La Voisin assured him, and his tears bore testimony to his sincerity,
that he would do all he could to soften her affliction, and that, if
St. Aubert wished it, he would even attend her into Gascony; an offer
so pleasing to St. Aubert, that he had scarcely words to acknowledge
his sense of the old man’s kindness, or to tell him, that he accepted
it. The scene, that followed between St. Aubert and Emily, affected La
Voisin so much, that he quitted the chamber, and she was again left
alone with her father, whose spirits seemed fainting fast, but neither
his senses, nor his voice, yet failed him; and, at intervals, he
employed much of these last awful moments in advising his daughter, as
to her future conduct. Perhaps, he never had thought more justly, or
expressed himself more clearly, than he did now. “Above all, my dear Emily,” said he, “do not indulge in the pride of
fine feeling, the romantic error of amiable minds. Those, who really
possess sensibility, ought early to be taught, that it is a dangerous
quality, which is continually extracting the excess of misery, or
delight, from every surrounding circumstance. And, since, in our
passage through this world, painful circumstances occur more frequently
than pleasing ones, and since our sense of evil is, I fear, more acute
than our sense of good, we become the victims of our feelings, unless
we can in some degree command them. I know you will say, (for you are
young, my Emily) I know you will say, that you are contented sometimes
to suffer, rather than to give up your refined sense of happiness, at
others; but, when your mind has been long harassed by vicissitude, you
will be content to rest, and you will then recover from your delusion. You will perceive, that the phantom of happiness is exchanged for the
substance; for happiness arises in a state of peace, not of tumult. It
is of a temperate and uniform nature, and can no more exist in a heart,
that is continually alive to minute circumstances, than in one that is
dead to feeling. You see, my dear, that, though I would guard you
against the dangers of sensibility, I am not an advocate for apathy. At
your age I should have said _that_ is a vice more hateful than all the
errors of sensibility, and I say so still. I call it a _vice_, because
it leads to positive evil; in this, however, it does no more than an
ill-governed sensibility, which, by such a rule, might also be called a
vice; but the evil of the former is of more general consequence. I have
exhausted myself,” said St. Aubert, feebly, “and have wearied you, my
Emily; but, on a subject so important to your future comfort, I am
anxious to be perfectly understood.”

Emily assured him, that his advice was most precious to her, and that
she would never forget it, or cease from endeavouring to profit by it. St. Aubert smiled affectionately and sorrowfully upon her. “I repeat
it,” said he, “I would not teach you to become insensible, if I could;
I would only warn you of the evils of susceptibility, and point out how
you may avoid them. Beware, my love, I conjure you, of that
self-delusion, which has been fatal to the peace of so many persons;
beware of priding yourself on the gracefulness of sensibility; if you
yield to this vanity, your happiness is lost for ever. Always remember
how much more valuable is the strength of fortitude, than the grace of
sensibility. Do not, however, confound fortitude with apathy; apathy
cannot know the virtue. Remember, too, that one act of beneficence, one
act of real usefulness, is worth all the abstract sentiment in the
world. Sentiment is a disgrace, instead of an ornament, unless it lead
us to good actions. The miser, who thinks himself respectable, merely
because he possesses wealth, and thus mistakes the means of doing good,
for the actual accomplishment of it, is not more blameable than the man
of sentiment, without active virtue. You may have observed persons, who
delight so much in this sort of sensibility to sentiment, which
excludes that to the calls of any practical virtue, that they turn from
the distressed, and, because their sufferings are painful to be
contemplated, do not endeavour to relieve them. How despicable is that
humanity, which can be contented to pity, where it might assuage!”

St. Aubert, some time after, spoke of Madame Cheron, his sister. “Let
me inform you of a circumstance, that nearly affects your welfare,” he
added. “We have, you know, had little intercourse for some years, but,
as she is now your only female relation, I have thought it proper to
consign you to her care, as you will see in my will, till you are of
age, and to recommend you to her protection afterwards. She is not
exactly the person, to whom I would have committed my Emily, but I had
no alternative, and I believe her to be upon the whole—a good kind of
woman. I need not recommend it to your prudence, my love, to endeavour
to conciliate her kindness; you will do this for his sake, who has
often wished to do so for yours.”

Emily assured him, that, whatever he requested she would religiously
perform to the utmost of her ability. “Alas!” added she, in a voice
interrupted by sighs, “that will soon be all which remains for me; it
will be almost my only consolation to fulfil your wishes.”

St. Aubert looked up silently in her face, as if would have spoken, but
his spirit sunk a while, and his eyes became heavy and dull. She felt
that look at her heart. “My dear father!” she exclaimed; and then,
checking herself, pressed his hand closer, and hid her face with her
handkerchief. Her tears were concealed, but St. Aubert heard her
convulsive sobs. His spirits returned. “O my child!” said he, faintly,
“let my consolations be yours. I die in peace; for I know, that I am
about to return to the bosom of my Father, who will still be your
Father, when I am gone. Always trust in him, my love, and he will
support you in these moments, as he supports me.”

Emily could only listen, and weep; but the extreme composure of his
manner, and the faith and hope he expressed, somewhat soothed her
anguish. Yet, whenever she looked upon his emaciated countenance, and
saw the lines of death beginning to prevail over it—saw his sunk eyes,
still bent on her, and their heavy lids pressing to a close, there was
a pang in her heart, such as defied expression, though it required
filial virtue, like hers, to forbear the attempt. He desired once more to bless her; “Where are you, my dear?” said he,
as he stretched forth his hands. Emily had turned to the window, that
he might not perceive her anguish; she now understood, that his sight
had failed him. When he had given her his blessing, and it seemed to be
the last effort of expiring life, he sunk back on his pillow. She
kissed his forehead; the damps of death had settled there, and,
forgetting her fortitude for a moment, her tears mingled with them. St.
Aubert lifted up his eyes; the spirit of a father returned to them, but
it quickly vanished, and he spoke no more.