of pride and vanity. Nevertheless, his countenance was illumined, was strongly marked; a deep reflection,—a composure, like that which springs from calm of conscience, bespoke a mind at last subdued and at rest with itself, after having been long subjected to the influence of irregular feeling, and tossed by tumultuous passions.
The rational part of his nature, or that dignity of thought which prompts to virtue, had entirely established its empire over him,—had taught him to curb and restrain those strong propensities of his nature, which, for want of being directed to their due order, had so frequently led him, during the earlier part of his life, into the commission of error, and the perversion of his fine understanding.
Acute bodily sufferings, but recently endured from a deep and dangerous wound, had given to him an emaciated appearance, serving the more forcibly to mark the bust-like cast of his expressive features, whilst the slight languor visible in his lofty, slender, but perfect form, gave a still higher interest to the exquisite grace, the elegance which characterized his whole deportment. The spring of his days had just passed, and, though but turned of thirty, he appeared as if in the meridian of his summer.
Having resumed his self-command, Douglas inquired of Rosilia very particularly after every individual of her family; to which replying, and feeling by
