ly 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 soothe 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 were only 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 seen 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 passed!-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, 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 fa ther, suggested that he was very ill, and she arose 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 forebore 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 eliffs 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 rose to the adoration of the Deity, in his goodness and power: whenever 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 orb'd moon,
And to this nether world, in solemn stillness,
Gives sign, that to the listening ear of heaver,
Religion's voice should plead? The very babe
Knows this, and 'chance awaked, 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 inte tranquil slumber.

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CHAPTER V.

"While in the rosy vale

Love breathed 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 nightfall. 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 ingenious 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 unbiassed 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 pleas. ure to Emily and Valancourt, as they strolled on togetherhe, 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 minds, 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 chesnuts, 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 to-day than ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity into fits of deep musing; and there was, sometimes, an unaffected melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid 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 farther 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 endeav oured 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 dis tance 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