'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, Ifear, 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.Ihave 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.'Irepeat 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 Iknow, 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.
St.Aubert lingered till about three o'clock in the afternoon, and, thus gradually sinking into death, he expired without a struggle, or a sigh.
Emily was led from the chamber by La Voisin and his daughter, who did what they could to comfort her.The old man sat and wept with her.
Agnes was more erroneously officious.