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.