; the convent of St. Clair stands at no great distance, on the
sea shore yonder.”

“Ah!” said St. Aubert, as if struck with some sudden remembrance, “the
convent of St. Clair!” Emily observed the clouds of grief, mingled with
a faint expression of horror, gathering on his brow; his countenance
became fixed, and, touched as it now was by the silver whiteness of the
moonlight, he resembled one of those marble statues of a monument,
which seem to bend, in hopeless sorrow, over the ashes of the dead,
shown

by the blunted light
That the dim moon through painted casements lends.
                    THE EMIGRANTS.


“But, my dear sir,” said Emily, anxious to dissipate his thoughts, “you
forget that repose is necessary to you. If our kind host 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 La Voisin,
whose consideration for his guest had been suspended by the interests
which his own narrative had recalled, now started from his seat, and,
apologising 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
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 she inherited,
at least, a share of her father’s courteous hospitality. It was
settled, that some of her children and Michael should sleep in the
neighbouring cottage.

“If I am better, tomorrow, 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 cannot look on a longer
journey with pleasure, and I am also very anxious to reach La Vallée.”
Emily, though she also desired to return, was grieved at her father’s
sudden wish to do so, which she thought indicated a greater degree of
indisposition than he would acknowledge. St. Aubert now retired to
rest, and Emily to her little chamber, 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 numbered with them. She leaned pensively on the little open
casement, and in deep thought fixed her eyes on the heaven, whose blue
unclouded concave was studded thick with stars, the worlds, perhaps, of
spirits, unsphered of mortal mould. As her eyes wandered along the
boundless æther, her thoughts rose, as before, towards the sublimity of
the Deity, and to the contemplation of futurity. No busy note of this
world interrupted the course of her mind; the merry dance had ceased,
and every cottager had retired to his home. The still air seemed
scarcely to breathe upon the woods, and, now and then, the distant
sound of a solitary 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 enwrapt, while her eyes were often wet with tears of
sublime devotion and solemn awe, she continued at the casement, till
the gloom of midnight hung over the earth, and the planet, which La
Voisin had pointed out, sunk below the woods. She then recollected what
he had said concerning this planet, and the mysterious music; and, as
she 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 shown on mention of the Marquis La Villeroi’s death, and of
the fate of the Marchioness, and she felt strongly interested
concerning the remote cause of this emotion. Her surprise and curiosity
were indeed the greater, because she did not recollect ever to have
heard him mention the name of Villeroi.

No music, however, stole on the silence of the night, and Emily,
perceiving the lateness of the hour, returned to a scene of fatigue,
remembered that she was to rise early in the morning, and withdrew from
the window to repose.



 CHAPTER 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 sad scenes no more return?
Is yonder wave the sun’s eternal bed?—
Soon shall the orient with new lustre burn,
And Spring shall soon 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 sleep, for uneasy dreams had pursued her, and marred the
kindest blessing of the unhappy. But, when she opened her casement,
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 such an
expression may be allowed—the matin-bell of a distant convent, the
faint murmur 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 trees.
Struck with the circumstances of imagery around her, she indulged the
pensive tranquillity which they inspired; and while she leaned on her
window, waiting till St. Aubert should descend to breakfast, her ideas
arranged themselves in the following 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 spreads her blush around!

When ev’ry infant flower, 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.

How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,
    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, doubtful gleams the mountain’s hoary head,
    Seen through the parting foliage from afar;
And, farther still, the ocean’s misty bed,
    With flitting sails, that partial sunbeams share.

But, vain the sylvan shade—the breath of May,
    The voice of music floating 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 moving below 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, apparently 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, “it is so pleasant, so quiet, and so neat; and this air, that one
breathes—if anything could restore 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, sir, since you and Mademoiselle
have honoured it with your presence.” St. 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 observed her
father with attention and thought he looked very ill, endeavoured to
persuade him to defer travelling till the afternoon; but he seemed very
anxious to be at home, and his anxiety he expressed repeatedly, 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 host, and thanking
him for his kind attentions, Emily observed his countenance change,
and, before she could reach him, he fell back in his chair. In a few
moments he recovered from the sudden faintness that had come over him,
but felt so ill, that he perceived himself unable to set out, and,
having remained a little while, struggling against the pressure of
indisposition, he begged he might be helped up stairs to bed. This
request renewed all the terror which Emily had suffered on the
preceding evening; but, though scarcely able to support herself, under
the sudden shock it gave her, she tried to conceal her apprehensions
from St. Aubert, and gave her trembling arm to assist him to the door
of his chamber.

When he was once more in bed, he desired 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 burst into an agony of tears.
St. Aubert seemed struggling to acquire firmness, but was still unable
to speak; he could only press her hand, and check the tears that stood
trembling 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 said, “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
deceive 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 me not waste these moments,” said St. Aubert, recovering himself,
“I have much to say. There is a circumstance of solemn consequence,
which I have to mention, 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 going to say.—Yet stay—before I say more give me this
promise, a promise made to your dying father!”—St. Aubert was
interrupted; 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 moment with an expression of
unutterable anguish, a slight 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 exhausted by the scene he had witnessed,
that it was many minutes before he had strength to speak; he was,
however, somewhat revived by a cordial, which Emily gave him; and,
being again alone with her, he exerted himself to tranquilize her
spirits, and to offer her all the comfort of which her situation
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 silent tears with hers. Recalled, at length, to a sense of
duty, she tried to spare her father from a 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 affliction we have known; to whose eye every moment of our lives
has been exposed; he will not, he does 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 shall be still in his
presence. Nay, weep not again, my Emily. In death there is nothing new,
or surprising, since we all know, that we are born to die; and nothing
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
privations and its sorrows, would have been mine; and then, at last,
death would have come, and called forth the tears you now shed. 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 resignation.” St. Aubert paused, fatigued with speaking.
Emily again endeavoured to assume an air of composure; and, in replying
to what he had said, tried to sooth him with a belief, that he had not
spoken in vain.

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 begun again to flow, 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 shuddered, 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 solemnly given; your
assurance gives me peace, and the observance of it is of the utmost
importance to your tranquillity. Hear, then, what I am going to tell
you. The closet, which adjoins my chamber at La Vallée, has a sliding
board in the floor. You will know it by a remarkable 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 ease
beneath the other. Below, you will see a hollow place.” St. Aubert
paused for breath, and Emily sat fixed in deep attention. “Do you
understand these directions, my dear?” said 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 attend this return, rushed upon her fancy; she burst into
convulsive grief, and St. Aubert himself, affected beyond the
resistance of the fortitude which he had, at first, summoned, wept with
her. After some moments, 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
forsaken me. Do not afflict me with this excess 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, solemnly I command you,
_without examining them_.”

Emily’s surprise, for a moment, overcame 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. “Under 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 château, 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 receive from you, which is—that you
will never, whatever may be your future circumstances, _sell_ the
château.” St. Aubert even enjoined her, whenever she might marry, to
make it an article in the contract, that the château should always be
hers. 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 circumstanced 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
anything he now said, but knelt at the bedside, 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 continued to watch and weep beside him, till a
gentle tap at the chamber-door roused her. It was La Voisin, come to
say, that a confessor 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 the cottage. When St.
Aubert awoke from this doze, his senses were confused, and it was some
moments before he recovered them sufficiently to know, that it was
Emily who sat 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, she withdrew. They remained alone together above half an
hour; when Emily was called in, she found St. Aubert more agitated than
when she had left him, and she gazed, with a slight degree of
resentment, at the friar, as the cause of this; who, however, looked
mildly and mournfully at her, and turned away. St. 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 man and his daughter came;
they both wept, and knelt with Emily round the bed, while the holy
father read in a solemn voice the service for the dying. St. Aubert lay
with a serene countenance, and seemed to join fervently in the
devotion, while tears often stole from beneath his closed eyelids, and
Emily’s sobs more than once interrupted the service.

When it was concluded, and extreme unction had been administered, the
friar withdrew. St. Aubert then made a sign for La Voisin to come
nearer. He gave him his hand, and was, for a moment, silent. At length,
he said, in a trembling voice, “My good friend, our acquaintance has
been short, but long enough to give you an opportunity of show

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