The Romance of the Forest

till Fancy, to herself unkind,
Awakes to grief the soften'd mind.
And points the bleeding friend.

COLLINS.

Adeline, assisted by a fine constitution, and the kind attentions of her
new friends, was in a little more than a week so much recovered as to
leave her chamber. She was introduced to La Luc, whom she met with tears
of gratitude, and thanked for his goodness in a manner so warm, yet so
artless, as interested him still more in her favour. During the progress
of her recovery, the sweetness of her behaviour had entirely won the
heart of Clara, and greatly interested that of her aunt, whose reports
of Adeline, together with the praises bestowed by Clara, had excited
both esteem and curiosity in the breast of La Luc; and he now met her
with an expression of benignity which spoke peace and comfort to her
heart. She had acquainted Madame La Luc with such particulars of her
story as Peter, either through ignorance or inattention, had not
communicated, suppressing only, through a false delicacy perhaps, an
acknowledgment of her attachment to Theodore. These circumstances were
repeated to La Luc, who, ever sensible to the sufferings of others, was
particularly interested by the singular misfortunes of Adeline.

Near a fortnight had elapsed since her removal to the chateau, when one
morning La Luc desired to speak with her alone. She followed him into
his study, and then in a manner the most delicate he told her, that as
he found she was so unfortunate in her father, he desired she would
henceforth consider him as her parent, and his house as her home. You
and Clara shall be equally my daughters, continued he; I am rich in
having such children. The strong emotions of surprise and gratitude for
some time kept Adeline silent. Do not thank me, said La Luc; I know all
you would say, and I know also that I am but doing my duty: I thank God
that my duty and my pleasures are generally in unison. Adeline wiped
away the tears which his goodness had excited, and was going to speak;
but La Luc pressed her hand, and turning away to conceal his emotion,
walked out of the room.

Adeline was now considered as a part of the family; and in the parental
kindness of La Luc, the sisterly affection of Clara, and the steady and
uniform regard of Madame, she would have been happy as she was thankful,
had not unceasing anxiety for the fate of Theodore, of whom in this
solitude she was less likely than ever to hear, corroded her heart, and
embittered every moment of reflection. Even when sleep obliterated for
awhile the memory of the past, his image frequently arose to her fancy,
accompanied by all the exaggerations of terror. She saw him in chains,
and struggling in the grasp of ruffians, or saw him led, amidst the
dreadful preparations for execution, into the field: she saw the agony
of his look, and heard him repeat her name in frantic accents, till the
horrors of the scene overcame her and she awoke.

A similarity of taste and character attached her to Clara; yet the
misery that preyed upon her heart was of a nature too delicate to be
spoken of, and she never mentioned Theodore even to her friend. Her
illness had yet left her weak and languid, and the perpetual anxiety of
her mind contributed to prolong this state. She endeavoured by strong
and almost continual efforts to abstract her thoughts from their
mournful subject, and was often successful. La Luc had an excellent
library, and the instruction it offered at once gratified her love of
knowledge, and withdrew her mind from painful recollections. His
conversation too afforded her another refuge from misery.

But her chief amusement was to wander among the sublime scenery of the
adjacent country, sometimes with Clara, though often with no other
companion than a book. There were indeed times when the conversation of
her friend imposed a painful restraint, and, when, given up to
reflection, she would ramble alone through scenes whose solitary
grandeur assisted and soothed the melancholy of her heart. Here she
would retrace all the conduct of her beloved Theodore, and endeavour to
recollect his exact countenance, his air and manner. Now she would weep
at the remembrance, and then, suddenly considering that he had perhaps
already suffered an ignominious death for her sake, even in consequence
of the very action which had proved his love, a dreadful despair would
seize her, and, arresting her tears, would threaten to bear down every
barrier that fortitude and reason could oppose.

Fearing longer to trust her own thoughts, she would hurry home, and by a
desperate effort would try to lose, in the conversation of La Luc, the
remembrance of the past. Her melancholy, when he observed it, La Luc
attributed to a sense of the cruel treatment she had received from her
father; a circumstance which, by exciting his compassion, endeared her
more strongly to his heart; while that love of rational conversation,
which in her calmer hours so frequently appeared, opened to him a new
source of amusement in the cultivation of a mind eager for knowledge,
and susceptible of all the energies of genius. She found a melancholy
pleasure in listening to the soft tones of Clara's lute, and would often
soothe her mind by attempting to repeat the airs she heard.

The gentleness of her manners, partaking so much of that pensive
character which marked La Luc's, was soothing to his heart, and
tinctured his behaviour with a degree of tenderness that imparted
comfort to her, and gradually won her entire confidence and affection.
She saw with extreme concern the declining state of his health, and
united her efforts with those of the family to amuse and revive him.

The pleasing society of which she partook, and the quietness of the
country, at length restored her mind to a state of tolerable composure.
She was now acquainted with all the wild walks of the neighbouring
mountains; and never tired of viewing their astonishing scenery, she
often indulged herself in traversing alone their unfrequented paths,
where now and then a peasant from a neighbouring village was all that
interrupted the profound solitude. She generally took with her a book,
that if she perceived her thought inclined to fix on the one object of
her grief, she might force them to a subject less dangerous to her
peace. She had become a tolerable proficient in English while at the
convent where she received her education, and the instruction of La Luc,
who was well acquainted with the language, now served to perfect her. He
was partial to the English; he admired their character, and the
constitution of their laws, and his library contained a collection of
their best authors, particularly of their philosophers and poets.
Adeline found that no species of writing had power so effectually to
withdraw her mind from the contemplation of its own misery as the higher
kinds of poetry, and in these her taste soon taught her to distinguish
the superiority of the English from that of the French. The genius of
the language, more perhaps than the genius of the people, if indeed the
distinction may be allowed, occasioned this.

She frequently took a volume of Shakespeare or of Milton, and, having
gained some wild eminence, would seat herself beneath the pines, whose
low murmurs soothed her heart, and conspired with the visions of the
poet to lull her to forgetfulness of grief.

One evening, when Clara was engaged at home, Adeline wandered alone to a
favourite spot among the rocks that bordered the lake. It was an
eminence which commanded an entire view of the lake, and of the
stupendous mountains that environed it. A few ragged thorns grew from
the precipice beneath, which descended perpendicularly to the water's
edge; and above rose a thick wood of larch, pine, and fir, intermingled
with some chesnut and mountain ash. The evening was fine, and the air so
still that it scarcely waved the light leaves of the trees around, or
rippled the broad expanse of the waters below. Adeline gazed on the
scene with a kind of still rapture, and watched the sun sinking amid a
crimson glow, which tinted the bosom of the lake and the snowy heads of
the distant Alps. The delight which the scenery inspired:

Soothing each gust of passion into peace,
All but the swellings of the soften'd heart,
That waken, not disturb, the tranquil mind;

was now heightened by the tones of a French horn, and, looking on the
lake, she perceived at some distance a pleasure-boat. As it was a
spectacle rather uncommon in this solitude, she concluded the boat
contained a party of foreigners come to view the wonderful scenery of
the country, or perhaps of Genevois, who choose to amuse themselves on
a lake as grand, though much less extensive, than their own; and the
latter conjecture was probably just.

As she listened to the mellow and enchanting tones of the horn, which
gradually sunk away in distance, the scene appeared more lovely than
before; and finding it impossible to forbear attempting to paint in
language what was so beautiful in reality, she composed the following:

STANZAS

How smooth that lake expands its ample breast!
Where smiles in soften'd glow the summer sky:
How vast the rocks that o'er its surface rest!
How wild the scenes its winding shores supply!

Now down the western steep slow sinks the sun,
And paints with yellow gleam the tufted woods;
While here the mountain-shadows, broad and dun,
Sweep o'er the crystal mirror of the floods.

Mark how his splendour tips with partial light
Those shatter'd battlements! that on the brow
Of yon bold promontory burst to sight
From o'er the woods that darkly spread below.

In the soft blush of light's reflected power,
The ridgy rock, the woods that crown its steep,
Th' illumin'd battlement, and darker tower,
On the smooth wave in trembling beauty sleep.

But, lo! the sun recalls his fervid ray,
And cold and dim the watery visions fail;
While o'er yon cliff, whose pointed crags decay,
Mild evening draws her thin empurpled veil!

How sweet that strain of melancholy horn!
That floats along the slowly-ebbing wave,
And up the far-receding mountains borne,
Returns a dying close from Echo's cave!

Hail! shadowy forms of still, expressive Eve!
Your pensive graces stealing on my heart,
Bid all the fine-attun'd emotions live,
And Fancy all her loveliest dreams impart.

La Luc observing how much Adeline was charmed with the features of the
country, and desirous of amusing her melancholy, which, notwithstanding
her efforts, was often too apparent, wished to show her other scenes
than those to which her walks were circumscribed. He proposed a party on
horseback to take a nearer view of the Glaciers; to attempt their ascent
was a difficulty and fatigue to which neither La Luc, in his present
state of health, nor Adeline were equal. She had not been accustomed to
ride single, and the mountainous road they were to pass made the
experiment rather dangerous; but she concealed her fears, and they were
not sufficient to make her wish to forego an enjoyment such as was now
offered her.

The following day was fixed for this excursion. La Luc and his party
arose at an early hour, and having taken a slight breakfast, they set
out towards the Glacier of Montanvert, which lay at a few leagues
distance. Peter carried a small basket of provisions; and it was their
plan to dine on some pleasant spot in the open air.

It is unnecessary to describe the high enthusiasm of Adeline, the more
complacent pleasure of La Luc, and the transports of Clara, as the
scenes of this romantic country shifted to their eyes. Now frowning in
dark and gloomy grandeur, it exhibited only tremendous rocks and
cataracts rolling from the heights into some deep and narrow valley,
along which their united waters roared and foamed, and burst away to
regions inaccessible to mortal foot: and now the scene arose less
fiercely wild:

The pomp of groves and garniture of fields

were intermingled with the ruder features of nature; and while the snow
froze on the summit of the mountain, the vine blushed at its foot.

Engaged in interesting conversation, and by the admiration which the
country excited, they travelled on till noon, when they looked round for
a pleasant spot where they might rest and take refreshment. At some
little distance they perceived the ruins of a fabric which had once been
a castle; it stood almost on a point of rock that overhung a deep
valley; and its broken turrets rising from among the woods that
embosomed it, heightened the picturesque beauty of the object.

The edifice invited curiosity, and the shades repose--La Luc and his
party advanced.

Deep struck with awe they mark'd the dome o'erthrown,
Where once the beauty bloom'd, the warrior shone:
They saw the castle's mouldering towers decay'd,
The loose stone tottering o'er the trembling shade.

They seated themselves on the grass under the shade of some high trees
near the ruins. An opening in the woods afforded a view of the distant
Alps--the deep silence of solitude reigned. For some time they were lost
in meditation. Adeline felt a sweet complacency, such as she had long
been a stranger to. Looking at La Luc, she perceived a tear stealing
down his cheek, while the elevation of his mind was strongly expressed
on his countenance. He turned on Clara his eyes, which were now filled
with tenderness, and made an effort to recover himself.

The stillness and total seclusion of this scene, said Adeline, those
stupendous mountains, the gloomy grandeur of these woods, together with
that monument of faded glory on which the hand of time is so
emphatically impressed, diffuse a sacred enthusiasm over the mind, and
awaken sensations truly sublime.

La Luc was going to speak; but Peter coming forward, desired to know
whether he had not better open the wallet, as he fancied his honour and
the young ladies must be main hungry, jogging on so far up hill and down
before dinner. They acknowledged the truth of honest Peter's suspicion,
and accepted his hint.

Refreshments were spread on the grass; and having seated themselves
under the canopy of waving woods, surrounded by the sweets of wild
flowers, they inhaled the pure breeze of the Alps, which might be called
spirit of air, and partook of a repast which these circumstances
rendered delicious.

When they arose to depart,--I am unwilling, said Clara, to quit this
charming spot. How delightful would it be to pass one's life beneath
these shades with the friends who are dear to one!--La Luc smiled at the
romantic simplicity of the idea: but Adeline sighed deeply to the image
of felicity and of Theodore which it recalled, and turned away to
conceal her tears.

They now mounted their horses, and soon after arrived at the foot of
Montanvert. The emotions of Adeline, as she contemplated in various
points of view the astonishing objects around her, surpassed all
expression; and the feelings of the whole party were too strong to admit
of conversation. The profound stillness which reigned in these regions
of solitude inspired awe, and heightened the sublimity of the scenery to
an exquisite degree.

It seems, said Adeline, as if we were walking over the ruins of the
world, and were the only persons who had survived the wreck. I can
scarcely persuade myself that we are not left alone on the globe.

The view of these objects, said La Luc, lift the soul to their Great
Author, and we contemplate with a feeling almost too vast for
humanity--the sublimity of his nature in the grandeur of his works.--La
Luc raised his eyes, filled with tears, to heaven, and was for some
moments lost in silent adoration.

They quitted these scenes with extreme reluctance; but the hour of the
day, and the appearance of the clouds, which seemed gathering for a
storm, made them hasten their departure. Could she have been sheltered
from its fury, Adeline almost wished to have witnessed the tremendous
effect of a thunder storm in these regions.

They returned to Leloncourt by a different route, and the shade of the
overhanging precipices was deepened by the gloom of the atmosphere. It
was evening when they came within view of the lake, which the travelers
rejoiced to see, for the storm so long threatened was now fast
approaching; the thunder murmured among the Alps; and the dark vapours
that rolled heavily along their sides heightened their dreadful
sublimity. La Luc would have quickened his pace, but the road winding
down the steep side of a mountain made caution necessary. The darkening
air and the lightnings that now flashed along the horizon terrified
Clara, but she withheld the expression of her fear in consideration of
her father. A peal of thunder, which seemed to shake the earth to its
foundations, and was reverberated in tremendous echoes from the cliffs,
burst over their heads. Clara's horse took fright at the sound, and
setting off, hurried her with amazing velocity down the mountain towards
the lake, which washed its foot. The agony of La Luc, who viewed her
progress in the horrible expectation of seeing her dashed down the
precipice that bordered the road, is not to be described.

Clara kept her seat, but terror had almost deprived her of sense. Her
efforts to preserve herself were mechanical, for she scarcely knew what
she did. The horse, however, carried her safely almost to the foot of
the mountain, but was making towards the lake, when a gentleman who
travelled along the road caught the bridle as the animal endeavoured to
pass. The sudden stopping of the horse threw Clara to the ground, and,
impatient of restraint, the animal burst from the hand of the stranger,
and plunged into the lake. The violence of the fall deprived her of
recollection; but while the stranger endeavoured to support her, his
servant ran to fetch water.

She soon recovered, and unclosing her eyes found herself in the arms of
a chevalier, who appeared to support her with difficulty. The compassion
expressed in his countenance while he inquired how she did, revived her
spirits; and she was endeavouring to thank him for his kindness, when La
Luc and Adeline came up. The terror impressed on her father's features
was perceived by Clara; languid as she was, she tried to raise herself,
and said with a faint smile, which betrayed instead of disguising her
sufferings, Dear Sir, I am not hurt. Her pale countenance and the blood
that trickled down her cheek contradicted her words. But La Luc, to whom
terror had suggested the utmost possible evil, now rejoiced to hear her
speak; he recalled some presence of mind, and while Adeline applied her
salts, he chafed her temples.

When she revived, she told him how much she was obliged to the stranger.
La Luc endeavoured to express his gratitude; but the former interrupting
him, begged he might be spared the pain of receiving thanks for having
followed only an impulse of common humanity.

They were now not far from Leloncourt; but the evening was almost shut
in, and the thunder murmured deeply among the hills. La Luc was
distressed how to convey Clara home.

In endeavouring to raise her from the ground, the stranger betrayed such
evident symptoms of pain, that La Luc inquired concerning it. The sudden
jerk which the horse had given the arm of the chevalier, in escaping
from his hold, had violently sprained his shoulder, and rendered his arm
almost useless. The pain was exquisite; and La Luc, whose fears for his
daughter were now subsiding, was shocked at the circumstance, and
pressed the stranger to accompany him to the village, where relief might
be obtained. He accepted the invitation; and Clara, being at length
placed on a horse led by her father, was conducted to the chateau.

When Madame, who had been looking out for La Luc some time, perceived
the cavalcade approaching, she was alarmed, and her apprehensions were
confirmed when she saw the situation of her niece. Clara was carried
into the house, and La Luc would have sent for a surgeon, but there was
none within several leagues of the village, neither were there any of
the physical profession within the same distance. Clara was assisted to
her chamber by Adeline, and Madame La Luc undertook to examine the
wounds. The result restored peace to the family, for though she was much
bruised, she had escaped material injury; a slight contusion on the
forehead had occasioned the bloodshed which at first alarmed La Luc.
Madame undertook to restore her niece in a few days with the assistance
of a balsam composed by herself, on the virtues of which she descanted
with great eloquence, till La Luc interrupted her by reminding her of
the condition of her patient.

Madame having bathed Clara's bruises, and given her a cordial of
incomparable efficacy, left her; and Adeline watched in the chamber of
her friend till she retired to her own for the night.

La Luc, whose spirits had suffered much perturbation, was now
tranquillized by the report his sister made of Clara. He introduced the
stranger; and having mentioned the accident he had met with, desired
that he might have immediate assistance. Madame hastened to her closet;
and it is perhaps difficult to determine whether she felt most concern
for the sufferings of her guest, or pleasure at the opportunity thus
offered of displaying her medical skill. However this might be, she
quitted the room with great alacrity, and very quickly returned with a
phial containing her inestimable balsam; and having given the necessary
directions for the application of it, she left the stranger to the care
of his servant.

La Luc insisted that the chevalier, M. Verneuil, should not leave the
chateau that night, and he very readily submitted to be detained. His
manners during the evening were as frank and engaging as the hospitality
and gratitude of La Luc were sincere, and they soon entered into
interesting conversation. M. Verneuil conversed like a man who had seen
much, and thought more; and if he discovered any prejudice in his
opinions, it was evidently the prejudice of a mind which, seeing objects
through the medium of his own goodness, tinges them with the hue of its
predominant quality. La Luc was much pleased, for in his retired
situation he had not often an opportunity of receiving the pleasure
which results from a communion of intelligent minds. He found that M.
Verneuil had travelled. La Luc having asked some questions relative to
England, they fell into discourse concerning the national characters of
the French and English.

If it is the privilege of wisdom, said M. Verneuil, to look beyond
happiness, I own I had rather be without it. When we observe the
English, their laws, writings, and conversations, and at the same time
mark their countenances, manners, and the frequency of suicide among
them, we are apt to believe that wisdom and happiness are incompatible.
If, on the other hand, we turn to their neighbours, the French, and
see[1] their wretched policy, their sparkling but sophistical discourse,
frivolous occupations, and, withal, their gay animated air, we shall be
compelled to acknowledge that happiness and folly too often dwell
together.

It is the end of wisdom, said La Luc, to attain happiness, and I can
hardly dignify that conduct or course of thinking which tends to misery
with the name of wisdom. By this rule, perhaps, the folly, as we term
it, of the French deserves, since its effect is happiness, to be called
wisdom. That airy thoughtlessness, which alike to contemn reflection and
anticipation, produces all the effect of it without reducing its
subjects to the mortification of philosophy. But in truth wisdom is an
exertion of mind to subdue folly; and as the happiness of the French is
less the consequence of mind than of constitution, it deserves not the
honours of wisdom.

Discoursing on the variety of opinions that are daily formed on the same
conduct, La Luc observed how much that which is commonly called opinion
is the result of passion and temper.

True, said M. Vernueil, there is a tone of thought, as there is a key
note in music, that leads all its weaker affections. Thus, where the
powers of judging may be equal, the disposition to judge is different;
and the actions of men are but too often arraigned by whim and caprice,
by partial vanity, and the humour of the moment.

Here La Luc took occasion to reprobate the conduct of those writers,
who, by showing the dark side only of human nature, and by dwelling on
the evils only which are incident to humanity, have sought to degrade
man in his own eyes, and to make him discontented with life. What should
we say of a painter, continued La Luc, who collected in his piece
objects of a black hue only, who presents you with a black man, a black
horse, a black dog, &c. &c., and tells you that his is a picture of
nature, and that nature is black?--'Tis true, you would reply, the
objects you exhibit do exist in nature, but they form a very small part
of her works. You say that nature is black, and, to prove it, you have
collected on your canvass all the animals of this hue that exist. But
you have forgot to paint the green earth, the blue sky, the white man,
and objects of all those various hues with which creation abounds, and
of which black is a very inconsiderable part.

The countenance of M. Verneuil lightened with peculiar animation during
the discourse of La Luc.--To think well of his nature, said he, is
necessary to the dignity and the happiness of man. There is a decent
pride which becomes every mind, and is congenial to virtue. That
consciousness of innate dignity, which shows him the glory of his
nature, will be his best protection from the meanness of vice. Where
this consciousness is wanting, continued M. Verneuil, there can be no
sense of moral honour, and consequently none of the higher principles of
action. What can be expected of him who says it is his nature to be mean
and selfish? Or who can doubt that he who thinks thus, thinks from the
experience of his own heart, from the tendency of his own inclinations?
Let it always be remembered, that he who would persuade men to be good,
ought to show them that they are great.

You speak, said La Luc, with the honest enthusiasm of a virtuous mind;
and in obeying the impulse of your heart, you utter the truths of
philosophy: and, trust me, a bad heart and a truly philosophic head have
never yet been united in the same individual. Vicious inclinations not
only corrupt the heart, but the understanding, and thus lead to false
reasoning. Virtue only is on the side of truth.

La Luc and his guest, mutually pleased with each other, entered upon the
discussion of subjects so interesting to them both, that it was late
before they parted for the night.

[Footnote 1: It must be remembered that this was said in the
seventeenth century.]