The Mysteries of Udolpho | Page 6

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 aether, 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