The Mysteries of Udolpho

'The world,' said he, pursuing this train of thought, 'ridicules a

passion which it seldom feels; its scenes, and its interests, distract

the mind, deprave the taste, corrupt the heart, and love cannot exist

in a heart that has lost the meek dignity of innocence. Virtue and taste

are nearly the same, for virtue is little more than active taste, and

the most delicate affections of each combine in real love. How then are

we to look for love in great cities, where selfishness, dissipation, and

insincerity supply the place of tenderness, simplicity and truth?'

It was near noon, when the travellers, having arrived at a piece of

steep and dangerous road, alighted to walk. The road wound up an ascent,

that was clothed with wood, and, instead of following the carriage, they

entered the refreshing shade. A dewy coolness was diffused upon the air,

which, with the bright verdure of turf, that grew under the trees, the

mingled fragrance of flowers and of balm, thyme, and lavender, that

enriched it, and the grandeur of the pines, beech, and chestnuts, that

overshadowed them, rendered this a most delicious retreat. Sometimes,

the thick foliage excluded all view of the country; at others, it

admitted some partial catches of the distant scenery, which gave

hints to the imagination to picture landscapes more interesting, more

impressive, than any that had been presented to the eye. The wanderers

often lingered to indulge in these reveries of fancy.

The pauses of silence, such as had formerly interrupted the

conversations of Valancourt and Emily, were more frequent today than

ever. Valancourt often dropped suddenly from the most animating vivacity

into fits of deep musing, and there was, sometimes, an unaffected

melancholy in his smile, which Emily could not avoid understanding, for

her heart was interested in the sentiment it spoke.

St. Aubert was refreshed by the shades, and they continued to saunter

under them, following, as nearly as they could guess, the direction of

the road, till they perceived that they had totally lost it. They had

continued near the brow of the precipice, allured by the scenery

it exhibited, while the road wound far away over the cliff above.

Valancourt called loudly to Michael, but heard no voice, except his own,

echoing among the rocks, and his various efforts to regain the road were

equally unsuccessful. While they were thus circumstanced, they perceived

a shepherd's cabin, between the boles of the trees at some distance, and

Valancourt bounded on first to ask assistance. When he reached it, he

saw only two little children, at play, on the turf before the door. He

looked into the hut, but no person was there, and the eldest of the boys

told him that their father was with his flocks, and their mother was

gone down into the vale, but would be back presently. As he stood,

considering what was further to be done, on a sudden he heard Michael's

voice roaring forth most manfully among the cliffs above, till he

made their echoes ring. Valancourt immediately answered the call, and

endeavoured to make his way through the thicket that clothed the steeps,

following the direction of the sound. After much struggle over brambles

and precipices, he reached Michael, and at length prevailed with him to

be silent, and to listen to him. The road was at a considerable distance

from the spot where St. Aubert and Emily were; the carriage could not

easily return to the entrance of the wood, and, since it would be very

fatiguing for St. Aubert to climb the long and steep road to the place

where it now stood, Valancourt was anxious to find a more easy ascent,

by the way he had himself passed.