I cannot boast of a learned education, niece, such as your father thought proper to give you, and, therefore, do not pretend to understand all these fine speeches about happiness. I must be contented to understand only common sense, and happy would it have been for you and your father, if that had been included in his education.

Emily was too much shocked by these reflections on her father's memory, to despise this speech as it deserved.

Madame Montoni was about to speak, but Emily quitted the room, and retired to her own, where the little spirit she had lately exerted yielded to grief and vexation, and left her only to her tears. From every review of her situation she could derive, indeed, only new sorrow. To the discovery, which had just been forced upon her, of Montoni's unworthiness, she had now to add, that of the cruel vanity for the gratification of which, her aunt was about to sacrifice her; of the effrontery and cunning, with, which at the time that she meditated the sacrifice, she boasted of her tenderness, or insulted her victim; and of the venomous envy, which, as it did not scruple to attack her father's character, could scarcely be expected to withhold from her own.

During the few days that intervened between this conversation and the departure for Miarenti, Montoni did not once address himself to Emily. His looks sufficiently declared his resentment; but that he should forbear to renew a mention of the subject of it exceedingly surprised her, who was no less astonished that, during three days, Count Morano neither visited Montoni nor was named by him. Several conjectures arose in her mind. Sometimes she feared that the dispute between them had been revived, and had ended fatally to the count. Sometimes she was inclined to hope that weariness, or disgust at her firm rejection of his suit, had induced him to relinquish it; and at others, she suspected that he had now recourse to stratagem, and forebore his visits, and prevailed with Montoni to forbear the repetition of his name, in the expectation that gratitude and generosity would prevail with her to give him the consent which he could not hope from love.

Thus passed the time in vain conjecture, and alternate hopes and fears, till the day arrived when Montoni was to set out for the villa of Miarenti, which, like the preceding ones, neither brought the count nor the mention of him.

Montoni having determined not to leave Venice till towards evening, that he might avoid the heats, and catch the cold breezes of night, embarked about an hour before sunset, with his family, in a barge for the Brenta. Emily sat alone near the stern of the vessel, and as it floated slowly on, watched the gay and lofty city lessening from her view, till its palaces seemed to sink in the distant waves, while its loftier towers and domes, illumined by the declining sun, appeared on the horizon, like those far

seen clouds, which, in more northern climes, often linger on the western verge, and catch the last light of a summer's evening. Soon after, these grew dim, and faded in distance from her sight but she still sat gazing on the vast scene of cloudless sky and mighty waters, and listening in pleasing awe to the deep sounding waves, while, as her eyes. glanced over the Adriatic, towards the opposite shores, which were, however, far beyond the reach of sight, she thought of Greece, and a thousand classical remembrances stealing to her mind, she experienced that pensive luxury which is felt on viewing the scenes of ancient story, and on comparing their present state of silence and solitude with that of their former grandeur and animation. The scenes of the Iliad illapsed in glowing colours to her fancy -scenes, once the haunt of heroes-now lonely, and in ruins; but which still shone in the poet's strain, in all their youthful splendor.

As her imagination painted, with melancholy touches, the deserted plains of Troy, such as they appeared in this after day, she re-animated the landscape with the following little story :

STANZAS.

O'er Ilion's plains, where once the warrior bled,
And once the poet raised his deathless strain,
O'er Ilion's plains a weary driver led

His stately camels, for the ruined fane.

- Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,
For now the red cloud faded in the west,

And twilight o'er the silent landscape drew
Her deepening vale; eastward his course he press'd:
There on the gray horizon's glimmering bound,
Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,
And wandering shepherd's now a shelter found
Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.
Beneath a lofty porch the driver passed,
Then, from his camels heaved the heavy load;
Partook with them the simple cool repast,
And in short vesper gave himself to God."
From distant lands with merchandise he came,
His all of wealth his patient servants bore;
Oft deep drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim
To reach again his happy cottage door;

For there his wife, his little children dwell:
Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:
Even now warm tears to expectation swell,
As Fancy o'er his mind extends her power.

A deathlike stillness reign'd where once the song,
The song of heroes, waked the midnight air,

Save, when a solemn murmur roll'd along,
That seem'd to say-For future worlds prepare.
For time's imperious voice was frequent heard
Shaking the marble temple to its fall

(By hands he long had conquer'd; vainly rear'd,)
And distant ruins answer'd to his call.

While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,
Beneath him all his store of wealth was piled;
And here his cruse and empty wallet lay,
And there the flute that cheer'd him in the wild.
The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,

For o'er the waste, at eve, he watched his train;
Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?
Who calls on him for mercy-call in vain !

A poison'd poniard in his belt he bore,
A crescent sword depended at his side,
The deathful quiver at his back he bore,
And infants-at his very look had died!

The moon's cold beam athwart the temple fell,
And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;

But, soft!-a startled camel shook his bell,

Then stretch'd his limbs, and rear'd his drowsy head.

Hamet awoke! the poniard glittered high!

Swift from his couch he sprung, and 'scaped the blow,
When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,
That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

He groan'd, he died! from forth a column'd gate
A fearful shepherd, pale and silent crept,
Who, as he watch'd his folded flock star-late,
Had mark'd the robber steal where Hamet slept.
He fear'd his own, and saved a stranger's life!
Poor Hamet clasp'd him to his grateful heart;
Then roused his camels, for the dusty strife,
And, with the shepherd, hastened to depart.
And now, Aurora breathes her freshening gale,
And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;
And now, the sun, from under twilight's veil,
Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.
Wide o'er the level plains, his slanting beams
Dart their long lines on Ilion's tower'd site;
The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,
And old Scamander winds his waves in light.
All merry sound the camel bells so gay,
And merry beats fond Hamet's heart; for he,
Ere the dim evening steals upon the day,
His children, wife, and happy home shall see.

As Emily approached the shores of Italy she began to discriminate the rich features and varied colouring of the landscape-the purple hills, groves of orange, pine, and cypress, shading magnificent villas, and towns rising among vineyards and plantations. The noble Brenta, pouring its broad waves into the sea, now appeared, and when she reached its mouth, the barge stopped, that the horses might be fastened which were now to tow it up the stream. This done, Emily gave a last look to the Adriatic, and to the dim sail,

"that from the sky-mixed wave

Dawns on the sight,"

and the barge slowly glided between the green and luxuriant slopes of the river. The grandeur of the Palladian villas, that adorn these shores, was considerably heightened by the setting rays, which threw strong contrasts of light and shade upon the porticos and long arcades, and beamed a mellow lustre upon the orangeries, and the tall groves of pine and cypress, that overhung the buildings. The scent of oranges, of flowering myrtles, and other odoriferous plants, was diffused upon the air, and often, from these embowered retreats, a strain of music stole on the calm, and softened into silence.

The sun now sunk below the horizon, twilight fell over the landscape, and Emily, wrapt in musing silence, continued to watch its features gradually vanishing into obscurity. She remembered her many happy evenings, when with St. Aubert she had observed the shades of twilight steal over a scene as beautiful as this, from the gardens of La Vallee, and a tear fell to the memory of her father. Her spirits were softened into melancholy by the influence of the hour, by the low murmur of the wave passing under the vessel, and the stillness of the air, that trembled only at intervals with distant music; why else should she, at these moments, have looked on her attachment to Valancourt with pressages so very afflicting, since she had but lately received letters from him that had soothed for a while all her anxieties? It now seemed to her oppressed mind that she had taken leave of him forever, and that the countries which separated them, would never more be traced by her. She looked upon Count Morano with horror, as in some degree the cause of this; but apart from him, a conviction, if such that may be called, which arises from no proof and which she knew not how to account for, seized her mind-that she should never see Valancourt again. Though she knew, that neither Morano's solicitations, nor Montoni's commands, had lawful power to enforce her obedience, she regarded both with a superstitious dread, that they would finally prevail.

Lost in this melancholy reverie, and shedding frequent tears, Emily was at length roused by Montoni, and she

followed him to the cabin, where refreshments were spread, and her aunt was seated alone. The countenance of Madame Montoni was inflamed with resentment, that appeared to be the consequence of some conversation she had held with her husband, who regared her with a kind of sullen disdain, and both preserved, for some time, a haughty silence. Montoni then spoke to Emily of Mons. Quesnel: You will not I hope persist in disclaiming your knowledge of the subject of my letter to him?

I had hoped, sir, that it was no longer necessary for me to disclaim it, said Emily; I had hoped, from your silence, that you were convinced of your error.

You have hoped impossibilities then, replied Montoni; [ might as reasonably have expected to find sincerity and uniformity of conduct in one of your sex, as you to convict me of error in this affair.

Emily blushed, and was silent; she now perceived too clearly, that she had hoped an impossibility, for where no mistake had been committed, no conviction could follow; and it was evident, that Montoni's conduct had not been the consequence of mistake, but of design.

Anxious to escape from conversation, which was both afflicting and humiliating to her, she soon returned to the deck, and resumed her station near the stern, without apprehension of cold, for no vapour rose from the water, and the air was dry and tranquil; hear, at least, the benevolence of nature allowed her the quiet which Montoni had denied her elsewhere. It was now past midnight. The stars shed a kind of twilight, that served to show the dark outline of the shores on either hand, and the gray surface of the river; till the moon rose from behind a high palin grove, and shed her mellow lustre over the scene. The vessel glided smoothly on: amid the stillness of the hour Emily heard, now and then, the solitary voice of the bargemen on the banks, as they spoke to their horses; while, from a remote part of the vessel, with melancholy song,

"the sailor soothed,

Beneath the trembling moon, the midnight wave"

Emily, meanwhile, anticipated her reception by Mons. and Madame Quesnel; considered what she could say on the subject of La Vallce; and then, to withhold her mind from more anxious topics, tried to amuse herself by discriminating the faint drawn features of the landscape reposing in the moonlight. While her fancy thus wandered, she saw, at a distance, a building peeping between the moonlight trees, and, as the barge approached, heard voices speaking, and soon distinguished the lofty portico of a villa, overshad owed by groves of pine and sycamore, which she recollected to be the same, that had formerly been pointed out to her, as belonging to Madame Quesnel's relative.

VOL I.

13