Lull'd in the countless chambers of the brain,
Our thoughts are link'd by many a hidden chain:
Awake but one, and lo! what myriads rise!
Each stamps its image as the other flies!
PLEASURES OF MEMORY
Emily pursued her journey, without any accident, along the plains of
Languedoc towards the north-west; and, on this her return to Tholouse,
which she had last left with Madame Montoni, she thought much on the
melancholy fate of her aunt, who, but for her own imprudence, might now
have been living in happiness there! Montoni, too, often rose to her
fancy, such as she had seen him in his days of triumph, bold, spirited
and commanding; such also as she had since beheld him in his days of
vengeance; and now, only a few short months had passed--and he had
no longer the power, or the will to afflict;--he had become a clod of
earth, and his life was vanished like a shadow! Emily could have wept at
his fate, had she not remembered his crimes; for that of her unfortunate
aunt she did weep, and all sense of her errors was overcome by the
recollection of her misfortunes.
Other thoughts and other emotions succeeded, as Emily drew near the
well-known scenes of her early love, and considered, that Valancourt was
lost to her and to himself, for ever. At length, she came to the brow of
the hill, whence, on her departure for Italy, she had given a farewell
look to this beloved landscape, amongst whose woods and fields she had
so often walked with Valancourt, and where he was then to inhabit,
when she would be far, far away! She saw, once more, that chain of the
Pyrenees, which overlooked La Vallee, rising, like faint clouds, on the
horizon.
'There, too, is Gascony, extended at their feet!' said she,
'O my father,--my mother! And there, too, is the Garonne!' she added,
drying the tears, that obscured her sight,--'and Tholouse, and my aunt's
mansion--and the groves in her garden!--O my friends! are ye all lost
to me--must I never, never see ye more!' Tears rushed again to her eyes,
and she continued to weep, till an abrupt turn in the road had nearly
occasioned the carriage to overset, when, looking up, she perceived
another part of the well-known scene around Tholouse, and all the
reflections and anticipations, which she had suffered, at the moment,
when she bade it last adieu, came with recollected force to her heart.
She remembered how anxiously she had looked forward to the futurity,
which was to decide her happiness concerning Valancourt, and what
depressing fears had assailed her; the very words she had uttered, as
she withdrew her last look from the prospect, came to her memory. 'Could
I but be certain,' she had then said, 'that I should ever return, and
that Valancourt would still live for me--I should go in peace!'