The Mysteries of Udolpho

I could a tale unfold, whose lightest word

Would harrow up thy soul.

SHAKESPEARE

Madame St. Aubert was interred in the neighbouring village church; her

husband and daughter attended her to the grave, followed by a long train

of the peasantry, who were sincere mourners of this excellent woman.

On his return from the funeral, St. Aubert shut himself in his chamber.

When he came forth, it was with a serene countenance, though pale in

sorrow. He gave orders that his family should attend him. Emily only was

absent; who, overcome with the scene she had just witnessed, had retired

to her closet to weep alone. St. Aubert followed her thither: he took

her hand in silence, while she continued to weep; and it was some

moments before he could so far command his voice as to speak. It

trembled while he said, 'My Emily, I am going to prayers with my family;

you will join us. We must ask support from above. Where else ought we to

seek it--where else can we find it?'

Emily checked her tears, and followed her father to the parlour, where,

the servants being assembled, St. Aubert read, in a low and solemn

voice, the evening service, and added a prayer for the soul of the

departed. During this, his voice often faltered, his tears fell upon the

book, and at length he paused. But the sublime emotions of pure devotion

gradually elevated his views above this world, and finally brought

comfort to his heart.

When the service was ended, and the servants were withdrawn, he tenderly

kissed Emily, and said, 'I have endeavoured to teach you, from your

earliest youth, the duty of self-command; I have pointed out to you the

great importance of it through life, not only as it preserves us in

the various and dangerous temptations that call us from rectitude and

virtue, but as it limits the indulgences which are termed virtuous,

yet which, extended beyond a certain boundary, are vicious, for their

consequence is evil. All excess is vicious; even that sorrow, which is

amiable in its origin, becomes a selfish and unjust passion, if indulged

at the expence of our duties--by our duties I mean what we owe to

ourselves, as well as to others. The indulgence of excessive grief

enervates the mind, and almost incapacitates it for again partaking of

those various innocent enjoyments which a benevolent God designed to be

the sun-shine of our lives. My dear Emily, recollect and practise the

precepts I have so often given you, and which your own experience has so

often shewn you to be wise. 'Your sorrow is useless.