Heaven, earth, ocean, smiled!
Heaven, earth, ocean, smiled!
They sat down on a point of rock overshadowed by lofty palm-trees, to contemplate at leisure the magnificent scene. The sun was just emerged from the sea, over which his rays shed a flood of light, and darted a thousand brilliant tints on the vapours that ascend the horizon, and floated there in light clouds, leaving the bosom of the waters below clear as crystal, except where the white surges were seen to beat upon the rocks; and discovering the distant sails of the fishing-boats, and the far distant highlands of Corsica tinted with ethereal blue. Clara, after some time, drew forth her pencil, but threw it aside in despair. Adeline, as they returned home through a romantic glen, when her senses were no longer absorbed in the contemplation of this grand scenery, and when its images floated on her memory only in softened colours, repeated the following lines:
SUNRISE: A SONNETOft let me wander, at the break of day,Through the cool vale o'erhung with waving woods,Drink the rich fragrance of the budding May,And catch the murmur of the distant floods;Or rest on the fresh bank of limpid rill,Where sleeps the violet in the dewy shade,Where opening lilies balmy sweets distil,And the wild musk-rose weeps along the glade:Or climb the eastern cliff, whose airy headHangs rudely o'er the blue and misty main;Watch the fine hues of morn through ether spread,And paint with roseate glow the crystal plain.Oh! who can speak the rapture of the soulWhen o'er the waves the sun first steals to sight,And all the world of waters, as they roll,And Heaven's vast vault unveils in living light!So life's young hour to man enchanting smiles,With sparkling health, and joy, and fancy's fairy wiles!
SUNRISE: A SONNETOft let me wander, at the break of day,Through the cool vale o'erhung with waving woods,Drink the rich fragrance of the budding May,And catch the murmur of the distant floods;Or rest on the fresh bank of limpid rill,Where sleeps the violet in the dewy shade,Where opening lilies balmy sweets distil,And the wild musk-rose weeps along the glade:Or climb the eastern cliff, whose airy headHangs rudely o'er the blue and misty main;Watch the fine hues of morn through ether spread,And paint with roseate glow the crystal plain.Oh! who can speak the rapture of the soulWhen o'er the waves the sun first steals to sight,And all the world of waters, as they roll,And Heaven's vast vault unveils in living light!So life's young hour to man enchanting smiles,With sparkling health, and joy, and fancy's fairy wiles!
La Luc in his walks met with some sensible and agreeable companions, who like himself came to Nice in search of health. Of these he soon formed a small but pleasant society, among whom was a Frenchman, whose mild manners, marked with a deep and interesting melancholy, had particularly attracted La Luc. He very seldom mentioned himself, or any circumstance that might lead to a knowledge of his family, but on other subjects conversed with frankness and much intelligence. La Luc had frequently invited him to his lodgings, but he had always declined the invitation; and this in a manner so gentle as to disarm displeasure, and convince La Luc that his refusal was the consequence of a certain dejection of mind which made him reluctant to meet other strangers.
The description which La Luc had given of this foreigner had excited the curiosity of Clara; and the sympathy which the unfortunate feel for each other called forth the commiseration of Adeline; for that he was unfortunate she could not doubt. On their return from an evening walk La Luc pointed out the chevalier, and quickened his pace to overtake him. Adeline was for a moment impelled to follow; but delicacy checked her steps, she knew how painful the presence of a stranger often is to a wounded mind, and forbore to intrude herself on his notice for the sake of only satisfying an idle curiosity. She turned therefore into another path: but the delicacy which now prevented the meeting, accident in a few days defeated, and La Luc introduced the stranger. Adeline received him with a soft smile, but endeavoured to restrain the expression of pity which her features had involuntarily assumed; she wished him not to know that she observed he was unhappy.
After this interview he no longer rejected the invitations of La Luc, but made him frequent visits, and often accompanied Adeline and Clara in their rambles. The mild and sensible conversation of the former seemed to soothe his mind, and in her presence he frequently conversed with a degree of animation which La Luc till then had not observed in him. Adeline too derived from the similarity of their taste, and his intelligent conversation, a degree of satisfaction which contributed, with the compassion his dejection inspired, to win her confidence, and she conversed with an easy frankness rather unusual to her.
His visits soon became more frequent. He walked with La Luc and his family; he attended them on their little excursions to view those magnificent remains of Roman antiquity which enrich the neighbourhood of Nice. When the ladies sat at home and worked, he enlivened the hours by reading to them, and they had the pleasure to observe his spirits somewhat relieved from the heavy melancholy that had oppressed him.
M. Amand was passionately fond of music. Clara had not forgot to bring her beloved lute: he would sometimes strike the chords in the most sweet and mournful symphonies, but never could be prevailed on to play. When Adeline or Clara played, he would sit in deep reverie, and lost to every object around him, except when he fixed his eyes in mournful gaze on Adeline, and a sigh would sometimes escape him.
One evening, Adeline having excused herself from accompanying La Luc and Clara in a visit to a neighbouring family, she retired to the terrace of the garden which overlooked the sea; and as she viewed the tranquil splendour of the setting sun, and his glories reflected on the polished surface of the waves, she touched the strings of the lute in softest harmony, her voice accompanying it with words which she had one day written after having read that rich effusion of Shakespeare's genius, "A Midsummer Night's Dream."
TITANIA TO HER LOVE.O! fly with me through distant airTo isles that gem the western deep!For laughing Summer revels there,And hangs her wreath on every steep.As through the green transparent seaLight floating on the waves we go,The nymphs shall gaily welcome me,Far in their coral caves below.For oft upon their margin sands,When twilight leads the freshening hours,I come with all my jocund bandsTo charm them from their sea-green bowers.And well they love our sports to view,And on the ocean's breast to lave;And oft as we the dance renew,They call up music from the wave.Swift hie we to that splendid clime,Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene,Lifts the blue mountain—wild—sublime!And smooths her vales of vivid green.Where throned high, in pomp of shade,Thepower of vegetationreigns,Expanding wide, o'er hill and glade,Shrubs of all growth—fruit of all stains:She steals the sun-beam's fervid glow,To paint her flowers of mingling hue;And o'er the grape the purple throw,Breaking from verdant leaves to view.There myrtle bowers, and citron grove,O'er canopy our airy dance;And there the sea-breeze loves to rove,When trembles day's departing glance.And when the false moon steals away,Or ere the chasing morn doth rise,Oft, fearless, we our gambols playBy the fire-worm's radiant eyes.And suck the honey'd reeds that swellIn tufted plumes of silver white;Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell,To sip the nectar of delight!And when the shaking thunders roll,And lightnings strike athwart the gloom,We shelter in the cedar's bole,And revel 'mid the rich perfume!But chief we love beneath the palm,Or verdant plantain's spreading leaf,To hear, upon the midnight calm,Sweet Philomela pour her grief.To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,Such blissful hours, were never known!O fly with me my airy round,And I will make them all thine own!
TITANIA TO HER LOVE.O! fly with me through distant airTo isles that gem the western deep!For laughing Summer revels there,And hangs her wreath on every steep.
As through the green transparent seaLight floating on the waves we go,The nymphs shall gaily welcome me,Far in their coral caves below.
For oft upon their margin sands,When twilight leads the freshening hours,I come with all my jocund bandsTo charm them from their sea-green bowers.
And well they love our sports to view,And on the ocean's breast to lave;And oft as we the dance renew,They call up music from the wave.
Swift hie we to that splendid clime,Where gay Jamaica spreads her scene,Lifts the blue mountain—wild—sublime!And smooths her vales of vivid green.
Where throned high, in pomp of shade,Thepower of vegetationreigns,Expanding wide, o'er hill and glade,Shrubs of all growth—fruit of all stains:
She steals the sun-beam's fervid glow,To paint her flowers of mingling hue;And o'er the grape the purple throw,Breaking from verdant leaves to view.
There myrtle bowers, and citron grove,O'er canopy our airy dance;And there the sea-breeze loves to rove,When trembles day's departing glance.
And when the false moon steals away,Or ere the chasing morn doth rise,Oft, fearless, we our gambols playBy the fire-worm's radiant eyes.
And suck the honey'd reeds that swellIn tufted plumes of silver white;Or pierce the cocoa's milky cell,To sip the nectar of delight!
And when the shaking thunders roll,And lightnings strike athwart the gloom,We shelter in the cedar's bole,And revel 'mid the rich perfume!
But chief we love beneath the palm,Or verdant plantain's spreading leaf,To hear, upon the midnight calm,Sweet Philomela pour her grief.
To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,Such blissful hours, were never known!O fly with me my airy round,And I will make them all thine own!
Adeline ceased to sing—when she immediately heard repeated in a low voice:
To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,Such blissful hours, were never known!
To mortal sprite such dulcet sound,Such blissful hours, were never known!
and turning her eyes whence it came, she saw M. Amand. She blushed and laid down the lute, which he instantly took up, and with a tremulous hand drew forth tones
That might create a soul,Under the ribs of death:
That might create a soul,Under the ribs of death:
In a melodious voice, that trembled with sensibility, he sang the following
SONNETHow sweet is Love's first gentle sway,When crown'd with flowers he softly smiles!His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles,Where beams of tender transport play:Hope leads him on his airy way,And faith and fancy still beguiles——Faith quickly tangled in her toils——Fancy, whose magic forms so sayThe fair deceiver's self deceive——How sweet is love's first gentle sway!Ne'er would that heart he bids to grieveFrom sorrow's soft enchantments stray——Ne'er—till the God exulting in his art,Relentless frowns and wings th' envenom'd dart.
SONNETHow sweet is Love's first gentle sway,When crown'd with flowers he softly smiles!His blue eyes fraught with tearful wiles,Where beams of tender transport play:Hope leads him on his airy way,And faith and fancy still beguiles——Faith quickly tangled in her toils——Fancy, whose magic forms so sayThe fair deceiver's self deceive——How sweet is love's first gentle sway!Ne'er would that heart he bids to grieveFrom sorrow's soft enchantments stray——Ne'er—till the God exulting in his art,Relentless frowns and wings th' envenom'd dart.
Monsieur Amand paused: he seemed much oppressed, and at length, bursting into tears, laid down the instrument and walked abruptly away to the further end of the terrace. Adeline, without seeming to observe his agitation, arose and leaned upon the wall, below which a group of fishermen were busily employed in drawing a net. In a few moments he returned with a composed and softened countenance. Forgive this abrupt conduct, said he; I know not how to apologize for it but by owning its cause. When I tell you, Madame, that my tears flow to the memory of a lady who strongly resembled you, and who is lost to me for ever, you will know how to pity me.—His voice faltered, and he paused. Adeline was silent. The lute he resumed, was her favourite instrument, and when you touched it with such a melancholy expression, I saw her very image before me. But, alas! why do I distress you with a knowledge of my sorrows! she is gone, and never to return! And you, Adeline,—you——He checked his speech; and Adeline turning on him a look of mournful regard, observed a wildness in his eyes which alarmed her. These recollections are too painful, said she in a gentle voice: let us return to the house; M. La Luc is probably come home. O no! replied M. Amand;—No—this breeze refreshes me. How often at this hour have I talked withher, as I now talk with you!—such were the soft tones of her voice—such the ineffable expression of her countenance.—Adeline interrupted him. Let me beg of you to consider your health—this dewy air cannot be good for invalids. He stood with his hands clasped, and seemed not to hear her. She took up the lute to go, and passed her fingers lightly over the chords. The sounds recalled his scattered senses: he raised his eyes, and fixed them in long unsettled gaze upon hers. Must I leave you here? said she smiling, and standing in an attitude to depart—I entreat you to play again the air I heard just now, said M. Amand in a hurried voice.—Certainly; and she immediately began to play. He leaned against a palm tree in an attitude of deep attention, and as the sounds languished on the air, his features gradually lost their wild expression, and he melted into tears. He continued to weep silently till the song concluded, and it was some time before he recovered voice enough to say, Adeline, I cannot thank you for this goodness: my mind has recovered its bias; you have soothed a broken heart. Increase the kindness you have shown me, by promising never to mention what you have witnessed this evening, and I will endeavour never again to wound your sensibility by a similar offence.—Adeline gave the required promise; and M. Amand, pressing her hand, with a melancholy smile hurried from the garden, and she saw him no more that night.
La Luc had been near a fortnight at Nice, and his health, instead of amending seemed rather to decline, yet he wished to make a longer experiment of the climate. The air which failed to restore her venerable friend revived Adeline, and the variety and novelty of the surrounding scenes amused her mind, though, since they could not obliterate the memory of past, or suppress the pang of present affection, they were ineffectual to dissipate the sick languor of melancholy. Company, by compelling her to withdraw her attention from the subject of her sorrow, afforded her a transient relief, but the violence of the exertion generally left her more depressed. It was in the stillness of solitude, in the tranquil observance of beautiful nature, that her mind recovered its tone, and, indulging the pensive inclination now become habitual to it, was soothed and fortified. Of all the grand objects which nature had exhibited, the ocean inspired her with the most sublime admiration. She loved to wander alone on its shores; and when she could escape so long from the duties or forms of society, she would sit for hours on the beach watching the rolling waves, and listening to their dying murmur, till her softened fancy recalled long-lost scenes, and restored the image of Theodore; when tears of despondency too often followed those of pity and regret. But these visions of memory, painful as they were, no longer excited that phrensy of grief they formerly awakened in Savoy; the sharpness of misery was passed, though its heavy influence was not perhaps less powerful. To these solitary indulgences generally succeeded calmness, and what Adeline endeavoured to believe was resignation.
She usually rose early, and walked down to the shore to enjoy, in the cool and silent hours of the morning, the cheering beauty of nature, and inhale the pure sea-breeze. Every object then smiled in fresh and lively colours. The blue sea, the brilliant sky, the distant fishing-boats with their white sails, and the voices of the fishermen borne at intervals on the air, were circumstances which reanimated her spirits; and in one of her rambles, yielding to that taste for poetry which had seldom forsaken her, she repeated the following lines:—
MORNING, ON THE SEA SHOREWhat print of fairy feet is hereOn Neptune's smooth and yellow sands?What midnight revel's airy dance,Beneath the moonbeam's trembling glanceHas blest these shores?—What sprightly bandsHave chased the waves uncheck'd by fear?Whoe'er they were they fled from morn,For now, all silent and forlorn,These tide-forsaken sands appear—Return, sweet sprites! the scene to cheer!In vain the call!—Till moonlight's hourAgain diffuse its softer power,Titania, nor her fairy loves,Emerge from India's spicy groves.Then, when the shadowy hour returns,When silence reigns o'er air and earth,And every star in ether burns,They come to celebrate their mirth;In frolic ringlet trip the ground,Bid music's voice on silence win,Till magic echoes answer round—Thus do their festive rites begin.O fairy forms so coy to mortal ken,Your mystic steps to poets only shown;O! lead me to the brook, or hollow'd glen,Retiring far, with winding woods o'ergrownWhere'er ye best delight to rule;If in some forest's lone retreat,Thither conduct my willing feetTo the light brink of fountain cool,Where, sleeping in the midnight dew,Lie spring's young buds of every hue,Yielding their sweet breath to the air;To fold their silken leaves from harm,And their chill heads in moonshine warm,Is bright Titania's tender care.There, to the night-birds's plaintive chauntYour carols sweet ye love to raise,With oaten reed and pastoral lays;And guard with forceful spell her haunt,Who, when your antic sports are done,Oft lulls ye in the lily's cell,Sweet flower! that suits your slumbers well,And shields ye from the rising sun.When not to India's steeps ye flyAfter twilight and the moon,In honey buds ye love to lie,While reigns supreme light's fervid noon;Nor quit the cell where peace pervades.Till night leads on the dews and shades.E'en now your scenes enchanted meet my sight!I see the earth unclose, the palace rise,The high dome swell, and long arcades of lightGlitter among the deep embowering woods,And glance reflecting from the trembling floods!While to soft lutes the portals wide unfold,And fairy forms, of fine ethereal dyes,Advance with frolic step and laughing eyes,Their hair with pearl, their garments deck'd with gold;Pearls that in Neptune's briny waves they sought,And gold from India's deepest caverns brought.Thus your light visions to my eyes unveil,Ye sportive pleasures, sweet illusion, hail!But ah! at morn's first blush again ye fade!So from youth's ardent gaze life's landscape gay,And forms in fancy's summer hues array'd,Dissolve at once in air at truth's resplendent day!
MORNING, ON THE SEA SHORE
What print of fairy feet is hereOn Neptune's smooth and yellow sands?What midnight revel's airy dance,Beneath the moonbeam's trembling glanceHas blest these shores?—What sprightly bandsHave chased the waves uncheck'd by fear?Whoe'er they were they fled from morn,For now, all silent and forlorn,These tide-forsaken sands appear—Return, sweet sprites! the scene to cheer!
In vain the call!—Till moonlight's hourAgain diffuse its softer power,Titania, nor her fairy loves,Emerge from India's spicy groves.Then, when the shadowy hour returns,When silence reigns o'er air and earth,And every star in ether burns,They come to celebrate their mirth;In frolic ringlet trip the ground,Bid music's voice on silence win,Till magic echoes answer round—Thus do their festive rites begin.
O fairy forms so coy to mortal ken,Your mystic steps to poets only shown;O! lead me to the brook, or hollow'd glen,Retiring far, with winding woods o'ergrownWhere'er ye best delight to rule;If in some forest's lone retreat,Thither conduct my willing feetTo the light brink of fountain cool,Where, sleeping in the midnight dew,Lie spring's young buds of every hue,Yielding their sweet breath to the air;To fold their silken leaves from harm,And their chill heads in moonshine warm,Is bright Titania's tender care.
There, to the night-birds's plaintive chauntYour carols sweet ye love to raise,With oaten reed and pastoral lays;And guard with forceful spell her haunt,Who, when your antic sports are done,Oft lulls ye in the lily's cell,Sweet flower! that suits your slumbers well,And shields ye from the rising sun.When not to India's steeps ye flyAfter twilight and the moon,In honey buds ye love to lie,While reigns supreme light's fervid noon;Nor quit the cell where peace pervades.Till night leads on the dews and shades.
E'en now your scenes enchanted meet my sight!I see the earth unclose, the palace rise,The high dome swell, and long arcades of lightGlitter among the deep embowering woods,And glance reflecting from the trembling floods!While to soft lutes the portals wide unfold,And fairy forms, of fine ethereal dyes,Advance with frolic step and laughing eyes,Their hair with pearl, their garments deck'd with gold;Pearls that in Neptune's briny waves they sought,And gold from India's deepest caverns brought.Thus your light visions to my eyes unveil,Ye sportive pleasures, sweet illusion, hail!But ah! at morn's first blush again ye fade!So from youth's ardent gaze life's landscape gay,And forms in fancy's summer hues array'd,Dissolve at once in air at truth's resplendent day!
During several days succeeding that on which M. Amand had disclosed the cause of his melancholy, he did not visit La Luc. At length Adeline met him in one of her solitary rambles on the shore. He was pale, and dejected, and seemed much agitated when he observed her; she therefore endeavoured to avoid him, but he advanced with quickened steps and accosted her. He said it was his intention to leave Nice in a few days. I have found no benefit from the climate, added M. Amand; alas! what climate can relieve the sickness of the heart! I go to lose in the varieties of new scenes the remembrance of past happiness; yet the effort is vain; I am every where equally restless and unhappy. Adeline tried to encourage him to hope much from time and change of place. Timewillblunt the sharpest edge of sorrow, said she; I know it from experience. Yet while she spoke, the tears in her eyes contradicted the assertions of her lips.—You have been unhappy, Adeline!—Yes—I knew it from the first. The smile of pity which you gave me, assured me that you knew what it was to suffer. The desponding air with which he spoke renewed her apprehension of a scene similar to the one she had lately witnessed, and she changed the subject; but he soon returned to it. You bid me hope much from time!—My wife!—My dear wife!——his tongue faltered—It is now many months since I lost her—yet the moment of her death seems but as yesterday. Adeline faintly smiled. You can scarcely judge of the effect of time, yet you have much to hope for. He shook his head. But I am again intruding my misfortunes on your notice; forgive this perpetual egotism. There is a comfort in the pity of the good, such as nothing else can impart; this must plead my excuse; may you, Adeline, never want it! Ah! those tears——Adeline hastily dried them. M. Amand forbore to press the subject, and immediately began to converse on indifferent topics. They returned towards the chateau; but La Luc being from home, M. Amand took leave at the door. Adeline retired to her chamber, oppressed by her own sorrows, and those of her amiable friend.
Near three weeks had now elapsed at Nice, during which the disorder of La Luc seemed rather to increase than abate, when his physician very honestly confessed the little hope he entertained from the climate, and advised him to try the effect of a sea voyage, adding that if the experiment failed, even the air of Montpellier appeared to him more likely to afford relief than that of Nice. La Luc received this disinterested advice with a mixture of gratitude and disappointment. The circumstances which had made him reluctant to quit Savoy, rendered him yet more so to protract his absence and increase his expenses; but the ties of affection that bound him to his family, and the love of life, which so seldom leaves us, again prevailed over inferior considerations; and he determined to coast the Mediterranean as far as Languedoc, where if the voyage did not answer his expectation he would land and proceed to Montpellier.
When M. Amand learned that La Luc designed to quit Nice in a few days, he determined not to leave it before him. During this interval he had not sufficient resolution to deny himself the frequent conversation of Adeline, though her presence, by reminding him of his lost wife, gave him more pain than comfort. He was the second son of a French gentleman of family, and had been married about a year to a lady to whom he had long been attached, when she died in her lying-in. The infant soon followed its mother, and left the disconsolate father abandoned to grief, which had preyed so heavily on his health, that his physician thought it necessary to send him to Nice. From the air of Nice, however, he had derived no benefit; and he now determined to travel further into Italy, though he no longer felt any interest in those charming scenes which in happier days and with her whom he never ceased to lament, would have afforded him the highest degree of mental luxury—now he sought only to escape from himself, or rather from the image of her who had once constituted his truest happiness.
La Luc having laid his plan, hired a small vessel, and in a few days embarked, with a sick hope, bidding adieu to the shores of Italy and the towering Alps, and seeking on a new element the health which had hitherto mocked his pursuit.
M. Amand took a melancholy leave of his new friends, whom he attended to the sea-side. When he assisted Adeline on board, his heart was too full to suffer him to say farewell; but he stood long on the beach pursuing with his eyes her course over the waters, and waving his hand, till tears dimmed his sight. The breeze wafted the vessel gently from the coast, and Adeline saw herself surrounded by the undulating waves of the ocean. The shore appeared to recede, its mountains to lessen, the gay colours of its landscape to melt into each other, and in a short time the figure of M. Amand was seen no more: the town of Nice, with its castle and harbour next faded away in distance, and the purple tint of the mountains was at length all that remained on the verge of the horizon. She sighed as she gazed, and her eyes filled with tears. So vanished my prospect of happiness, said she; and my future view is like the waste of waters that surround me. Her heart was full, and she retired from observation to a remote part of the deck, where she indulged her tears as she watched the vessel cut its way through the liquid glass. The water was so transparent that she saw the sun-beams playing at a considerable depth, and fish of various colours glance athwart the current. Innumerable marine plants spread their vigorous leaves on the rocks below, and the richness of their verdure formed a beautiful contrast to the glowing scarlet of the coral that branched beside them.
The distant coast at length entirely disappeared. Adeline gazed with an emotion the most sublime, on the boundless expanse of waters that spread on all sides: she seemed as if launched into a new world: the grandeur and immensity of the view astonished and overpowered her: for a moment she doubted the truth of the compass, and believed it to be almost impossible for the vessel to find its way over the pathless waters to any shore. And when she considered that a plank alone separated her from death, a sensation of unmixed terror superseded that of sublimity, and she hastily turned her eyes from the prospect, and her thoughts from the subject.
Is there a heart that music cannot melt?Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!Is there who ne'er the mystic transports feltOf solitude and melancholy born?He need not woo the Muse—he is her scorn.BEATTIE.
Is there a heart that music cannot melt?Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!Is there who ne'er the mystic transports feltOf solitude and melancholy born?He need not woo the Muse—he is her scorn.BEATTIE.
Is there a heart that music cannot melt?Alas! how is that rugged heart forlorn!Is there who ne'er the mystic transports feltOf solitude and melancholy born?He need not woo the Muse—he is her scorn.BEATTIE.
Towards evening the captain, to avoid the danger of encountering a Barbary corsair steered for the French coast, and Adeline distinguished in the gleam of the setting sun the shores of Provence, feathered with wood and green with pasturage. La Luc, languid and ill, had retired to the cabin, whither Clara attended him. The pilot at the helm guiding the tall vessel through the sounding waters, and one solitary sailor leaning with crossed arms against the mast, and now and then singing parts of a mournful ditty, were all of the crew, except Adeline, that remained upon deck—and Adeline silently watched the declining sun, which threw a saffron glow upon the waves and on the sails gently swelling in the breeze that was now dying away. The sun at length sunk below the ocean, and twilight stole over the scene, leaving the shadowy shores yet visible, and touching with a solemn tint the waters that stretched wide around. She sketched the picture, but it was with a faint pencil.
NIGHTO'er the dim breast of Ocean's waveNight spreads afar her gloomy wings,And pensive thought, and silence brings,Save when the distant waters lave;Or when the mariner's lone voiceSwells faintly in the passing gale,Or when the screaming sea-gulls poiseO'er the tall mast and swelling sail.Bounding the grey gleam of the deep,Where fancied forms arouse the mind,Dark sweep the shores, on whose rude steepSighs the sad spirit of the wind.Sweet is its voice upon the air,At Evening's melancholy close,When the smooth wave in silence flows!Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear!Blest be thy shades, O Night! and blest the songThy low winds breathe the distant shores along!
NIGHT
O'er the dim breast of Ocean's waveNight spreads afar her gloomy wings,And pensive thought, and silence brings,Save when the distant waters lave;Or when the mariner's lone voiceSwells faintly in the passing gale,Or when the screaming sea-gulls poiseO'er the tall mast and swelling sail.Bounding the grey gleam of the deep,Where fancied forms arouse the mind,Dark sweep the shores, on whose rude steepSighs the sad spirit of the wind.Sweet is its voice upon the air,At Evening's melancholy close,When the smooth wave in silence flows!Sweet, sweet the peace its stealing accents bear!Blest be thy shades, O Night! and blest the songThy low winds breathe the distant shores along!
As the shadows thickened, the scene sunk into deeper repose. Even the sailor's song had ceased; no sound was heard but that of the waters dashing beneath the vessel, and their fainter murmur on the pebbly coast. Adeline's mind was in unison with the tranquillity of the hour; lulled by the waves, she resigned herself to a still melancholy and sat lost in reverie. The present moment brought to her recollection her voyage up the Rhone, when seeking refuge from the terrors of the Marquis de Montalt, she so anxiously endeavoured to anticipate her future destiny. She then, as now, had watched the fall of evening and the fading prospect, and she remembered what a desolate feeling had accompanied the impression which those objects made. She had then no friends—no asylum—no certainty of escaping the pursuit of her enemy. Now she had found affectionate friends—a secure retreat—and was delivered from the terrors she then suffered—but still she was unhappy. The remembrance of Theodore—of Theodore who had loved her so truly, who had encountered and suffered so much for her sake, and of whose fate she was now as ignorant as when she traversed the Rhone, was an incessant pang to her heart. She seemed to be more remote than ever from the possibility of hearing of him. Sometimes a faint hope crossed her that he had escaped the malice of his persecutor; but when she considered the inveteracy and power of the latter, and the heinous light in which the law regards an assault upon a superior officer, even this poor hope vanished, and left her to tears and anguish, such as this reverie, which began with a sensation of only gentle melancholy, now led to. She continued to muse till the moon arose from the bosom of the ocean, and shed her trembling lustre upon the waves, diffusing peace, and making silence more solemn; beaming a soft light on the white sails, and throwing upon the waters the tall shadow of the vessel which now seemed to glide along unopposed by any current. Her tears had somewhat relieved the anguish of her mind, and she again reposed in placid melancholy, when a strain of such tender and entrancing sweetness stole on the silence of the hour, that it seemed more like celestial than mortal music—so soft, so soothing, it sunk upon her ear, that it recalled her from misery to hope and love. She wept again—but these were tears which she would not have exchanged for mirth and joy. She looked round, but perceived neither ship nor boat; and as the undulating sounds swelled on the distant air, she thought they came from the shore. Sometimes the breeze wafted them away, and again returned them in tones of the most languishing softness. The links of the air thus broken, it was music rather than melody that she caught, till, the pilot gradually steering nearer the coast, she distinguished the notes of a song familiar to her ear. She endeavoured to recollect where she had heard it, but in vain; yet her heart beat almost unconsciously with a something resembling hope. Still she listened, till the breeze again stole the sounds. With regret she now perceived that the vessel was moving from them, and at length they trembled faintly on the waves, sunk away at distance, and were heard no more. She remained upon deck a considerable time, unwilling to relinquish the expectation of hearing them again, and their sweetness still vibrating on her fancy, and at length retired to the cabin oppressed by a degree of disappointment which the occasion did not appear to justify.
La Luc grew better during the voyage, his spirits revived, and when the vessel entered that part of the Mediterranean called the Gulf of Lyons, he was sufficiently animated to enjoy from the deck the noble prospect which the sweeping shores of Provence, terminating in the far distant ones of Languedoc, exhibited. Adeline and Clara, who anxiously watched his looks, rejoiced in their amendment; and the fond wishes of the latter already anticipated his perfect recovery. The expectations of Adeline had been too often checked by disappointment permit her now to indulge an equal degree of hope with that of her friend, yet she confided much in the effect of this voyage.
La Luc amused himself at intervals with discoursing, and pointing out the situations of considerable ports on the coast, and the mouths of the rivers that, after wandering through Provence, disembogue themselves into the Mediterranean. The Rhone, however, was the only one of much consequence which he passed. On this object, though it was so distant that fancy perhaps, rather than the sense, beheld it, Clara gazed with peculiar pleasure, for it came from the banks of Savoy; and the wave which she thought she perceived, had washed the feet of her dear native mountains. The time passed with mingled pleasure and improvement as La Luc described to his attentive pupils the manners and commerce of the different inhabitants of the coast, and the natural history of the country: or as he traced in imagination the remote wanderings of rivers to their source, and delineated the characteristic beauties of their scenery.
After a pleasant voyage of a few days, the shores of Provence receded, and that of Languedoc, which had long bounded the distance, became the grand object of the scene, and the sailors drew near their port. They landed in the afternoon at a small town, situated at the foot of a woody eminence, on the right overlooking the sea, and on the left the rich plains of Languedoc gay with the purple vine. La Luc determined to defer his journey till the following day, and was directed to a small inn at the extremity of the town, where the accommodation, such as it was, he endeavoured to be contented with.
In the evening, the beauty of the hour and the desire of exploring new scenes, invited Adeline to walk. La Lac was fatigued, and did not go out, and Clara remained with him. Adeline took her way to the woods that rose from the margin of the sea, and climbed the wild eminence on which they hung. Often as she went she turned her eyes to catch between the dark foliage the blue waters of the bay, the white sail that flitted by, and the trembling gleam of the setting sun. When she reached the summit, and looked down over the dark tops of the woods on the wide and various prospect, she was seized with a kind of still rapture impossible to be expressed, and stood unconscious of the flight of time, till the sun had left the scene, and twilight threw its solemn shade upon the mountains. The sea alone reflected the fading splendour of the west; its tranquil surface was partially disturbed by the low wind that crept in tremulous lines along the waters, whence rising to the woods, it shivered their light leaves, and died away. Adeline, resigning herself to the luxury of sweet and tender emotions, repeated the following lines:—
SUNSETSoft o'er the mountain's purple browMeek Twilight draws her shadows gray;From tufted woods and valleys low,Light's magic colours steal away.Yet still, amid the spreading gloom,Resplendent glow the western waves,That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves,A zone of light on Evening's dome.On this lone summit let me rest,And view the forms to Fancy dear,Till on the Ocean's darken'd breastThe stars of Evening tremble clear;Or the moon's pale orb appear,Throwing her line of radiance wide,Far o'er the lightly-curling tide,That seems the yellow sands to chide.No sounds o'er silence now prevail,Save of the dying wave below,Or sailor's song borne on the gale,Or oar at distance striking slow.So sweet! so tranquil! may my evening raySet to this world—and rise in future day!
SUNSET
Soft o'er the mountain's purple browMeek Twilight draws her shadows gray;From tufted woods and valleys low,Light's magic colours steal away.Yet still, amid the spreading gloom,Resplendent glow the western waves,That roll o'er Neptune's coral caves,A zone of light on Evening's dome.On this lone summit let me rest,And view the forms to Fancy dear,Till on the Ocean's darken'd breastThe stars of Evening tremble clear;Or the moon's pale orb appear,Throwing her line of radiance wide,Far o'er the lightly-curling tide,That seems the yellow sands to chide.No sounds o'er silence now prevail,Save of the dying wave below,Or sailor's song borne on the gale,Or oar at distance striking slow.So sweet! so tranquil! may my evening raySet to this world—and rise in future day!
Adeline quitted the heights, and followed a narrow path that wound to the beach below: her mind was now particularly sensible to fine impressions, and the sweet notes of the nightingale amid the stillness of the woods again awakened her enthusiasm.
TO THE NIGHTINGALEChild of the melancholy song!O yet that tender strain prolong!Her lengthen'd shade when Evening flings,From mountain-cliffs, and forests green,And sailing slow on silent wings,Along the glimmering West is seen;I love o'er pathless hills to stray,Or trace the winding vale remote,And pause, sweet Bird! to hear thy layWhile moonbeams on the thin clouds float,Till o'er the Mountain's dewy headPale Midnight steals to wake the dead.Far through the heaven's ethereal blue,Wafted on Spring's light airs you come,With blooms, and flowers, and genial dew,From climes where Summer joys to roam;O! welcome to your long-lost home!"Child of the melancholy song!"Who lov'st the lonely woodland gladeTo mourn, unseen, the boughs among,When Twilight spreads her pensive shade,Again thy dulcet voice I hail!O pour again the liquid noteThat dies upon the evening gale!For Fancy loves the kindred tone;Her griefs the plaintive accents own.She loves to hear thy music floatAt solemn Midnight's stillest hour,And think on friends for ever lost,On joys by disappointment crost,And weep anew Love's charmful power!Then Memory wakes the magic smile,Th' impassion'd voice, the melting eye,That wont the trusting heart beguile,Andwakes againthe hopeless sigh.Her skill the glowing tints reviveOf scenes that Time had bade decay;She bids the soften'd Passions live—The Passions urge again their sway.Yet o'er the long-regretted sceneThy song the grace of sorrow throws;A melancholy charm serene,More rare than all that mirth bestows,Then hail, sweet Bird, and hail thy pensive tear!To Taste, to Fancy, and to Virtue dear!
TO THE NIGHTINGALE
Child of the melancholy song!O yet that tender strain prolong!
Her lengthen'd shade when Evening flings,From mountain-cliffs, and forests green,And sailing slow on silent wings,Along the glimmering West is seen;I love o'er pathless hills to stray,Or trace the winding vale remote,And pause, sweet Bird! to hear thy layWhile moonbeams on the thin clouds float,Till o'er the Mountain's dewy headPale Midnight steals to wake the dead.
Far through the heaven's ethereal blue,Wafted on Spring's light airs you come,With blooms, and flowers, and genial dew,From climes where Summer joys to roam;O! welcome to your long-lost home!"Child of the melancholy song!"Who lov'st the lonely woodland gladeTo mourn, unseen, the boughs among,When Twilight spreads her pensive shade,Again thy dulcet voice I hail!O pour again the liquid noteThat dies upon the evening gale!For Fancy loves the kindred tone;Her griefs the plaintive accents own.She loves to hear thy music floatAt solemn Midnight's stillest hour,And think on friends for ever lost,On joys by disappointment crost,And weep anew Love's charmful power!
Then Memory wakes the magic smile,Th' impassion'd voice, the melting eye,That wont the trusting heart beguile,Andwakes againthe hopeless sigh.Her skill the glowing tints reviveOf scenes that Time had bade decay;She bids the soften'd Passions live—The Passions urge again their sway.Yet o'er the long-regretted sceneThy song the grace of sorrow throws;A melancholy charm serene,More rare than all that mirth bestows,Then hail, sweet Bird, and hail thy pensive tear!To Taste, to Fancy, and to Virtue dear!
The spreading dusk at length reminded Adeline of her distance from the inn, and that she had her way to find through a wild and lonely wood: she bade adieu to the syren that had so long detained her, and pursued the path with quick steps. Having followed it for some time, she became bewildered among the thickets, and the increasing darkness did not allow her to judge of the direction she was in. Her apprehensions heightened her difficulties: she thought she distinguished the voices of men at some little distance, and she increased her speed till she found herself on the sea-sands over which the woods impended. Her breath was now exhausted—she paused a moment to recover herself, and fearfully listened: but instead of the voices of men, she heard faintly swelling in the breeze the notes of mournful music.—Her heart, ever sensible to the impressions of melody, melted with the tones, and her fears were for a moment lulled in sweet enchantment. Surprise was soon mingled with delight when, as the sound advanced, she distinguished the tone of that instrument, and the melody of that well-known air, she had heard a few preceding evenings from the shores of Provence. But she had no time for conjecture—footsteps approached, and she renewed her speed. She was now emerged from the darkness of the woods, and the moon, which shone bright, exhibited along the level sands the town and port in the distance. The steps that had followed now came up with her, and she perceived two men; but they passed in conversation without noticing her, and as they passed she was certain she recollected the voice of him who was then speaking. Its tones were so familiar to her ear, that she was surprised at the imperfect memory which did not suffer her to be assured by whom they were uttered. Another step now followed, and a rude voice called to her to stop. As she hastily turned her eyes she saw imperfectly by the moonlight a man in sailor's habit pursuing, while he renewed the call. Impelled by terror, she fled along the sands; but her steps were short and trembling—those of her pursuer strong and quick.
She had just strength sufficient to reach the men who had before passed her, and to implore their protection, when her pursuer came up with them, but suddenly turned into the woods on the left, and disappeared.
She had no breath to answer the inquiries of the strangers who supported her, till a sudden exclamation, and the sound of her own name, drew her eyes attentively upon the person who uttered them, and in the rays which shone strong from his features she distinguished M. Verneuil! Mutual satisfaction and explanation ensued; and when he learned that La Luc and his daughter were at the inn, he felt an increased pleasure in conducting her thither. He said that he had accidentally met with an old friend in Savoy, whom he now introduced by the name of Mauron, and who had prevailed on him to change his route and accompany him to the shores of the Mediterranean. They had embarked from the coast of Provence only a few preceding days, and had that evening landed in Languedoc on the estate of M. Mauron. Adeline had now no doubt that it was the flute of M. Verneuil, and which had so often delighted her at Leloncourt, that she had heard on the sea.
When they reached the inn, they found La Luc under great anxiety for Adeline, in search of whom he had sent several people. Anxiety yielded to surprise and pleasure, when he perceived her with M. Verneuil, whose eyes beamed with unusual animation on seeing Clara. After mutual congratulations, M. Verneuil observed, and lamented, the very indifferent accommodation which the inn afforded his friends, and M. Mauron immediately invited them to his chateau with a warmth of hospitality that overcame every scruple which delicacy or pride could oppose. The woods that Adeline had traversed formed a part of his domain, which extended almost to the inn; but he insisted that his carriage should take his guests to the chateau, and departed to give orders for their reception. The presence of M. Verneuil, and the kindness of his friend, gave to La Luc an unusual flow of spirits; he conversed with a degree of vigour and liveliness to which he had long been unaccustomed, and the smile of satisfaction that Clara gave to Adeline expressed how much she thought he was already benefited by the voyage. Adeline answered her look with a smile of less confidence, for she attributed his present animation to a more temporary cause.
About half an hour after the departure of M. Mauron, a boy who served as waiter brought a message from a chevalier then at the inn, requesting permission to speak with Adeline. The man who had pursued her along the sands instantly occurred to her, and she scarcely doubted that the stranger was some person belonging to the Marquis de Montalt, perhaps the Marquis himself, though that he should have discovered her accidentally, in so obscure a place, and so immediately upon her arrival, seemed very improbable. With trembling lips and a countenance pale as death she inquired the name of the chevalier. The boy was not acquainted with it. La Luc asked what sort of a person he was; but the boy, who understood little of the art of describing, gave such a confused account of him, that Adeline could only learn he was not large, but of a middle stature. This circumstance, however, convincing her it was not the Marquis de Montalt who desired to see her, she asked whether it would be agreeable to La Luc to have the stranger admitted. La Luc said, By all means; and the waiter withdrew. Adeline sat in trembling expectation till the door opened, and Louis de la Motte entered the room. He advanced with an embarrassed and melancholy air, though his countenance had been enlightened with a momentary pleasure when he first beheld Adeline—Adeline, who was still the idol of his heart. After the first salutations were over, all apprehensions of the Marquis being now dissipated, she inquired when Louis had seen Monsieur and Madame La Motte.
I ought rather to ask you that question, said Louis in some confusion, for I believe you have seen them since I have; and the pleasure of meeting you thus is equalled by my surprise. I have not heard from my father for some time, owing probably to my regiment being removed to new quarters.
He looked as if he wished to be informed with whom Adeline now was; but as this was a subject upon which it was impossible she could speak in the presence of La Luc, she led the conversation to general topics, after having said that Monsieur and Madame La Motte were well when she left them. Louis spoke little, and often looked anxiously at Adeline, while his mind seemed labouring under strong oppression. She observed this, and recollecting the declaration he had made her on the morning of his departure from the abbey, she attributed his present embarrassment to the effect of a passion yet unsubdued, and did not appear to notice it. After he had sat near a quarter of an hour, under a struggle of feelings which he could neither conquer nor conceal, he rose to leave the room; and as he passed Adeline, said, in a low voice, Do permit me to speak with you alone for five minutes. She hesitated in some confusion, and then, saying there were none but friends present, begged he would be seated.—Excuse me, said he, in the same low accent; what I would say nearly concerns you, and you only. Do favour me with a few moments' attention. He said this with a look that surprised her; and having ordered candles in another room, she went thither.
Louis sat for some moments silent, and seemingly in great perturbation of mind. At length he said, I know not whether to rejoice or to lament at this unexpected meeting, though, if you are in safe hands, I ought certainly to rejoice, however hard the task that now falls to my lot. I am not ignorant of the dangers and persecutions you have suffered, and cannot forbear expressing my anxiety to know how you are now circumstanced. Are you indeed with friends?—I am, said Adeline; M. La Motte has informed you——No, replied Louis with a deep sigh, not my father.—He paused.—But I do indeed rejoice, resumed he, O! how sincerely rejoice! that you are in safety. Could you know, lovely Adeline, what I have suffered!—He checked himself.—I understood you had something of importance to say, Sir, said Adeline; you must excuse me if I remind you that I have not many moments to spare.
It is indeed of importance, replied Louis; yet I know not how to mention it—how to soften——This task is too severe. Alas! my poor friend!
Whom is it you speak of, Sir? said Adeline with quickness. Louis rose from his chair and walked about the room. I would prepare you for what I have to say, he resumed, but upon my soul I am not equal to it.
I entreat you to keep me no longer in suspense, said Adeline, who had a wild idea that it was Theodore he would speak of. Louis still hesitated. Is it—O! is it?—I conjure you tell me the worst at once, said she in a voice of agony. I can bear it,—indeed I can.
My unhappy friend! exclaimed Louis. O! Theodore!—Theodore! faintly articulated Adeline; he lives then!—He does, said Louis, but—He stopped.—But what? cried Adeline, trembling violently; if he is living, you cannot tell me worse than my fears suggest; I entreat you therefore not to hesitate.—Louis resumed his seat and, endeavouring to assume a collected air, said, He is living, Madame, but he is a prisoner; and—for why should I deceive you? I fear he has little to hope in this world.
I have long feared so, Sir, said Adeline in a voice of forced composure; you have something more terrible than this to relate, and I again entreat you will explain yourself.
He has every thing to apprehend from the Marquis de Montalt, said Louis. Alas! why do I say to apprehend? His judgment is already fixed—he is condemned to die.
At this confirmation of her fears, a death-like paleness diffused itself over the countenance of Adeline; she sat motionless, and attempted to sigh, but seemed almost suffocated. Terrified at her situation, and expecting to see her faint, Louis would have supported her, but with her hand she waved him from her, and was unable to speak. He now called for assistance, and La Luc and Clara, with M. Verneuil, informed of Adeline's indisposition, were quickly by her side.
At the sound of their voices she looked up, and seemed to recollect herself, when uttering a heavy sigh she burst into tears. La Luc, rejoiced to see her weep, encouraged her tears, which after some time relieved her; and when she was able to speak, she desired to go back to La Luc's parlour. Louis attended her thither; when she was better he would have withdrawn, but La Luc begged he would stay.
You are perhaps a relation of this young lady, Sir, said he, and may have brought news of her father?—Not so, Sir, replied Louis, hesitating—This gentleman, said Adeline, who had now recollected her dissipated thoughts, is the son of the M. La Motte whom you may have heard me mention.—Louis seemed shocked to be declared the son of a man that had once acted so unworthily towards Adeline, who, instantly perceiving the pain her words occasioned, endeavoured to soften their effect by saying that La Motte had saved her from imminent danger, and had afforded her an asylum for many months.—Adeline sat in a state of dreadful solicitude to know the particulars of Theodore's situation, yet could not acquire courage to renew the subject in the presence of La Luc; she ventured, however, to ask Louis if his own regiment was quartered in the town.
He replied that his regiment lay at Vaceau, a French town on the frontiers of Spain; that he had just crossed a part of the Gulf of Lyons, and was on his way to Savoy, whither he should set out early in the morning.
We are lately come from thence, said Adeline; may I ask to what part of Savoy you are going?—-To Leloncourt, he replied.—To Leloncourt! said Adeline, in some surprise.—I am a stranger to the country, resumed Louis; but I go to serve my friend. You seem to know Leloncourt.—I do indeed, said Adeline.—You probably know then that M. La Luc lives there, and will guess the motive of my journey?
O Heavens! is it possible? exclaimed Adeline—is it possible that Theodore Peyrou is a relation of M. La Luc?
Theodore! what of my son? asked La Luc in surprise and apprehension—Your son! said Adeline, in a trembling voice—your son!—The astonishment and anguish depicted on her countenance increased the apprehensions of this unfortunate father, and he renewed his question. But Adeline was totally unable to answer him; and the distress of Louis, on thus unexpectedly discovering the father of his unhappy friend, and knowing that it was his task to disclose the fate of his son, deprived him for some time of all power of utterance; and La Luc and Clara, whose fears were every instant heightened by this dreadful silence, continued to repeat their questions.
At length a sense of the approaching sufferings of the good La Luc overcoming every other feeling, Adeline recovered strength of mind sufficient to try to soften the intelligence Louis had to communicate, and to conduct Clara to another room. Here she collected resolution to tell her, and with much tender consideration, the circumstances of her brother's situation, concealing only her knowledge of his sentence being already pronounced. This relation necessarily included the mention of their attachment, and in the friend of her heart Clara discovered the innocent cause of her brother's destruction. Adeline also learned the occasion of that circumstance which had contributed to keep her ignorant of Theodore's relationship to La Luc; she was told the former had taken the name of Peyrou, with an estate which had been left him about a year before by a relation of his mother's upon that condition. Theodore had been designed for the church, but his disposition inclined him to a more active life than the clerical habit would admit of; and on his accession to this estate he had entered into the service of the French king.
In the few and interrupted interviews which had been allowed them at Caux, Theodore had mentioned his family to Adeline only in general terms; and thus, when they were so suddenly separated, had, without designing it, left her in ignorance of his father's name and place of residence.
The sacredness and delicacy of Adeline's grief, which had never permitted her to mention the subject of it even to Clara, had since contributed to deceive her.
The distress of Clara, on learning the situation of her brother, could endure no restraint; Adeline, who had commanded her feelings so as to impart this intelligence with tolerable composure, only by a strong effort of mind, was now almost overwhelmed by her own and Clara's accumulated suffering. While they wept forth the anguish of their hearts; a scene if possible, more affecting passed between La Luc and Louis; who perceived it was necessary to inform him, though cautiously and by degrees, of the full extent of his calamity. He, therefore, told La Luc, that though Theodore had been first tried for the offence of having quitted his post, he was now condemned on a charge of assault made upon his general officer the Marquis de Montalt, who had brought witnesses to prove that his life had been endangered by the circumstance; and who, having pursued the prosecution with the most bitter rancour, had at length obtained the sentence which the law could not withhold, but which every other officer in the regiment deplored.
Louis added, that the sentence was to be executed in less than a fortnight, and that Theodore being very unhappy at receiving no answers to the letters he had sent his father, wishing to see him once more, and knowing that there was now no time to be lost, had requested him to go to Leloncourt and acquaint his father with his situation.
La Luc received the account of his son's condition with a distress that admitted neither of tears nor complaint. He asked where Theodore was; and desiring to be conducted to him, he thanked Louis for all his kindness, and ordered post horses immediately.
A carriage was soon ready; and this unhappy father, after taking a mournful leave of M. Verneuil, and sending a compliment to M. Mauron, attended by his family set out for the prison of his son. The journey was a silent one; each individual of the party endeavoured, in consideration of each other, to suppress the expression of grief, but was unable to do more. La Luc appeared calm and complacent; he seemed frequently to be engaged in prayer; but a struggle for resignation and composure was sometimes visible upon his countenance, notwithstanding the efforts of his mind.