P& CI 3 1924 085 373 1 36 Cornell University Library The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924085373136 In compliance with current copyright law, Cornell University Library produced this replacement volume on paper that meets the ANSI Standard Z39.48-1992 to replace the irreparably deteriorated original. 1999 CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY COEieE; OR, ITALY MADAMJiJ UE STAEL TRANSLATED BY ISABEL HILL WITH •arSICAL VEESIONS OF THE ODES BY L. E. LAUDOS NEW YORK: HTBST & CO., PXJBLISHEBS} .'C(' CORINNE. BOOK J CHAPTER L In the year 1794, Oswald, Lord NevU, a Scotch nobleman, teft Edinburgh to pass the winter in Italy.* He possessed a noble and Iiandsome person, a fine mind, a great name, an independent fortune ; but his health was impaired ; and the physicians, fearing that hi* lui.'."^'weTe affected, prescribed the air of the south. He followoi thet advice, though with little interest in his own recovery, hopiog, at least, to find some amusement in the varied objects he was about to behcM. The heaviest of his afflictions, the loss of a father, was the cAuae of his malady. The remorse inspired by scrupulous deli- cacy stiU more embittered his regrei, and haunted: his imagination. Buch f .offerings we readily convince ourselves that we deserve, for violent griefs extend their influence even over the realms of con- science. At five-and-twenty he was tired of life ; he judged the future by the past, and no longer relished the illusions of the heart. No one could be more devoted to the service of his friends ; yet not even the good he effected gave him one sensation of pleasure. Ho constantly sacrificed his tastes to those of others ; but this generosity Alone far from proving a total forgetfulness of self, may often be at- tributed to a degree of melancholy, which renders a man careless-of * Neither of these namei Is Scotch. We are not informed whether the bero'k ' u hie title. He ilciu th* •a ^-g"-*— r~ Tsm ^t%it*uvt u& »U1»>« uaiucp ID OVUfcUU. Ttis Mrv Hub lui Chrietian oame is Oswald, or Neyil bis family one, as well as his title. He sicnath* Iba former to hi* kttan, and GOnatantlr calla bimaelf ~ - ■ ^ IiaTOBi 4 CORINNB ; OR, ITALY. his own doom. The indifferent considered this mood extremely graceful ; but those who loved him felt that he employed himself for the happiness of others, like a man who hoped for none ; and they almost repined at receiving felicity from one on wh^ im they could never bestow it. His natural disposition was versatile, sensi- tive, and impassioned ; uniting all the quUities which could excite himself or others ; but misfortune and repentance h;id rendered him timid, and lie thought to disarm, by exacting nothing from fate. He trusted to find, in a firm adherence to his duties, and a renouncement of all enjoyments, a security against the sorrows which had distract- ed him. Nothing in the world seemed worth the risk of these pangs ; but while we are still capable of feeling them, to what kind of life can we fly for shelter ? Lord Nevil flattered himself that he should quit Scotland without regret, as he had remained there without pleasure ; but the danger- ous dreams of imaginative minds are not thus fulfilled ; he was sen- sible of the ties which bound him to the scene of his miseries, the home of his father. There were rooms he could fiot approach with- out a shudder, and yet, when he had resolved to fly them, he felt more alone than ever. A barren dearth seized on his heart ; he could no longer weep ; no more recall those little local associatii/ns which had so deeply melted him ; his recollections nad less of life ; they belonged not to the things that surrounded him. He did not think the less of those he mourned, but it became more difficult to conjure back their presence. . Sometimes, too, he reproached himself for abandoning the place where his father had dwelt. " Who knows," would he sigh, " if the shades of the dead follow the objects of their affection ? They may not be permitted to wander beyond the spots where their ashes repose ! Perhaps, at this moment, is my father deploring my absence, powerless to recall me. Alas ! may not a host of wild events have persuaded him that I have betrayed his tenderness, turned rebel to my country, to his will, and all that is sacred on earth ?" These remembrances occasioned him such insupportable despair, that, far from daring to confide them to any one he dreaded to Bound their depths nimself ; so easy is it, out of ouc own reflections, to create irreparable evils ! It costs added pain to leave one's country, when one must cross the sea. There is such solemnity in a pilgrimage, the first steps of which are on the ocean. It seems as if a gulf were opening behind you, and your return becoming impossible ; besides, the sight of the main always profoundly impresses us, as the image of tliat infinitude wiiich perpetually attracts the soid, and in whicii thought ever feels herself lost. Oswald, leaning near the helm, his eyes fixed on the Waves, appeared perfectly calm. Pride and I'ifiidence generally prevented his betraying his emotions even before his friends ; but ■ad feelings struggled within. He thought on the time when that OSWALD. 5 spectacle animated his youth witli a desire to buffet the tides, and measure his strength with theirs. " Why," he bitterly mused, " why thus constantly yield to medita- tion ? There is such rapture in active life ! in those violent exercises that make us feel the energy of existence ! then death itself may appear glorious ; at least it is sudden, and not preceded by decay ; but. that death which finds us without being bravely sought — the gloomy death which steals from you, in a night, all you held dear, which mocks your regrets, repulses your embrace, and pitilessly opposes to your desire the eternal laws of time and nature — that deatlt inspires a kind of contempt for human destiny, for the powerlessness of grief, and all the vain efforts that wreck themselves against necessity." Such were the torturing sentiments which characterized the wretch- edness of his state. The vivaciiy of youth was united with the thoughts of another age ; such as might well have occupied the mind of his father in his last hours ; but Oswald tinted tlie melancholy contemplations of age with the ardor of five-and-twenty. He was weary of everything; yet, nevertheless, lamented his lost content, as if its visions still lingered. This inconsistency, entirely at variance with the will of nature ^which has placed the conclusion and the gradation of things in tliei* rightful course), disordered the depths of his soul ; but his manners were ever sweet and harmonious ; nay, his grief, far from injuring his temper, taught him a still greater degree of consideration and gentleness for others. Twice or thrice in the voyage from Harwich to Emden the se» threatened stormily. Nevil directed the sailors, reassured the pas- sengers ; and while, toiling himself, he for a moment took the pilot's place, there was a vigor and address in what he did, which could not be regarded as the simple effect of personal strength and activity, for mind pervaded it all. When they were about to part, all on board crowded round hint to take leave, thanking him for a thousand good offices, which he hadforgotten : sometimes it was a child that he had nursed so long ; more frequently, some old man whose steps he had supported while the wind rocked the vessel. Such an absence of personal feeling was scarcely ever known. His voyage had passed without his having devoted a moment to himself ; lie gave up his time to others, in melancholy benevolence. And now the whole crew cried, with one voice, "God bless you, my Lord I we wish you better." Yet Oswald had not once complained ; and the persons of a higher class, who had crossed with him, said not a word on this subject ; but the common people, in whom their superiors rirely confide, are wont to detect the truth without the aid of words ; they pity you. ■when you suffer, though ignorant of the cause ; and their spon- taneous sympathy is unmixed with either censure or advice. CORINNE ; OR, ITALY CHAPTER II. Trayelling, say what -we will, is one of the saddest pleasures i» Hfe. If you ever feel at ease in a strange place, it is because yoa have hegan to make it your home ; but to traverse unknown lands, to hear a language which you hardly comprehend, to look on faces unconnected with either your past or future, this is solitude without repose or dignity; for the hurry to arrive where no one awaits you, that agitation whose sole cause is curiosity, lessens you in your owb esteem, while, ere new objects can become old, they have bound you by some sweet link of sentiment and habit. Oswald felt his despondency redoubled in crossing Germany to reach Italy, obliged by war to avoid France and its frontiers, as well as the troops, who rendered the roads impassable. This necessity for attending to detail, and taking almost every instant a new resolu- tion, was utterly insufferable. His health, instead of improving, often obliged him to stop, whUe he longed to arrive at some other place, or at least to fly from where he was. He took the least pos- sible care of his constitution ; accusing himself as culpable, with but too great severity. If he wished still to live, it was but for the defence of his country. "My native land," would he sigh — "has it not a parental right over me ? but I want power to serve it usefully. I must not offer it the feeble existence which I drag towards the sun, to beg of him. some principle of life, that may struggle against my woes. None but a father could receive me thus, and love me the more, the more L was deserted by nature and by fate." He had flattered himself that a continual change of exterpal objects would somewhat divert his fancy from its usual routine ; but ha could not, at first, realize this effect. It were better, after any great loss, to familiarize ourselves afresh with aU that had surrounded us, accustom ourselves to the old familiar faces, to the house in which, we had lived and the daily duties which we ought to resume ; each of these efforts jars fearfully on the heart ; but nothing multiplier them like an absence. Oswald's only pleasure was exploring the Tyrol, on a hoise whicki he had brought from Scotland, and who climbed the hiUsat a gallop. The astonished peasants began by shrieking with fright, as they saw thim borne along the precipice's edge, and ended by clapping their hands in admiration of his dexterity, grace, and courage. He loved, -the sense of danger. It reconciled him for the instant with that life which he thus seemed to regaiu, and which it would have been eMj*. te lose. OSWALD. 7 CHAPTER IIL At Inspmck, vhere he stayed for some time, in the house of a! tanker, Oswald was much interested by the history of Count d'Erf euil, a French emigrant, who had sustained the total loss of an iminena» fortune with perfect serenity. By his musical talents he had main- tfuned himse^ and an aged uncle, over whom he watched till the xobd man's death, constantly refusing the pecuniary aid which had been pressed on him. He luid displayed the most brilliant valor— that of France — during the war, and an unchangeable gayety in the niidst of reverses. He was anidous to visit Rome, that he might find • relative, whose heir he expected to become; and wished for a companion, or rather a friend, with whom to make the journey •greeably. Lord Nevil's saddest recollections were attached to France ; yet he 'Was exempt from the prejudices which divided the two nations. One frenchman had been his intimate friend, in whom he had found a union of the most estimable qualities. He therefore oSered, through the narrator of Count d'Erfeuil's story, to take this noble and un- fortunate young man with him to Italy. The banker in an hour in- formed him thiit his proposal was gratefully accepted. Oswald Tejoiced-in-renderine:tfaia.ser\riG&to:anodier;.tfaaughit costhinr.miiclL. to resign his seclusion ; and his reserve suffered greatly at the^ prospect of finding himself thus thrown on the society of a man he did not know. He shortly received a visit of thanks from the Count, who possessed «n elegant manner, ready politeness, and good taste ; from the first Appearing perfectly at his ease. Every one, on seeing him, wondered «t wliat he had undergone ; for he bore his lot with a courage ap- proaching to forgetfulness. There was a liveliness in his conversa- tiou truly admirable, while he spoke of his own misfortunes; though less so, it must be owned, when extended to other subjects. " 1 am irreatly obliged to your lordship," said he, " for transport- ing me from Germany, of which I am tired to death." — "And yet," replied Nevil, "you are universally beloved and respected lere." — " I have friends, indeed, whom I shall sincerely regret ; for in this country one meets none but the best of people ; only I don't inow a word of German ; and you will confess that it were a long and tedious ;task to learn it. Since I had the ill-luck to lose my -liiicle, I have not known what to do with my leisure ; while I had to attend to him, that filled up my time ; but now the tour-and-twenty hours hang heavily on my hands." — "The delicacy of your conduct towards your kinsman, Count," said NevU, "has impressed me with the deepest regard for you." — " I did no more than my duty. Poor man I he had lavished his favors on my childhood. I could ■erer have left him, had he lived to be a hundred ; but 'tis well for 8 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. him that he's gone ; 'twere well for me to be with him," he added, laughing, " for I've little to hope in this world. I did my l^st during the war, to get killed ; but since fate would spare me, 1 must live on as I may."' — " I shall congratulate myself on coming hitl.er," answered Nevil, " should you do well in Rome ; and if " — ' Oh, heaven !" interrupted d'Erfeuil, " I do well enough everywhere ; while we are young and cheerful, all things find their level. 'Tis neither from books nor from meditation that I have acquircC my philosophy, but from being used to the world and its mishaps ; nay, you see, mj' Lord, I have some reason for trusting to chance, since I owe to it tiie opportunity of traveling with you." The Count then agreed on the hour for setting forth next day, and, with a graceful bow, departed. After the mere interchange of civilities with whicli their journey commenced, Oswald remained silent for some Lours ; but perceiving that this fatigued his fellow-traveler, he asked him if he anticipated much pleasure in their Italian tour. "Oh,"veplied the Count, "I know what to expect, and don't look forward to the least amusement. A friend of mine passed six months th^re, and teUs me that there is not a French province without a better theater, and more agreeable society than Rome ; but in that ancient capital of the world I shall be sure to find some of my countrymen to chat ■with ; and that is all I require." — " Then you have not beeu tempted to learn Italian ?" — " No, that was never included in the plan of my studies," he answered, with so serious an air, that one might have thought him expressing a resolution founded on the gravest motives. " The fact is," he continued, " that I like no people but the English, and the French. Men must be proud, like you, or wits, like our- selves ; all the rest is mere imitation." Oswald said nothing. A few moments afterwards the Count renewed the conversation by sallies of vivacity and humor, in which he played on words most ingeniously; but neither what he saw or what he felt was his theme. His discourse sprang not from within, nor from without ; but, steer- ing clear alike of reflection and imagination, found its subjects ia ^the superficial traits of society. He named twenty persons in France and England, inquiring if Lord Nevil knew them ; and relating as many pointed anecdotes, as if, in his opinion, the only language for a njan of taste was the gossip of good company. Nevil pondered for some time on this singular combination of courage and frivolity, this contempt of misfortune, which would have been so heroic if it had cost more effort, instead of springing from the same sourc© ■which rendered him incapable of deep affections. "An English- man," thought he, " would have been overwhelmed by similar cir- cumstances. Whence does this Frenchman derive his fortitude, yet fliancy of character ? Does he rightly understand the art of living t deem myself his superior, yet am I not ill and wretched t Doea his trifling course accord better than mine with the fleetness of life t Hust one fly from thought as from a foe, instead of yielding all the OSWALD. 9 «onl to its power ? In vain he thought to clear these doubts ; he could call no aid from his own intellectual region, whose best quali- ties were even more ungovernable than its defects. The Count gave none of his attention to Italy, and renderod it almost impossible for Oswald to be entertained hy it. D'Erfeuil turned from his friend's admiration of a fine country, and sense of its picturesque charm ; our invalid listened as oft as he could to the sound of the winds, or the murmur of the waves ; the voice of nature did more for his mind than sketches of coteries held at the foot of the Alps, among ruins, or on the banks of the sea. His own grief would have been less an obstacle to the pleasure he might have tasted than was the mirth of d'Erfeuil. The regrets of a feeling heart may harmonize with a contemplation of nature and an enjoyment of the ^ne arts ; but frivolity, under whatever form it appears, deprives at- tention of its power, tliought of its originality, and sentiment of its depth. One strange effect of the Count's levity, was its inspiring Nevil with diffidence in all their affairs together. The most reasoning characters are often the easiest abashed. The ^ddy embariass and overawe the contemplative ; and the being who calls himself happy appears wiser than he who suffers. d'Erfeul was every way mild, obliging, and free ; serious only in his self-love, and worthy to be liked as much as hercould like another; that is, as a good companion in pleasure and in peril, but one who knew not how to participate in pain. He wearied of Oswald's melancholy ; and, as well from the goodness of his heart as from taste, he strove to dis- sipate it. " What would you have ?" he often said. " Are you not ■young, rich, and well, if you choose? you are but fancy-sick. I have lost all, and know not wliat will become of me ; yet I enjoy life as if I possessed every earthly blessing."— "Your courage is as rare ■as it is honorable," replied Nevil ; "but the reverses you have known wound less than do the sorrows of the heart." — " The sorrows of the heart ! ay, true, they must be the worst of all ; but still you must console yourself; for a sensible man ought to banish from his mind whatever can be of no service to himself or others. Are we not jplaced here below to be useful first, and consequently happy ? My dear Nevil, let us hold by that faith. " All this was rational enough, in the usual sense of the word ; for d'Erfeuil was, m most respects, a clear-headed man. The impas- sioned are far more liable to weakness than the fickle ; but, instead , of his mode of thinking securing the confidence of Nevil, he would ' fain have assured the Count that he' was the happiest of human be- ings, to escape tlie infliction of his atteinpt at comfort. Nevertheless, d'Erfeuil bi'came strongly attached to Lorpled by gazers, who shouted, " Long live Corinne ', Glory to beauty and to genius !" This emotion was general ; but, to partake it, one must lay aside English reserve and French raillery; Nevil could not yield to tha spirit of the scene, till he beheld C'orinne, Attired like Domenichino's Sibyl, an Indian shawl was twined among her lustrious' black curls, a blue drapery fell over her robe of 18 CORINNE; OK, ITALY, •virgin white, and her ■whole costume was picturesque, without suffi- ciently varying from modern usage to appear tainted by affectation. Her attitude was noble and modest; it might, indeed, be perceived that she was content to be admired ; yet a timid air blended with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon for her triumph. The expression of her features, her eyes, her smile, created a solicitude in her favor, and made Lord Nevil her friend even before any more ardent senti- ment subdued him. Her arms were transcendently beautiful; her figure tall, and, as we frequently see among the Grecian statues, rather robust — energetically characteristic of youth and happiness. There was something inspired in her air; yet the very manner in which she bowed her thanks for the applause she received, betrayed a natural disposition sweetly contrasting the pomp of her extraor- dinary situation. She gave you at the same instant the idea of a priestess of Apollo advancing towards his temple, and of a woman born to fulfil the usual duties of life with perfect simplicity — ^in truth, her every gesture elicited not more wondering conjecture, than it conciliated sympathy and affection. The nearer she approached the Capitol, so fruitful in classic associations, the more these admiring tributes increased; the raptures of the Bomans, the clearness of their sky, and, above all, Corinne herself, took electric effect on Oswald. He had often, in bis own land, seen statesmen drawn in triumph by the people, but ^is was the first tim e that he had ever witnessed the tender~or~Buch honors t o a woma nillugtr ious only in mind. Her ^car of victory cost no feliow-morfars tear; nor terror, nor regret could check his admiration for those fairest gifts "* nature — creative fancy, sensibility, and reason. These new ideas so intensly occupied him, that he noticed none of the long-famed spots over '\7hich Corinne proceeded. At the foot of the steps leading to the capitol,tIie car stopped, and all her friends rushed to offer their hands she took that of Prince Castel Forte, the nobleman most esteemed in Rome for his talents and character. Every one approved her choice. She ascended to the capitol, whose imposing mariesty seemed graciously to welcome the light footsteps of woman. The instruments sounded with fresh vigor, the cannon shook the air, and the all-conquering Sibyl entered the palace prepared for her reception. In the centre of the hall stood the senator who was to crowm Corinne, sarrounded by his brothers in office ; on one side, all the cardinals and most distinguished ladies of Rome ; on the other, the members of the Academy; while the opposite extremitjr was filled by some portion of the multitude who had followed Corinne. The chair destined for her was placed a step lower thaa that of the sens- tor. Ere seating herself in presence of that august assembly, she complied with the custom of bending one knee to the earth ; the gentle dignity of this action filled Oswald's eyes with tears, to his own •urprise; but in the midst of all this 8ucce«4, it seemed as if the look* CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 1» ■of Corinne implored the protection of a friend, witli which no -womiiri, however superior, can dispense ; and he thought how de- licious it were to be the stay of her, whose seiisitiveuess alone could render such a prop necessary. As soon as Corinne was seated, the Itonian poets recited the odes and sonnets composed for this occasion ; ail praised her to the highest ; but in styles that described her no more ihan they would have done any other woman of ger ius. The same mythological images and allusions must have been addressed to such beings from the days of Sappho to our own. Already Nevil disliked this kind of incense for her ; he fancied that he could that xaomenthavedrawnatnier, a more finished portrait; such, indeed as •ould hare belonged to no one but Corinne. CHAPTER II. Prince Castel Forte now took up the discourse, in a manner which riveted the attention of his audience. He was a man of litty, with a measured address and commanding carriage. The assurance which Nevil had received, that he was but the triend of Corinne, -enabled him to listen with unqualiiied delight to what, without such flafeguard, he could not, even "thus early, have heard, save with a confused sense of jealousy. The Prince read some pages of unpretending prose, singularly fitted, notwithstanding, to display the spirit ot Corinne. He pointed out the particular merit of herworksas partly derived from her profound study of foreign literature, teaching her to unite the graphic descrip- tions of the South, witit that observant knowledge of the human heart which appears the inheritance of those whose country offers fewer objects of external beauty. He lauded her graceful gayety, that, free from ironical satire, seemed to spring but from the fresh- ness of her fancy. He strove to speak of her tenderness ; but it was easily to be seen that personal regret mingled with this theme. He touched on the difficulty for a woman so endowed to meet, in real life, with any object resembling the ideal image clad in the hues of her own heart; then contented himself by depicting the impassioned feelings which kindled her poetry — her art of seizing on the most itouching charms of nature, the deep-st emotions of the soul. He complimented the originality of her expression, which, arising from lier own peculiar turn of thought, constituted an involuntary spell, untarnished by the slightest cloud of mannerism. He spoke of her eloquence as of a resistless power, whicli must trans- port most those who possessed the best sense and the truest •usceptibility. " Corinne, " said he, "is doubtless more celebrated than any other of our countrywomen; and yet it is only her friends who can describe her. The qiulities of the soul, if reaU always «0 CORINNE; OR, ITALY: require to be guessed ; fame, as well as obscurity, might prevent theii detection, if some congenial sy.npathy came not to our aid." He dilated on her talent as an improvisatrice, as distinct from every- thmg which had been known by that name in Italy. " , ., ..: i.ol only attributable," he continued, " to the fertility (if her mind, but to her deep enthusiasm for all generous sentiments; she cannot pronounce a word that recalls them, but that inexhaustible source of thought overflows at her lips in strains ever pure and harmonious; her poetry is intellectual music, such as alone can embody the fleeting and delicate reveries of the heart." lie extolled the conversation of Corinne, as one who had tasted all its delights. "There," he said, "is united all that is natural, fanciful, just, sublime, powerful, and sweet, to vary the mental banquet every instant; it is what Petrarch termed — II parlar che nel]' anima ai eeiite'— a language which is felt to the heart's core, and must possess much of the vaunted Oriental magic which has been given by the ancients to Cleopatra. The scenes I have visited with her, the lays we have heard together, the pictures she has shown me, the books she has taught me to enjoy, compose my universe. In all these is some spark of her life; and were I forced to dwell afar from her, I would, at least, surround myself with them, though certain to seek in vain for her radiant traces amongst them, when once she had departed." j.-^ "Yes!" he cried, as his glance accidentally fell upon Oswald; *" , "look on Corinne, if you may pass your days with her — if that -J ■ twofold existence can be long secured to you; but behold her not, if you must be condemned to leave her. Vainly should you seek, however long you might survive, the creative spirit which multiplied in partaking all your thoughts and feelings; you would never find it more !" Oswald shuddered at these words; his eyes were fixed on Corinne, ■who listened with an agitation self-love cannot produce ; it belongs only to humility and to gratitude. Castel Forte resumed the address, which a momentary weakness had suspended. He spoke of Corinne as a painter and musician; of her declamation and her dancing. " In all these exertions," he said, "she is still herself —confined to no one mode, nor rule— but expressing, in various languages, the enchant- ments of art and imagination. I cannot flatter myself on having faithfully represented one of whom it is impossible to form an idea till she herself is known; but her presence is left to Rome, as among the chief blessings beneath its brilliant sky. Corinne is the link that binfls her friends to each other. She is the motive, the interest of our lives; we rely on her worth, pride in her genius, and say to tho sons of other lands, ' Look on the personation of our own fair Italy. She is what we might be, if freed from the ignorance, envy, discoid, and sloth, to which fate has reduced us.' We love to contemplate her, as a rare production of our climate, and our fine arts ; a relic ef CORRINE AT THE CAPITOL. 31 tfae past, a prophetess of the future; and when strangers, pitiless ol the faults born of our misfortunes, insult the country whence have arisen the planets that illumed all Europe, still we but say to them, 'Look upon Corinne.' Yes; we will follow in her track, and bo guch men as she is a wom an; if, indeed, men can, like women , make worlds in tneir ow n toafta; If ouniioral rempgraBTents, neccs - iarily dependent-oti~BDct!il obligations ano exterior clrcumscancea could, like liers, owe all their light to the glorious touch of poesy !" The instant the Prince ceased to speak, was followed by an imanimous outbreak of admiration, even from the leaders of th« State, although the discourse had ended by an indirect censure on the present situation of Italy ; so true it is, that there men practice a degree of liberality, wliich, though it extends not to any Improve- ment of their institutions, readily pardons superior minds for a mild dissent from existing prejudices. Castel Forte was a man of high repute in Rome. He spoke with a sagacity remarkable among a people usually wiser in actions than in words. He had not, in the affairs of life, that ability which often distinguishes an Italian; but he shrunk not from the fatigue of thinking, as his happy countrymen were wont to do; trusting to arrive at all truths by intuition, even as their soil bears fruit, unaided, save by the favor of heaven. CHAPTER III. Corinne rose, as the Prince finished his oration. She thanked him by an inclination of the head, which diffidently betrayed her sense of having been praised in a strain after her own heart. It was the custom for a poet, crowned at the capitol, to extemporize or recite in verse, ere receiving the destined bays. Corinne sent for her chosen instrument, the lyre, more antique in form, and simpler in sound, than the harp ; while tuning it, she was oppressed by so violent a tremor, that her voice trembled as she asked what theme she was to attempt. "The glory and welfare of Italy !" cried all near her. " Ah, yes!" she exclaimed, already sustained by her own talents ; " the glory and welfare of Italy!" Then, animated by her love of country, she breathed forth thoughts to which prose or another language can do but imperfect justice. CHAUT OF CORHnrE AT THE CAPITOL.* Cradle of Letters I Mistress of the World 1 Soil of tlie Suu I Ituiial I sulute tiiee 1 How oft tlie human race have worn thy yoke. The vessels of thlue arms, thine arts, thy sky I * For the transUtiOQ of this Ode, the proprietor of the Standard Novels k to- debted to tbe pen of Mias L. S. Laudou. m CORINNE; OR, ITALY. OlTmpns for Acsooia onco wu l<^ft, And by a god. Of each a land are bom Dreame ofthe goldeu time, for there man Io«lti Too happy to Buppoie bim criminal. By i^dIuh Roma subdued the world, then ral^pi'A A queen by liberty. The Roman mind Set its own stamp upon the uulrerse ; And, when barbarian hordes wbelm'd Italy, Then darkness was entire npon the earth. Italia reappeared, and with ber rose Treasures dirine, brought by the wandering Gre«ln2 To lier were then reveal'd the laws of Heaven. Her daring children made discovery Of a new hemisphere : Queen etill, she held Thought's scepter ; but that lanrerd scepter made TTngrateful subjects. Imagination gave her back the world Which she had Tost. Painters aud poets shaped Xarth and Olympus, and a lieaven and helL Her auimatiug fire by Genius kept. Far better gnurded than the Pagan god*t. Found not in Burope a Prometusoa To bear it from her. ' And wherefore am I at the cat>ltoI? Whf should my lowly brow receive the crown Which Petrarch wore? which yet suspended haogt Where Taaao'a funeral cypress mournful waves: Why 7 oh, my conutrynien ! bat that you love Olory so well thi\t yon repay its search Almost like its success. Now, if you love that glory which too oft Chooses its victims from its vaoquishers. Those which itself has crown'd ; think, and be prond Of days which saw the peiishM Arts reborn. Tour Dante I Homer of the Christiaa age, I'he sacred poet of Faith*s mysteries — Hero of thought— whose gloomy genius plunged "- In Stvx, and pierced to hell ; aud whoee deep oool Was like the abyss it fathomed. Italia ! as slie wns in days of power J Revived in Dnnte: such a spirit stirr'd I" old republics ; bard and warrior too, J He he the Are of action 'mid the dead, Till e'en Uia stnidows had more vigorous Ufa Than real existence ; still were they pursued By earthly miMnories ; passions without aim OuHw'd at th<'ir hearr, still fever'd by tke past ; Yet less irrevocable seemM that past. Than tlielr eternal future. tfethinkn that Dante, bnnish'd Ms own aoi^ Bore to imajrined worlds liis actual grief, Bver hit* sbndes inquire the things of life. And HSkM the poet of hii^ native laud ; And from bin exile did he paint a hell. la his eyes Florence set her stamp on aU) CORINNE AT THE CAPITOI*. The ancient dead seem'd Taacane like bitnself ; Not that bis power was bounded, bnt his strenctk ; And bis great mind forced all the nuiverse Within the circle of itn tbonght. A m^Btic chAin of circles and of spheres Led biin from Hell to Fargatory ; tbence Prom Pnrgatory luto Paradise : Faitlifal hiBiorian of bis glorions dream, Ee fills with light the regions most obscure; Tbe world created iu his triple song Is brilliant, and complete, and animate, Like a new planet Beeu withiu tbe sky. AD npon earth doth change to poetry Beneath his voice : the objects, tne ideas. The laws, aud all tbe strange phenomena. Seem like a new Olympns with new gods-^ Taucy's mythology — which disappears iake Pagan creeds at sight of Paradise, That sea of light, radiant with shining start. And love, and virtne. The magic words of onr most noble bard Are like the prism of the universe ;— Ber ranrvels there reflect themselves, divjd«. And recreate her wonders ; sounds paint hnM, And colors melt in harmony. The rhyme — Sounding or strange, and rapid or prolong^— That charm of genius, triumph of high an; Poetry's divination, which reveals All nature's secrets, such as inflaence The heart of man. From this great work did Dante hope tbe 404 Of his long exile: and he called on Fame To be bis mediator ; but he died Too soon to reap tbe laurels of his land. ThoH wastes the traueitory life of man In adverse fortunes ; and it glory wins. If some chanl» tide, more happy, floata to ■!»•% The grave is In tbe port ; and aeitiny, In thousand shapes^ heralds the cloae of life By a return of happmess. Thus the iU-futed Tasso, whom your praise, O Roman? 1 'mid his wrong»<, could yet coneote* The beautiful, the chfvalric, the brave, Breaming the deeds, feeling the love he sung — With awe and gratitude iipproacbed your walla. As did his heroes to Jemsalem. They named the day to crown him ; bnt Its «ve Death bade him to hi:* feast, the terrible I The Heaven is jealous of the earth ; and calls Its favorites from tbe stormy waves of time *TwaB in an age more happy and more iree Than Tasso's. that, like Dante, Petrarch saof : Brave poet of Italian liberiy. Elsewhere they know him only by his lore: Here memories more severe, aye, cousccnte. 24 COIilNNE ; OR, ITALY. His eacred name ; his coaiitry coald iuBpire B'eu more timu Luura. His vitiili* gave antiqaity in-w life; Iinagiiiatldii was iiu uVeliicle To hip deep Ptudii**; tliur cn-jitive power Coiiqiier'tl the fuiiin-, :ind nvi-nl'd ilie paat. Ht! pniveil how kiiowi<(l^'C lends iuveiiiion aid; And iiion- original his gcniiia m-ein'd. When, like Lhii powers eternal, it could be Preeeutin e^ery time. Our liinghing climate, and onr air serene Inspired our Ariosto: afler war. Our many long and cruul wars, he came Like to a rainbow ; vuried iiud a-* hrigtit As thiit gtiid messenger of summer hours. His light, sweet guy<^'ty is like nature's smile. And not the irony of man. BafEiiSle, G ilileo, Angclo, Pergolestc; you I intrepid voyagers, Greedy of other lands, thnii<-h Nature never Conld yield ye one more hivcly th:iu your own; Come ye, and to our poeis join xour fame : Artists, and Bug<>u, and ptiil sophers, Te are, like litem, the chtldn-n of u bun Which kindles valor, cona-ntnites the mind, Develups fancy, each one in its tiiin ; Which lulls content, and seems to promise ail. Or make us all forget Know ye the land where oranze-trees are blooming Where all heaven's niys are f.-rtile, and with iove? Have you inhal« d these perfum<-8, luxury I In airalrcady e>o fragnint and so soft? Now, answer, tttrangers ; Nature, iuyoturhome. Is she as generous or as beautiful? Not only with vine-lcavea and ears of com Is nature dress'd, but 'neatli tbf feet of man. As at a sovereign's ft^t-, she scatters flawars And sweet and useless plants, which, born to pleaMBi Disdain to »erve. Here pleasnres delicate, by nature nurst — Felt by a people w)to desi^rve to feel ; — The siniptaHt food suffii-es for their want& What though her foutitainsflow with purple wioe From the ahundanL soil, tln-y drink them not 1 They love their sky, their ait^, their mojuments ; Their land, the ancierit. nnd yt-t bright with spring; Brilliant society ; n-fined delight: Coarse pleatftures, fitting to a savage race. Suit not with them. Here the sensation bh^ids with the Idea ; Life ever draws* from the eame founlain-hcad ; The soul, like air, expands o'er e:irth and Leaveiit Here Genius feels at case : iia reveries Are here so gentle ; its unrest is soothed : CORINira AT THE CAPITOL. 25 For one lo!>taini a ihonsaiid circflms aregivcOf And n:itiir« clierisheH, if mau oppress; A gentle li.-iiid consoles, and binds the wound : E'>-ii lor the griefs that litiinit thi' i^irickeii liearti Iscoiniort here: by itdminitioii fill'd, ForGoti, nil giiodiices ; lanjilit to penetrate- 'J'lie .-ecret (it Ins lovi! ; uoi thy lirief days — MysltM'ion" heralds nf e'emity - But ill tliu fertile tiud inaj xiic breast Of ttie imiutirtal ntiiverflu 1 Corinne was interrupted for some moments by impetuous ap- plause. Oswald alone joined not in ti e noisy transport around him. He had bowed his head on his hand, when Corinne said — ♦*E'iMi for tlic sorrows of the stricken tieart Iei cuiiifon beru :" he had not raised it since. Corinne observed him; and from his features, the color of his hair, his dress, his height— indeed, from his whole appearance— recognized Jiim as English. Sh" was struck by the mourning which he wore, and his melancholy countenance. His gaze, then fixed upon herself, seemed gently to ; reproach her; she ent-red into his thoughts, aid fell a wish to sympathize with him, by speakinij: of happiness with less reliance, and consecrating some new verses to Death in the midst of a festival. With thia intention, £he again took up her lyre; a few prolonged and touching t\>ne« ttifinced the assemblage, while thus she continued: — Tt't there nri! griefs which onr cnnpolhi^ pky May not efface ; bat where will grief cuuvey Nitlile mihI "oft iiniiresdiouB to the seal, Aa itdoi:8 here 7 Elsewbf^rc t!ie liviDg cannot find them ftpace For all their burryiug paths, and ardent bopes; And de^' rt<«, rnins, vucitnt piilaces, Leav*' a v.ist vacancy to shadows; — Rome Is she nut now the countiy of the tomb? The Colim-nm. and the obel^ka — The wondrrs broaght fmm Eg\pt and from Greece— From the eztreipMy uf lime, here met. From Romulus to Lm — nil are here, GrctttneKH m tract iug greatness, that one place Miifht gamer ull tb.-it man c CORINinB. 38 •'And why?" asked his friend. — "Because yesterday gave me the most satisfactory assurance that you have extremely interested her." — " Still this levity? Do you net know that I neither can nor wUl endure it?" — "What you call levity is rather the readiness of my observation: have I the less reason, because my reason is active? You were formed to grace those blest patriarchal days when man had five centuries to Eve; but I warn you that we have retrenched four of them at least." — "Be it so! And what may you have dis. covered by these quickly matured observations of yours?" — "That Corinne is in love with you. Last evening when I went to her house, I was well enoiigh received, of course; but her eyes were fixed on the door, to look whether you followed me. She attempted to apeak of something else; but, as she happens to be a mighty natural young person, she presently, in all simplicity, asked why you wero not wiUi me? I said because you would not come, and that you were a gloomy, eccentric animal; I'll spare you whatever further I might have said in your praise. 'He is pensive,' remarked Corinne; doubtless he has lost some one who was dear to him : for whom is he mourning?' — 'His father, madame, though it is more than a year rince his death; and as the law of nature obliges us to survive our relations, I conclude that some more private cause exists for his long and settled melancholy.' — ' Oh,' exclaimed she, ' I am far from think- ing that griefs apparently the same act alike on all. The father of your friend, and your f rieud himself, were not, perhaps, men of the common order. I am greatly inclined to think so.' Her voice was 80 sweet, dear Oswald, as she uttered these words!" — "And are these all your proofs of her interest in me?" — " Why truly, with half of them I should make sure of being beloved; but since you will have Isetter, you shall. I kept the strongest to come last. The Prince (^tel , Forte related the whole of your adventure at Ancona, with- «iut knowing that it was of you he spoke. He told the story with much /re, as far as I could judge, thanks to the two Italian lessons I have taken; but there are so many French words in all foreign languages, that one understands them, without the fatigue of leam- mg. desides, Corinne's face explained what I should not else have comprehended. 'Twas so easy to read the agitation of her heart; she would scarcely breathe, for fear of losing a single word; wheii ahe inquired if the name of this Englishman was known, her anxi- ety was such, that I could very well estimate the dread she suffered, lest any other name than yours should be pronounced in reply. Castel Fore confe^d his ignorance ; and Conone, turning ea>;erly to me, cried, ' Am I not right, monsieur? was it not Lord Nev^lr — 'Tes, madame,' said I, and then she melted into tears. She had BOt wept during the history; what was there in the name of its hero more affecting than the recital itself!" — "She jrept?" repeated Oswald. "Ah, why was I not there f then instantly checkin| ooimm— s «4 CORENNB; OR, ITALY. himself, he cast down hisses, and his manly face expressed the most delicate timidity. He hurriedly raaumed the topic, lest ;d'Erfeuil should impair his sacred joy by one comment. " If the ^adventure at Ancona be worth the telling, its honor belongs to you, also, my dear' Count." — "They certainly did speaik of a most en- .ttiging Frenchman, who was with you, my Lord," rejoined d Erfeuil, i'laughmg; "but no one, save myself, paid any attention to that »pare.ithesis. The lovely Corinne prefers you, doubtless believing "that you would prove more faithful than I — this may not be the case 1— you may even cost her more pains tlian I should have dotie; but Jrour very romantic women love trouble, therefore you will suit her exactly." Nevil smarted beneath each word; but what could he say? D'Erfeuil never argued; nay, he could not even listen with sufficient attentioQ to alter his opinions: once uttered, he cared no inore about them, and tlie best pl^n was to forget them, if possible, as Quickly as he did himself. CHAPTER III. That evening Oswald reached the house of Corinne with entirely new sensations. He fancied that he might be expected. How en- trancing that first beam of intelligence between one's self and the being we adore; ere memory contends the heart with hope, ere the eloquence of words has sought to depict our feelings. There is, in these first hours of love, some indefinite and mysterious charm^ Inore fleeting, but more heavenly than even happiness itself. Oswald found Corinne alone; this abashed him much. He could have gazed on her in the midst of her friends; but would fain have teen in some way convinced of her preference, ere thus suddenly engaged in an interview which might chill her manner towards idm, and, in that expectation, his own address became cold from very embarrassment. Whether she detected this, or that similar feelings tnade her desire to remove his restraint, she speedily inquired if he had yet seen any of the antiquities of Rome. " No."^-" Then, how Were you employed yesterday?" she asked, with a smile. " I passed ' the day at home. Since I came hither, I have seen but you, madame, or remained alone." She wished to speak of his conduct at Ancona, ,tod began: "I learned last night — "here she paused, and then -said, " birt I will talk of that when our party has joined us." Lord Kevil had a dignity which intimidated Corinne ; besides, she feared, in alluding to his noble behavior, that she should betray too much emotion, and trusted to feel less before witnesses. Oswald was : deeply touched by this reserve, and by the frankness with which *he, unconsciously, disclosed its motive; but the more oppressed he tecame. the less could he explain himseU. He hastily rose, and went to the wlndaw; then remembering that this action muat be un- intelligible to Corinne, he returned to hia Beat, without speaking; and, though she had more confidence than himself, liis mffldencc proved so contagious, that, to cover her abstraction, she ran her fingers over her harp and struck a few unconnected chords; these melodious sounds, though they increased the emotion of Oswald- lent him a slight degree of firmness. He dared to look on her; an^ who could do so, without being struck by the divine inspiiutiof enthroned in her eyes? Reassured by the mildness which veiled their splendor, he might have spoken, had not Prince Caste| Forte that instant entered the room. It was not without a pang that he beheld Nevil tete-d-iile with Corinne ; but he wa» accustomed to conceal his sensations ; and that habit, whicb an Italian often unites with the most vehement passiom^ in him was rather the result of lassitude and natural gentler ness. He had resigned the hope of being the first object of Co- rinne's regard ; he was no longer young. He had just the wit, taste and fancy, which varies, without disturbing, one's existence; an4 felt it so needful for his life to pass every evening with Corinne, that, had she married, he would have conjured her. husband to let hinj continue this routine; on which condition it would not have cost him much regret to see her imited with another. The heart's disap- pointments are not, in Italy, aggravated by those of vanity. Yoi^ ' meet some men jealous enough to stab their rivals, others sufficiently modest to accept the second place in the esteem of a woman whos« company they enjoy; but you seldom find those who, rather than appear rejected, deny themselves the pleasure of keeping up a blame- less intimacy. The dominion of society over self-love is scarcely known in the land. The Count d'Erfeuil and Corinne's wontei guests having assembled, the conversation turned on the talent for improvisation, which she had bo gloriously displayed at the capitoV and she was asked what she thought of it herself. ". It is so rare ^ thing," said Castel Forte, "to find a person at once susceptible V enthusiasm, and capable of analysis ; endowed as an artist, yet gifte^ with so much self-knowledge, that we ought to implore her reveW tiori of her own secret." — " The faculty of extemporizing," returned Corinne, " is not more extraordinary in southern tongues, than sena- torial eloquence or lively repartee in ofiber languages. I should eve^ say that, unfortunately, it is easier for us to breathe impromptu verse than to speak well in prose, from which poetry differs so widely, that the first stanzas, by their mere expressions, remove the poet from the sphere of his auiiitors, and thus command attention. It is not only to the sweetness of Italian, but to the emphatic vibration of its syllables, that we should attribute the influence of poetry among us. Italian has a musical charm, which confers dellglitby the very spun4 of its words, almost independent of ideas, though nearly all those Words are so graphic, that they paint their own significatiooa on Om n CORINNE; OE, ITALY. Viind; you feel that but in the midst of the arts, and beneath a beau* teous sky, could a language eo melodious and highly colored, have had birth. It is, therefore, easier in Italy than anywhere else to mis- leat' '"y speeches, unaided by depth or novelty of thought. Poetry.- like aU the fine arts, captivates the senses as much as the mind. Kevertheless, I venture to assert, that I never act the improvisatrice, unless beneath some real feeling, or some image which 1 believe ori- ginal. I hope that I rely less than others on our bewitching tongue; on which, indeed, one may prelude at random, and bestow a vivid pleasure, solely by the charm of rythm and of harmony." — "You think, then," said one of her friends, "that this genius for sponta- neous verse does injury to our literature? I thought so too, tiU I heard you, who have entirely reversed my decision." — "I have said," returned Corinne, " that from this facility and abundance must result a vast quantity of indifferent poems; but I rejoice that such fruitful- ness should exist in Italy, as I do to see our plains covered with a thousand superfluous productions. I pride in this bounty of Heaven. Above all, I love to find improvisatores among the common people; it shows that imagination of theirs which is hidden in all other icircumstances, and only develops itself amongst us. It gives a poetic air to the humblest ranks of society, and spares us from the disgust Ve cannot help feeling, against what is vulgar in all classes, mien our Sicilians, while rowing the traveller in their barks, lend their graceful dialect to an endearing welcome, or sing him a kind and long farewell, one might dream that the pure sea-bi-eeze acted on man as on an Eolian harp; and that the one, like the other, echoed but the Toice of nature. Another reason why I set this value on our talent for improvisation is, that it appears one which could not possibly survive among a community disposed to ridicule. Poets, who risk this perilous enterprise, require all the good-humor of a country in which men love to amuse themselves, without criticizing what amuses them. A single sneer would suffice to banish the presence of mind necessary for rapid and uninterrupted composition.' Your heroes must warm with you, and their plaudits must be your in- spiration." — " But, madame," said Oswald, who, till now had 'gazed in silence on Corinne, " to which class of your poems do you give the preference — those that are the works of reflection, or such as were instantaneously inspired I" — "My Lord," replied Corinne, with a look of gentle deference, " I wUl make you my judge; but if you bid me examine my own heart, I should say ttiat improvi- sation is,, to me, like animated converse. I do not confine myself to such or such objects, but yield to whatever produces that degree of linterest in my hearers which most infects myself; and it is to my friends that I owe the greater portion of my talent in this line. Bometimes, while they speak on the noble questions that involve the tuoral condition of man — the aim and end of his duties here — ^mine impassioned excitement carries me beyond myself; teaches me t» ' COKINlfB. ft uad in nature, and mine own heart, such daring tmtlis, and forcibl* expressions, as solitary meditation could never have engendered. Mine enthusiasim, then, seems supernatural: a spirit speaKs within me far gre!<>«r than mine own; it often hapnens that I abandon tbo measure c verse to explain my thoughts in prose. Sometimes I quote the most applicable passages from the poets of other lands. Those divine apostrophes are mme, while my soul is filled by their import. Sometimes my lyre, by a simple national air, may com- plete the effect which flies from the control of « ords. In truth, I .feel myself a poet, less when a happy choice of rhymes, of syllables, of. figures, may dazzle my auditors, than when my spirit soars dis- dainful of all selfish baseness; when godlike deeds appear most easy to me, 'tis then my verse is at its best. I am, indeed, a poet while I admire or hate, not by my personal feelings, nor in mine own cause, biit for the sake of human dignity, and the glory of the world I" :Corinne, now perceiving how far she had been borne away, blushed, and, turning to Lord Nevil, said: " You see I c;mnot touch on any of the thi-mes tliat affect me, without that kind of thrill which is tho source of ideal bpauty in the arts, of religion in the recluse, gene- rosity in heroes, and disinterestedness among men. Pardon me, my Lord; such a woman little resembles those of your country." — "Who can resemble you f" replied Oswald; "and who shall make laws for a being so i>eculiar ?" The Count d'Erfeuil was actually spell-bound; without under- ,standing all slie said, her gestures, voice, and manner, charmed him. It was the firs;t time that any, save French graces, had moved him thus. But, to say truth, the popularity of Corinne aided and sanctioned liis judgment; so that ho might rave of ' her without relinquishing his convenient habit of being guided by the opinion of others. As they left the house together, he said to his friend: " Con- fess, now, dear Oswald, that I have some merit in not paying my court to so delightful a person." — "But," replied Neril, "they say that she is difficult to please." — "They say, but I don't believe it. A Single woman, who leads the life of an artist, can't bn difficult to please." Nevil's feeliags were wounded by this remark, but whether d'Erfeuil savv it not, or was resolved to follow the bent of his own inclinations, he continued, "Not but, if I could believe in any woman's virtue, I should trust hers above sill. She has certainly a _ thousand times more ir dor than was required in your country, or ~ev en inmine, to create doubts of a lady's cruelty; yet she l3..i t creature ot such superior tact and intormation, tuat Uie r.rriinary j ules tor judging her sex cannot be applie d, tn hpr, Wniild yoa Believe iir l tincl uer manners imposing; tney overawe me in spite of her careless affability. I wished yesierday, merely out of grati- tude for her interest in you, to hazard a few words on my own account; such as make what way they can; if they are listened to, so much the better; if not, why that nmy be luckier still; but Corinoe 88 OORBrara!; OB, ITALY. looked on me Ooidly, and I was altogether diisconcerfed, 1« It not abstird to feel out of countenance before an Italian, a poet, an — ererything that ought to put a man at his ease!" — "Her name is ' unknown," replied Nevil, "but her behavior assures us that she is highly bom." — "Nay, 'tis only the fashion of romance to conceal one's nobility; — in real life, people tell everything that can do their selves credit, and even a little more than the truth." — " Yes, in some societies, where they think but of the effect produced on others, but here where life is more domestic, here there may be secrets, which only he who marries Corinne should sp«k to fathom.'" — "Marry Corinne!" replied d'Erfeuil, laughing vehemently, "such a notion never entered my head. My dear Nevil, If yoa will commit extravagances, let them be such as are not irrepar- able. In marriage^ one should consult nothing but conve- nience and decorum. You think me frivolous; nevertheless. 111 bet you that my conduct shall be more rational than your own." — "I d.on't doubt it," returned Nevil, without another word; for how could he teU the Count that there is often much selfishness in frivol- ity? or that vanity never leads a man towards the error of sacrificinf Jiimself for another? Triflers are very capable of cleverly directing their own affairs; for, in all that may be called the science of policy. In private as in public life, men oftener succeed by the absence of certain qualities than by any which they possess. A deficieqpy.of enthusiasm, opinions, and sensibility, is a nega- tive treasure, on which, with but slight abilities, rank and fortune may easily be acquired or maintained. The jests of d'ErfeuU had pained Lord Nevil much ; he condemned theiB, but still they hauntMl ■hn most importunately'. ROME. BOOK IV. CHAPTER L The n«it far tnlffht Oswald devoted exclusively to the society ot Oorimi«. He never \eft his house but to visit her. He saw, he sought iio mor6, aud, without speaking of his love, he made her sensible of it every hour in the day. She was accustomed to the I lively and flattering tributes of the Italians; liut the lordly deport- ! ment and apparent coldness of Oswald, through which his tender- ' ness of heart so often broke, in spite of himself, exercised afar greater power o'er her imagination. He never related a generous deed or a tale of misfortune, but his eyes filled, though he always strove to hide this weakness. It was long since she had felt such respect as that which he 'awakened. No genius, however distin- gu'ished, could have astonished her; but elevation of character acted deeply on her mind. Oswald added to this an elegance which per- , vaded the most trivial actions of his life, and contrasted strongly f with the negligent familiarity of the Homan nobles. Although I some of his tastes were uncongenial to her own, their mutual under- standing was wonderful. They read each other's hearts in the light- est alteration of countenance. Habituated to the most tempestuous demonstrations of passion, this proud retiring attachment, contin- ually proved, through never confessed, shed a new interest over her - lif3. She felt as If surrounded by a purer, sweeter atmosphere; and every moment brought with it a sense of happiness in which she revelled, without seeking to define. One morning Prince Castel Forte came to her, evidently dispirited. She asked the cause. "This Scot," sighed he, "is weaning your affection from us, and who knows but he may even carry you far hence?" Corinne was mute for some moments, and then replied, " I protest to you he has never said he loves me." — " You know it, nevertheless*- he speaks to you by his life, and his very silence is «0 OORINNE; OR ITALY. but an artful plan to attract your notice. What, inaee>^, can any one 8&V to \ou that you have not already heard ? What kind of praisi' 'have you not been offered? But th. re is something veiled and reined in about the character of Lord Nevil, which « ill never permit you to judge it wlioUy as you do ours. You are <"" most easily known person in the wor" d; but it is just be< aus» you volun- tarily show yourself as you aie, that reserve and myste.y boih please and govern you. The nnkiio«n, be it what it may, has a greater ascendancy over you, than .11 the professions which loa be ten deredbyman." Corinne smiled. " You think then, den r Piince/' ehe said, " that my heart is ungrateful, and my fancy caiiricious? I liclieve, however, that Lord Nevil evinces qualities too remarkable for me to flatter myself as their discoverer. " — ' ' I allow, ' rejoined Cas- te] Forte, " that he is high-minded, intelligent, even sensitive, and mel- ancholy above all; but I am much deceived if his pursuits have the least affinity with yours You cannot perceive this, so horoughly is he influenced by your presence; but your >.mpire would not last were be absent from you. Obstacles would fatigue a mind wj rped by the griefs he has undergone, by discouragements which must have im- paired the energy of his resolutions; besides, you know what slaves are the generality of English to the manners imd habits of their country." These words recalled to the min^! of Corrinne the painful events of her early years. She sighed, and spoke not; but in the ■'ieviening she again beheld her lover, and all that remained as the ,^ect of the Prince's counsel was a desire so to < nan or Nevil of the varied beauties with which Italy is blest, that he would m»ke it his 'borne for life. With this design she wrote him the followlng_ letter. The free life led at Rome excused her, and, much as she might be Jepro iched with a too rash degree of candor, she well knew how to preserve a modest dignity, even in her most indepindent proceedings. "TO LORD NEVIL. "Dec. 15, 1794 " I know not, my Lord, if you will think me too self-confident, or If you can do justice to my motives. I heard you say that you had ■o! yet explored Home, that you knew nothing either of the cfte/s- (L'oe'ivres of our tine arts, or the antique ruins that teaih us history by j^agin .tion and sentimint. I conceive the idea of daring to propose myself as your guide throuirh the mazes of long-gone years. Poubt- less Romo can boast of many men whose profound erudition uiight be fjr more useful; but if I succeed in endearing to you an abode towards which I have always felt so imperiously drawn, your owa studies will complete what my imperfect sketchi s may begin. "Miny foreigners come hither, as they go to London or Paris, seeking but tlie dl-sipation of a great city; and if it were not treason to confess themselves weary of Rome, I believe the greatest part of them would do so. But it is equally true, that here may be found a ROME. tt cSiann of which none could ever sate. Will yon pardon mo, my Lord, for wishing tliat this cliarm may lie known to you? It is truo that you must foiget all the political relations of the « oild; but when they are not linked with our sacred duties, tliey do Imt freeze tho heurt. It is necessary also to renounce wluit is elsewliere called the pleasrres of society; but do they not too frequenlly wither up the • mind? One tastes in Rome a life at once secluded and enlivened, which liberally matures in our breasts whatever fleaven hath planted there. "Once mori*, my lord, pardon this love for my country, which makes ine long to know It beloved by a man lik'' yourseif ; and do not judge witu English severity the pledges of good-will that nu Italian believes it her right to bestow, without losing an \ thing in her own eyes or in yoius. "Corinne." In V dn would Oswald have concealed from himself his ecstasy at receiving this letter; it opened to him glimpses of a future all peace and joy, enthusiasm, love and wisdom; — all that is most divine in tho 8oul of man seemed blended in ihe enchanting project of exploring Rome with Corinne. He considered — he he."it;ited no more; but in- stantly started for her house, and, on his way, looked up to heaven, basking in its rays, for life was no longer a burden. Regret ahd fear were lost behind the golden clo ds of hope; his heart so long oppressed with sadness, throbbed and bounded with delight; he knew that such a state could n t last; but even his .sense of its ilectness lent this fever of felicity but a more artive force. -1 " You are cornel" cried I'orinne, as he entercl. ".Vh, thank youC She ofEercu hi-r hand: he pressed it to Ids lips, with a tenderness unqualiiied by that atHicting tremor which so often minded with his happiness, and embittered the presence of those he loved the most An intimacy had commenced between them since they had last parted, estiiblished by the letter of rorinne; lioth were content, and - felt towards one another the sweetest gratitude. " This morning, then," said Oorin'ie, " I will show you the Pantheon and St. Petcr^. I trusted," she added, smilingly, " that you would not refuse to mako the tour of Rome with ine; so my hor-es are ready. I expected you-r- you are herei— all is well— let us go. "—"Wondrous creature 1" exclaimed Oswald. " Who then arc you? Wheme do you derive charms so cop- trusted, that each might well exclude the others? — feeling frnjety, depth, wildness, modesty! Art thou an illusion? an uneartlijy blessing for those who meet thee?" — "Ah! if I h ve but power lo.(Jo you any service," she answered, "believe not that I will ever renounce it." — "Take heed," replied he, seizing her hand with emotion; " be careful of what benefit you confer on me. For two years an iron grasp has pressed upon my heart. If I feel some lelief while breathing your sweet air, what will become of me when throvrn back on mine own fate? What shall I be then?" — " Let us leara ^ CORINNE; OR, ITALY. that to time and chance," interrupted Corinne: "They will decide whether the impression of an hour shall last beyond its day. If out Bouls commune, our mutual affection will not be fugitive : be that as it may, let us admire together all that can elevate our minds; we shall thus, at least, secure some happy moments." So saying, s^e descended. Nevil followed her, astonished at her reply: it seemed that she admitted the possibility of a momentary liking for him, yet he fancied that he perceived a fickleness in her manner, which piqued him even to pain; and Corinne, as if she guessed this, said, when they were seated in her carriage, " I do not think the heart is so con- stituted that it must either feel no love at all, or the most unconquer- able passion. There are early symptoms which may vanish before self-examination. We flatter, we deceive ourselves; and the very enthusiasm of which we are susceptible, if it renders the enchant- ment more rapid, may also bring the reaction more promptly." — " You have reflected much upon this sentiment, madame," observed Oswald, with bitterness. Corinne blushed, and was silent for some moments, then said, with a striking union of frankness and dignity, " I suppose no woman of heart ever reached the age of twenty -six without having known the illusions of love; but if never to have been happy, never to have met an object worthy of her full affection, is a claim on sympathy, I have a right to yours. " The .\/ords, tho accent of Corinne, somewhat dispersed tho clouds that gathered over Nevil's thoughts; yet he said to himself: "She is a most seducing creature, but— an Italian. This is not a shrinking, innocsat heart, even to itself unknown, such as, I doubt not, beate in the bosom of the English girl to whom my father destined me." Lucy Edgarmond was the daughter of his parent's best friend; but too young, when he left England, for him to marry her, or even foresee what she might one day become.* CHAPTER II. Oswald and Corinne went first to the Pantheon, now called Santa Maria of the Rotunda. Throughout Italy the Catholic hath been the Pagan's heir ; but this is the only antique temple in Rome which has been preserved entire; the only one wherein we may behold, un- impaired, the architecture of the ancients, and the peculiar character of their worship. Here they paused to admire the portico and its supporting columns. Corinne bade Oswald to observe that this building was constructed in such a manner as made it appear much larger than. * In the origlual, Lucile Edgennoud ; but as neither of these names Is BngliBfa^ end the latter capable of a very ignoble prouauclation, I have taken tho liberty to alter both.— Tn. ROME. 43 it was. "St. Peter's," she said, "produces an opposite effect: you will, at first, think it less vast than it is in reality. This deception, so favorable to the Pantheon, proceeds, it is conceived, from the great space between the pillars, and from the air playing so freely "within; but still more from the absence of ornament, with which St. Peter's is overcharged. Even thus did antique poetry design but the massive features of a theme, leaving the reader's fancy to supply the detail; in all affairs we modems say and do too much. This fane was consecrated by Agrippa, the favorite of Augustiis, tc his friend, or rather, his master, who, however, had the humi- lity to refuse this dedication; and Agrippa was reduced to the ne- cessity of devoting it to all the gods of Olympus, and of substitu- ting their power for that of one earthly idol. On the top of the Pantheon stood a car, in which were placed the statues of Augustus and Agrippa. On each side of the portico similar effigies were dis- played, in other attitudes; and over the front of the temple is stiU legible: " Consecrated by Agrippa." Augustus gave his name to *he age in which he lived, by tendering it an era in the progress of human intellect. From the aiefs-d'ceuvres of his cotemporaries em- anated the rays that formed a circling halo round his brow. He knew how to honor men of letters in his own day; and posterity, therefore, honors him. Let us enter the temple: it is said that the light which streams in from above was considered the emblem of a divinity superior to the highest divinities. The heathens ever loved symbolical images; our language, indeed, seems to accord better with religion, than with common parlance. The rain often falls oh the marbles of this court, but the sunshine succeeds to efface it. What a serene, yet festal air is here ! The Pagans deified life, aa the Christians' sanctify death; such is the distinction between the two faiths; but Cathohcism here is far less gloomy than in the north, as you will observe when we visit St Peter's. In the sanctuary of the Pantheon the busts of our most celebrated artists decorate the niches once filled by ideal gods. Since the empire of the Caesars, we have scarce ever boasted any political independence; consequently, you Will find no statesmen, no heroes here. Genius constitutes our only fame; but do you not think, my Lord, that a people who thus revere the talents still left amongst them, must deserve a nobler destiny?" — "I believe," replied Oswald, "that nations generally deserve their own fates, be they what they will." — "That is severe! but, perhaps, hy living in Italy, your heart may soften towards the fair land which nature has adorned like a victim for sacrifice. At least remember, that the dearest hope the lovers of glory cherish is that of obtaining » place here. I have already chosen mine,'' she added, pointing to a niche still vacant. " Oswald, who knows but you may one day re- turn to this spot, whpn my bust — " • Hold!" interrupted he ; "can you, resplendent in youth and beauty, talk thus to one whom misfor- tune even now is bending towards the grave?"-^"Ahl" exclaimed *i CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. Corinne, " the storm may in a moment dash down flowers that yet BhoU raise their heads again. Oswald, dear Oswald! why are you not huppy ?" — "Never ask me," he replied; " you have your secrets, and I miue: let us respect our mutual silence. You know not what I should suffer, if forced to relate my distresses." Corinne said no more ; but Jier steps, as she left the temple, became slow, and her looks mord pi nsive. She paused beneath the portico. "There," she said, "stood a porphyry urn of great beauty, now removed to St. John Lateran ; it conlained the asln s of Agrippa, whicli were deposited at the foot of the stalue ho had erected to himself. The ancients lavished such art on sweetening the idea of destruction, that they succeeded iu banish- ing all its mo-t dreary au'l alarming traits. There was such raagnifi- C' noe in their tombs, that the contrast between the nothingness of death and the splemiors of life was less felt. It is certain, too, that the hope of auother world was far- less vivid amongst them than it is witli Christians. They were obliged to contest with death, the prin- cipal wliich Wb fearlessly confide to the bosom of our etemdl Father." Oswald siiihed, and spoke not; melancholy ideas have many- charms, when we are not deeply miserable; but while grief, in all its cruelty, reigns over the breast, we cannot hear, without a shudder, words h.ch, of old, excited but reveries not more sad than sooth- ing- CHAPTER IIL In going to ot Peter's, they crossed the bridge of St. Angelo dn foot. "It was here," said Oswald, "that, on my way from the Capitol, I, for the first time, mused long on Corinne." — "I do not flatter myself," she rejoined, "that I owe a friend to my corona- tion; yet, in toiling for celebrity, I have ever wished that it might make me beloved; were it not useless, at least to a woman, with- out such expectation?" — "Let us stay here awhile," said Oswald. "Can liygonc centuries aSord me one remembrance equal to that of the day on which I beheld you first?" — "I may err," answered Corinne, "but I think persons become most endeared to each other while participating in the admiration of works which speak to'the Boul by their true grandeur. Those of Rome are neither cold nor mute ; conceived as they were by genius, and halloT ^d by memor- able events. Nay, perhaps, Oswald, one could not better learn to love a man like yourself than by enjoying with him the nol)le beauties of the universe." — " But I," returned Oswald, "while gazing listen- ing beside you, need the presence of no other wonder." Corinne thanked him by a gracious smile. Pausing before the castle of 8t. Angelo, she pursued: "This is one of the most orig^al exteiicKS BOMB. 4S •moug all our adifices: the tomb of Adrian, fortified by the Goths, bearing a double character from its successive uses. Built for th« dead, an impenetrable circle inclosed it; yet the living have added more hostile defences, which contrast strongly with the silent and noble inutility of a funeral monument. You see, at the top, the bronze figure of an angel with a naked sword; (5) within are prisons, famed for ingenious torture. All the epochs of Roman history, from the days of Adrian to our own, are associated with this site. Belis-J arius defended it against the Ooths ; and, with a barbarism scare enferior to their own, hurled on them the beauteous statues that adorned the interior. Crescentius, Arnault de Brescia, and Nic-. olas Rieiizi, (6) those friends of Roman liberty whp so oft mistook ker memories for her hopes, long defied their foes from this imperial tomb. I love each stone connected with so many glorious feats. I applaud the master of the world's luxurious taste — a magnificent tomb. There is something great in the man who, while possessing all the pomps and pleasures of the world, fears not to employ his mind so lon^ in preparations for his death. Moral ideas and disin- terested sentiments must fill the soul that, in any way, outsteps the boundaries of life. Thus far ought the pillars in front of St. Peter's to extend ; such was the superb plan of Michael Angelo, which he trusted his survivors would complete; but the men of our days think not of posterity. When once enthusiasm has been turned into ridi- cule, all is defeated, except wealth and power." — -'It is for you ta regenerate it," cried Nevil. " Who ever experienced such happiness as I now taste ? Rome shown me by you 1 interpreted by imagination and genius! What a world, when animated by sentiment, without wliich the world itself were but a desert! (7) Ah, Corinne! what is to follow these the sweetest days that my fate and heart e'er granted me?" — "All sincere affections come direct from Heaven," she answered, meekly. "Why, Oswald, should it not protect what it inspires? It is for Heaven to dispose of us both." At last they beheld St. Peter's; the greatest edifice ever erected by man; even the Egyptian Pyramids are its inferiors in height. " Per- haps," said Corinne, " I ought to have shown you the grandest of our temples last; but that is not my system. It appears to me tliat, to perfect a sense of the fine arts, one should begin by contemplating the objects which awaken the deepest and most, lively admiration. Tlas, once felt, reveals a new sphere of thought, and renders ii$ capable of loving and judging whatever may, eve.n in an humbler quality, revive the first impression we received. All cautious and mystified attempts at producing a strong eSect are against my taste. We do not arrive at the sublime by degrees, for infinite distance* ■eparatc it even from the beautiful." Oswald felt the most extraordinary sensations when standing iq. front of St. Peter's. It was the first time the effort of man had affected him like a marvel of nature. It is the only work of art oa 48 COBINNE ; OR, ITALY. Ibe face of the globe that possesses the same species of majesty which characterizes those of creation. Corinne enjoyed his astonishment. '' I have selected,'' she said, " a day when the sun is in all his splendor; ttill reserving for you a yet more holy rapture, that of beholdmg St. I'eter'g bymoonhght; but I wished you first to be present at this Inost brilliant spectacle — the genius of man bedecked in the magnifi- cence of nature." The square of St. Peter's is surrounded by pillars, which appear fight from a distance, but massive as you draw nearer; the sloping iece of architecture kindles that aimless reverie, which bears the *oul we know not whither. The ripple of water well accords with this yiigue deep sense; it is uniform, as the edifice is regular. t)tenial motion and eternal rest, seem here united, defying even time/ who has no more sullied the source of those pure springs than thaken the base of that commanding temple. "These sheaves of liquid silver dash themselves into spray so fine, that on sunny days Ihe "ght will form them into little rainbows, tinted with all the iris liUfci>'of the prism. " Stop here a moment," said Corinne to Nevil, lyhowas already beneath the portico; "pause, ere you unveil the Sanctuary ; does not your heart throb as you approach it, as if antici- pating some solemn event?" She raised the curtain, and held It back for Nevil to pass, with such a grace that his first look was on icr, and for seme seconds he could observe nothing else: yet he entered the interior, and soon, beneath its immense arches, was filled iy a piety so profound that love alone no longer sufficed to occupy 18 Ijreast. He walked slowly beside Corinne; both were mute; ftere everything commands silence; for the least sound is re-echoed tx> far,' that no discourse seems worthy to be thus repeated, in such tfti almost eternal abode. Even prayer, the accent of distress, spring- ing from whatever fetble voice, reverberates deeply through itsvast- 3; and when we hear, from far, the trembling steps of age on ROME. 49 the fair marble, watered by so many tears, mas. becomes Imposing from the very infirmities that subject his divine spirit to so mucS of woe; and we feel that Christianity, the creed of suffering, contain* the true secret which should direct our pilgrimage on earth. Cor- inne broke on the meditations of Oswald, saying, " You must have remarked that the Gothic churches of England and Germany have r far more gloomy character than this. Northern Catholicism has ii it something mystic; ours speaks to the imagination by externaj objects, Michael Angelo, on beholding this Some from the Pan- theon, exclaimed, ' I have built it in the air ! — ^indeed, St. Peter s is as ^ temple based upon a, church ; its interior weds the ancient and modern mths in the mind; I frequently wander hither to regain the com- posure my spirit sometimes loses. The sight of such a building if like a ceaseless, changeless melody, here awaiting to control all wha •eek it ; ,and among our national claims to glory, let me rank thj courage, patience, and dii'^terestedness of the chiefs of ourchurcl^, who have, for so many j ■ ' "voted such treasures to the comple- tion of an edifice which .'.ders could not expect to enjoy. (8) It is rendering a service moral public, bestowing on a nation a monument emblematic oi such noble and generous desires." — "Yes," replied Oswald, "here art is grand, and genius inventive; but how is the real dignity of man sustained? How weak are the generality of Italian governments, yet how do they enslave."— "Other nations," interrupted Corinne, "have borne the yoke, likf ouiselves, and without like power to conceive a better fate, 'Servi Biam b!, ma eervi ogDor trementt/' ' We are slaves, indeed, but forever chafing beneath our bond% said Alfieri, the boldest of our modem writers. With such eoi^ for the fine arts, may not our character one day equal our geniusf But look at these statues on the tombs, these mosaics — ^laboriony and faithful copies from the -'- ti e Senate to requite the expl 'its of Septimus Severus. The namt-j of J ^ two Bons, Caracaila and Geta, were inscribed on its front; but as Cara- calla assa-sinated his irother, his name was erased; some marks of the letters are yet visible. Farther ofE is a te pie to Faustina, a monument of tlie weakness of Marcus Aurelius. A temple to Venus, which, in the republican era, was consecrated toPalla.s, and at a little distance, the relics of another, dedicated to the sun and moon, by the emperor Adrian, who was so jealous of the Greek architect ApoUodo- rus,that he put him tod atli for censuring its proportion. Ontheother side are seen the remains of buildings devoted lo higher and purer aims. The colimuis of one believed to be that of Jupiter Stator, for- bidding the Romans ever to fly before their enemies — the last pillar of the temple to Jupiter Gustos, placed, it is said, near the gulf into which Curtius threw himself — and some belo' ging either to th« Temple v,f Concord or to that of Victoiy. Perhaps this resistless people confounded the two ideas, belieWng that they could only attain true peace by subduing the universe. At the extremity of Mount Piilatiuus stands an arch celebrating Titus's conquest at Jeru- sal m. It is asserted that no Jews will ever pass beneath it; and the little path they take to avoid it is pointed out. We will hope, for the credit of the Jews, that this anecdote is true ; such enduring re- collections well become th" long-suffering. Not far from hence is the arch of Constamine, embellished by some has reliefs, taken from, the Forum, in the time of Trajan, by the Christians, who resolved thus to deck the moniiinent of the Founder of Peace. The arts, at this period, were already on the wane, and thefts from the past deified new achievements The triumphal gates still seen in Rome perpetuated, as much as inaii could do, the respect paid to glory. There were, places for mu- sicians at their summits; so that the hero, as he passed, might be in- toxicated at once by melody and praise, tasting, at the same moment. All that can exalt the spirit. In front of these arches are the ruins of the Temple to Peace built by Vespasian. It was so adorned by bronze and gold within, that 'When it was consumed by fire, streams of fused me al ran even to the Forum. Finally, the Coliseum, loveliest ruin of Rome! termi- nates the circle in which all the epochs of history seem collected for comparison. Those stones, now bereft of marble and of gilding, once formed the arena in which the gladiators contended with fero- cious beasts. Thus were the Romans amused and duped, by strong excitements, while their natural feelings were denied due pow^. There were two entrances to the Coliseum; the one devoted to tbe BOMS. 63 •onquerors, the other that through which they carried the dead. " Sana vivaria, sandapila/rUi." Strange scorn of humanity ! to decide beforehand the life or death of nian, for mere pastine. Titiia, the l)est of emperors, dedicated the Coliseum to tlie Romdn peopL_, and its very ruins bear so admirable a stamp of genius, that one is tempted to deceive one's self on the nature of true greatness, and grant to tlie triumphs of art the praise which is due but to spectacles fliat tell of generous institutions. Oswald's enthusiasm equalled not that of Corinne, while beholding these four galleries, rising one above the other, in proud decay, inspiring ai once respect and ten- derness: h« saw but the luxury of ruler, tlie blood of slaves, and was almost prejudiced against the arts, for thus lavishing their gifts, in- different as to the purposes to which they were applied. Coi inne at- tempted to combat this mood. "Do not, " she said, ' ' let your prin- ciples of justice interfere with a contemplation like this. I have told you that these objects would rather rertiind you of Italian taste and elegance than of Roman virtue; but do j'ou not trace some mora} grandeur in the gigantic splendor that succtcded it? The very deg- radation of the Roman is imposing ; while mourning for liberty they strewed the earth with wonders; and ideal beauty sought to solaco man for the real dignity he had lost. Look < n these immense baths, open to all who wished to taste of oiienial voluptuousness; these circles wherein elephants once battled with tigers; these aqueducts, which could instantaneously convert the areas into lakes, where galleys raced in their turn, or crocodiles filled the space just occupied by lions. Such was the luxury of the Romans, when luxury was their pride. These obelisks, brought from Egypt, torn from the African's shade to decorate the sepulchres of Romans I Can all this be considered useless, as the pomp of Asiatic despots? Ko, you behold the genius of Rome, the victor of the world, attirtd by the arts! There is something superhuman and poetical in this magnificence, which makes one forget both its origin and its aim." The eloquence of Corinne excited without convincing Oswald. — He sought a moral sentiment in all things, and the magic of art could never satisfy bim without it. Corinne now recollected that, in tlii» - same arena, the persecuted Christians had fallen victims to their constancy, : she pointed out the altars erected to their ashes, and the I path towards the cross which the penitents trod beneath the ruins of mundane greatness; she asked him if the dust of martyrs said nothing to his heart. "Yes," he cried, "deeply do, I revere the power of soul and will over distress and death: a sacrifice, be it what it may. Is more arduous, more commendable than all the efforts of genius. Exalted imagination may work miracles, but it is only ■when we immolate self to principle that we are truly virtuous. ' Then alone does a celestial power subdue the mortal in our breasts." These pure and noble words disturbed Corinne; she gazed on Nevil, tlten cast down her eyes; and though at the same time he took bar S4 CORniTNi;; OR, ITAXT. hand, and pressed ii lo his heart, she trembled to think that such h man might devote himself or others to despair, in his adherence to the oninions or duties of which he might make choice. CHAPTER V. Corinne and Nevil employed two days in wandering over the Sevtai pills, The Romans formerly held a fSte in their honor: it is one of Rome's original beauties to be thus embraced, and patriotism natu- rally loved to celebrate such a peculiarity. Oswald and Corinne tiaving already viewed the Capitoline Hill, recommenced their course at Mount Palatinus. The palace of the Csesars, called the Golden Palace, once occupied it entirely, ^ugustus, Tibtrius, Caligula, and Nero, built its four sides: a heap of stones, overgrown with shrubs, is all that now remains. Nature reclaimed her empire over the works of man; and her fair flowers atone for the faU of a palace. In the regal and republican eras, grandly as towered their pubfic buildings, private houses were extremely small and simple. Cicero, Hortensius, and the Grachii, dwelt on this eminence, whicli hardly sufficed, in the decline of Rome, for the abode of a single man. In the latter ages the nation was but a nameless mass, designated solely by the eras of its masters. The laurels of war and those of the arts cultivated by peace, which were planted at the gate of Augustus, have both disappeared. Some of Livia's baths are left. You are shown the places wherein were set the precious stones, then lavished on walls or ceilings, and paintings of which the colors are still fresh; their delicacy rendering this yet more surprising. If it be true that Livia caused the death of Augustus, it was in one of these cham- bers that the outrage must have been conceived. How often may his gaze have been arrested by these pictures, whose tasteful gar- lands stiH survive? The master of the world betrayed in his near- est affections! what tboug'ut his old age of lite and its vain pomps? Did he reflect on his glory, or its victims? Hoped he or feared a future world? Mignt not the last thouglit, which reveals all to man, stray back to these halls, the scenes of his past power? (11) Mount Aventmus affords more traces of Rome's early day than any of its sister hills. Exactly facing the palace constracted by Tiberius b. seen a wreck of Uie ti-mple to Libmy, built by the father of tne Grachii; and at the foot of this ascent stood that dedi- cated to (Jie Fortune of Men, by Sbrvius Tullius, to thank the gods that, though born a slave, he had become a king. Without the walls of Rome another editice rose to the Fortune of woman, commemo- xatiiig the influence exerted by Yenturia over Coriolanus. KOME. 55 opposite to Mount Aventinus is Mount Janiculum, on which Porsenna marshalled his army. It was in front of this hill that Ho- ratius Codes cut away the bridge, which led to Rome: its founda tions still exist. On the banks of the stream was built a brick arch, simple as the action it recalled was great. In the midst of the Tiber floated an island formed of the wheat sheaves gathered from the fields of Tarquin ; the Romans forbearing to use them, in the belief that they were charged with evil fate. It would be diiRcult, in our own day, *c call down on any treasure a curse of sufficient efficacy to scare men from its participation. On Mount Aventinus were temples both to patrician and plebeian chastity : at the foot of the hill the Temple of Vesta still remains, almost entire, though the inundations of the Tiber have often threat- ened to destroy it. Not far thence are vestiges of a prison for debt, where the well-known instance of filial piety is said to have occurred ; here, too, Cloelia and her companions were confined by Porsenna, and swam across the r 'i rejoin the Romans. Mount Aventinus indemnifies the mind " ^, painful recollections the other hills awake; and its aspect aateous as its memories are sweet. The banks at its foot were v ^cd the Lovely Strand (piUchrum littus). Thither the orators of Rome walked from the Forum: there CiEsar and Pompey met like simple citizens, and sought to conciliate Cicero, whose independent eloquence was of more weight than even the power of their armies. Poetry has also embellished this spot : it was there that Virgil placed the cave of Cacus; and Rome, so great in history, is stiU greater by the heroic fictions with which her fabulous origin has been decked. In returning from Mount Avent- inus, you see the house of Nicolas Rienzi, who vainly strove to restore the spirit of antiquity in modern days. Mount Coelius is remarkable for the remains of a pretorian eh- campment, and that of the foreign troops: on the ruins of the latter ■was found an inscription: "To the Holy Genius of the Foreign Camp." Holy, indeed, to those whose power it sustained! What is left of these barracks proves that they were built like cloisters; or, rather, that cloisters were formed after their model. Ksquilinuswas called the "Poet's Hill;" Maecenas, Horace, Proper- tius and TibuUus having all houses there. Near this are the ruins of the baths of Trajan and Titus. It is believed that Raphael copied his arabesques from the frescoes of the latter; here, too, was the LaOcoon discovered. The freshness of water is so acceptable in fervid climes, that their natives love to collect all that can pamper the senses in the chambers where they bathe. Thus, by the light of lamps, did the Romans gaze on the diefs-d'osuvres of painting and sculpture; for it appears from the construction of these buildings (hat day never entered them : tliey were sheltered irom the noontide rays, so piercing here as fully to deserve the title of Apollo's darts. Yet the extreme precautious taken by the ancients might induce a C6 CORINNE; OK, ITALY. supposition that the climate was more burning then than now. In the baths of Caracalla were the Farnese Hercules, the Flora, and the group of Circe. Near Ostia, in the batlis of Nero, was found the Apollo Belvidere. Can we look on that noble figure and con- ceive Nero destitute of all generous sentiments? The baths and circusses are the only places of public amusement that have left their vestige. Though the ruins of jyiarcellus's theatre Btill exist, Pliny relates that three hundred and sixty marble pillars, and three thousand statues, were placed in a theatre incapable of lasting many days. The Romans, however, soon built with a solidity f that defied the earthquake's shock : too soon they wasted like pains j on edifices which they destroyed themselves when the fStes held in thi-m were concluded ; thus, in every sense sported they with time. They had not the Grecian's mania for dramatic representations : thp fine arts then flourished at Kome only in the works of Greece; and Roman grandeur consisted rather in colossal architecture than ii. effort^ of imagination. The gigantic wonders thus produced bore a very dignified stamp, no longer of liberty, but thrt of power stiU. The districts devoted to the public baths were called provinces, and united all the varied establishments to be found in a whole country. The great circus so nearly touched the imperial palace, that Nero, from his window, could give a signal for the commencement of the games. This circus was large enough to contain three hundred thou- sand people. Almost the whole nation might be amused at the sami> moment; and these immense festivals might be considered as popular institutions, which assembled for mere pleasure those who formerly United for glory. Monnts Quirinalis and Viminalis are so near each other that it is not easy to distinguish them apart. There stood the houses of Sallust and of Pompey. There, too, in the present daj^, does the pope reside. One cannot take a single step in Rome, with' out contrasting its present and its past. But one learns to view ths /events of one's own time the more calmly for noting the eternal fluctuations that mark the history of man; »nd one feels ashamed Us repine, in the presence, as it were, of so many centuries, who have all overthrown the achievements jl their predecessors. ' Around, and I on the Seven Hills, are seen a multitude of 'spires and obelisks, the columns of Trajan and of Antoninus, the tower of Conti, whence, it is said, Nero overlooked the confiag ation of Rome, and the dome of St. Peter's lording it over the highest. The air seems peopled by these heaven-aspiring fanes, as if an aerial city soared majestic above that of the earth. In re-entering Rome, Corinne led Oswald beneafli the portico of the tender and suffering Octavia; .they then crossed 'the road along which the infamous Tullia drove over the body of her father: they beheld, in the distance, the temple raised by Agrippiaa in honor of Claudius, whom she had caused to be poisoned; finally, they passed the tomb of Augustus, the inclosure around ■which now serves as an ar«aa for animu combats. ROME. 57 " I have led you rapidly," said Corinne, " over a few foirtpriuts of ancient history; but you can appreciate the pleasure which may be found in researclies at once sage and poetic, addressing the fancy as •well as the reason. There are many distinguished men in Rome whose sole occupation is that of discoveriiig new links between our ruins and our history. " "I know no study which could interest me more," replied Nevil, " if I felt my mind sufficiently composed for it. Such erudition is far more animated than tliat we acquire Irom books: we seem to revive what we unveil; and the past appears to • rise from the dust which concealed it." " Doubtless," said Corinne, this passion for antiquity is no idle prejudice. We live in an age when selt-interest seems the ruling principle of all men ; what eympathy, what enthusiasm, can ever be its result? Is it not sweeter to dream over the days of self-devotion and heroic sacrifice, which might once have e>Jstod, nay, of which the earth still bears such honorable traces?" CHAPTER VI. Corinne secretly flattered herself that she had captivated the heart of Oswald; yet knowing his severe reserve, dared not fully l)etray the interest he inspired, prompt as she was by nature to con- fess her feelings. Perhaps she even thought that while speaking on subjects foreign to their love, the very voice mi^ht disclose their mutual afiection ; a silent avowal be expressed in their looks, or in that veiled and melancholy language which so deeply penetrates the souL One morning, while she was preparing to continue their researches,' 8he received from him an almost ceremonious note, saying that indisposition would confine him to his bouse for some days A sad disquietude seized the, heart of Corinne: at first, she feared tliat he was dangerously ill; but Count d'Erfeuil, who called in the evening, informed her that it was but one of those nervous attacks to which Kevil was so subject, and during which, he would converse with nobody. " He won't even see me!" added the count. The words displeased Corinne, but she took care to hide her anger from its object, as he alone could bring her tidings of his friend. She therefore continued to question him, trusting that a person so giddy, at least in appear- ance, would tell her all he knew. But whether he wished to hide, lieneath an air of mystery, the fact that Kevil had confided nothihg, or whether he believed ji more honorable to thwart her wishes than to grant them, he met her ardent curiosity by imperturbable silence . She, who had always gained such an ascendency over those with whom she spoke, could not understand why her persuasive powers should fail with him. She did not know that self-love is the most inflexiblr qaality in the world. Where was then her resource for learning; 68 CORENNE; OR, ITALY. what passed in the heart of Oswald? Should she write to him? A letter requires such caution; and the loneliest attribute of her nature was her impulsive sincerity. Three days passed, and still he came not. She suffered the most cruel agitation. "What have I done," she thought, "to dissever him, from me? I have not committed the error so formidable in England, so pardonable in Italy; 1 never told him that I loved. Even if he guesses it, why should he esteem me the less ?" Oswald avoided Corinne merely because he but too strongly felt the power of her charms. Although he had not given his word to marry Luoy Edgarmond, he knew that such had been his father's wish, and desired to conform with it. Coriime was not Known by her real name: she had for many years led a life far too independent for him to hope that a union with her would have obtained the appro- bation of his parent, and he felt that it was not by such a step he could expiate his early offences. He purposed to leave Rome, and write Corinne an explanation of the motives which enforced such resolution; but not feeling strength for this, he limited his exertions to a forbearance from visiting her; and this sacrifice soon appeared the most painful of the two. Corinne was struck by the idea that she should, see him no more; that he would fly without bidding her adieu. She expected every instant to hear of his departure; and terror so aggravated her sensa- tions, that the vulture talons of passion seized at once on her heart; and its peace, its liberty, crouched beneath them. Unable to rest in the house where Oswald came not, she wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet him; she had at least some chance of seeing him, and best supported the hours during which she trusted to this expectation. Her ardent fancy, the source of her talents, was unhappily blended with such natural feeling, that it now constituted her wretchedness. The evening of the fourth day's absence the moon shone xlearly over Rome, which, in the silence of night, looks lovely, as if vt were inhabited but by the spirits of the great. Cor- inne, on her way from the house of a female friend, left her car- riage, and, oppressed with grief, seated herself beside the fount of Trevi, whr>se abundant cascade falls in the center of Rome, and seems the life of that tranquil scene. Whenever its flow is sua- pendcd, all appears stagnation! In other cities it is the roll of car- riages that the ear requires; in Rome it is the murmur of this im- inense fountain, which seems the indispensable accompaniment of the dreamy life led there. Its water is so pure, that it has for many ages been named the Virgin Spring. The form of Corinne was now reflected o.; its surface. Oswald, who had paused there at the same moment, beheld the enchanting countenance of his love thus mirrored in the wave : at first, it affected him si strangely that he believed himself gazing on her phantom, as his imagination had often conjured up that of bis fathinr: he leaned forward, In order to KOKS. i^ Me it Biun) piainly, and his own features appeared Wstde thorn of Corinnc. She recognized them, shrieked, rushed towards him and seized his arm, as if she feared he would again escape; hut scarcelv had she yielded to this too impetuous impulse, ere, remembering the character of Ix>rd Nevil, she blushed, her hand dropped, and with the other she covered her face to hide her tears. "Corinnel dear Corinne!" he cried, "has then my absence pained you?" — " Yes," she replied, "you must have known it would. Why then inflict such pangs on me? Have I deserved to suffer thus for you?" — "No, no," he answered; "but if I cannot deem myself free — if my heart be filled by regret and fear, why should I involve, you in its tortures? Why?" — "It is too late to ask," 'nterrupted Corinne; CTief is already in my breast; bear with mel'- " Grief l"' repeated Oswald; "in the midst of so brilliant a careei, with so lively a genius!" — " Hold!" she said, "you know me not. Of aU my faculties, the most powenul is tnat 6i sulteriug. i was lormea for happiness; my nature is confiding and animated; but sorrow excites me to a degree that thnatens my reason, nay, my life. Be careful of me! My gay versatility serves me but in appearance; within my soul is an abyss of despair, which I can only avoid by preserving myself from love." Corinne spoke with an expression which vividly affected Oswald. "I will come to you to-morrow, rely on it, Corinne," he said. "Swear it!" she exclaimed with aa eagerness which she strove in vain to diseuise. ' ' I do, " ha answerad, am departed- OOBraiJBTCm IT AIY. BOOK V. THS TOMBS, CHTTBCHES, AlTD PAI.ACIE& CHAPTER L ., The next day Oswald and Corinnemet ingreab embarrassment. She could no longer depend on the love she had inspired. He waa dissatisfied with himself, and felt his own weakness rebel against the ^tyranny of his sentiments. Both sought to avoid the subject of their mutual affection. " To-day," said Corinne, " I proposed a somewhat solemn excursion, but one which will be sure to interest you; let ua visit the last asylums of those who lived among the edifices we have seen in ruins." — "You have guessed what would mcst suit my pres- ent disposition," said Oswald, in so sad a tone, that she dared not speak again for some moments; then gaining courage from her d:>- pire to soothe and entertain him, she added: " You know, my Lord, that among the ancients, far from the sight of tombs discouraging the living, they were placed in the high road, to kindle .emulation; the young were thus constantly reminded of the 'illustrious dead, who seemed silently to bid . them imitate their glories." — "Ah!" sighed Oswald, "how I envy those whose regrets are unstained by remorse." — ^"Talkyo«of remorse?" she cried; " then it is but one virtue the more, the scruples of a heart whose exalted delicacy — " He interrupted her. ■ " Corinne I Corinnel do not approach that tlieme; in your blest land gloomy thoughts are exhaled by the brightness of heaven; but with us grief buries itself in the depth of the soul, and shatters its strength forever." — " You do .' ae in j ustice, " she replied. ' ' I have told you that, capable as I am 6f enjoyment, I should suffer more than you, if — "she paused, and :%angea the subject; continuing, "My only wish, my Lord, is to divert your mind for awhile. I ask no more." The meekness of this reply touched Oswald's heart; and, as he marked the melancholy tteauty of those eyes, iisually so full of fire, he reproached iumaelt , - THS TOMBSrCHITRCHBS AOT) PALACEa "- «1 V/tSi iuvviag thus depressed a spirit so framed for sweet and JoyoM impression;; he would fain have restored them; but Oorinne's uncer- tainty of his intentions, as to his stay or departure, entirely disordered her accustomed serenity. She led him through the gates to the old Appian Way, whose tracea aremaru.ed in the heart of the country by ruins on the right and left, for many miles beyond the walls. The Rom ns did not permit the dead to be buried within the city. None but the emperors were there enterred, except one citizen named Publius Biblius, who was thus re- compensed for his humble virtues; such as, indeed, his contempora- ries were most inclined to honor. To reach the Appian Way you leave Rome by the gate of St. Sebastian, formerly called the Capena Gate. The first tombs you then find, Cicero asssures us, are those of Metellus, of Scipio, and Servilius. The tomb of the Scipio family was found here, and after- wards removed to the Vatican. It is almost sacrilege to displace such ashes. Imagination is more nearly allied to morality than U believed, and ought not to be offended. Amon? so many tomba names must be strewn at random; there is no way of deciding to which such or such title belongs; but this very uncertainty prevents our looking on any of them with indifference. It was in such that the peasants made their homes; for the Romans consecrated quit« space enough to the urns of their illustrious fellbvv-oitizena. They had not that principle of utility which, for the sake of cultivating a few feet of ground the more, lays waste the vast domain of feeling and of thought. At some distance from the Appian Way Is a temple raised by the republic to Honor and to Virtue; another to the god who caused the return of Hannibal. ThcLC, too, is the fnuntain of Egeria; where in solitude Numa conversed with Conscience, the divinity of the good. No monument of guilt invades the repose of these great beings; the earth around is sa^»ed to the memory of worth. The noblest thoughts may reig'i i iiere undisturbed. The aspect of the country near Rome is remarliably peculiar; it is but a desert, as boasting neither trees nor houses ; > 'Ut the ground is covered with wild shrubs ceaselessly rene w ed by energetic vegetation. The parasitic tribes creep round the tombs; and decorate the ruins as if in honor of their dead. Proud nature, conscious that no Cincinnatus now ^ides tlie plough that furrows 'her breast, there repulses the care of man, and produces pi Mits whick she permits not to serve the living. These uncultivated plains may, indeed, displease those who speculate on the earth's capacity for supplying humm wants; but tlie pensive life, more occupied by thouglits of death than of life, loves to contemplate the Campagna, on which pre-ent time has imprinted no trace; it cherishes the dead, and fondly covers them with useless flowers, that bask beneath tho sun, but never a-pire above the ashes which they appear to care-a. Oswald admitted that in such a scene a cahu might be regained that Oe ' OORINNE; OE. ITALY. eonld be enjoyed nowhere beside. The soul is there less wonnded by the images of Borrow ; it seems to partake, with those now no more, the charm of that air, that sunlight, and that verdure. Corinne drew some hope from observing the effect thus talien on him; she wished not to efface the just regret owed to the loss of his father ; but regret itself is capable of sweets, with which we should try to familiarize those who have tasted but its bitterness, for that is the only blessing we can confer on them. "Let us rest," said Corinne, "before this tomb, which remaina almost entire: it is not tliat of a celebrated man, but of a young girl, Cecilia Metella, to whom her father raised it." — "Happy the children," sighed Oswald, "who die on the bosom that gave them life: for them even death must lose its sting." — "Ay," replied rCorinne, with emotion, "happy those who are not orphans. But llook! arms are sculptured here: the daughters of heroes had a right ito bear the trophies of their sires: fair union of innocence and valor! IThere is an <^ 1fip: y, by Prnpertius. which better than a ny gtherjBgit- , _iiig of antiquity, describes the dignity of woman'aiSS ngthe Romaps ; 'a gignity more pure and m ore commanamg than even that which sh e ^lijgr'^^dm jpg- the a^e uf T^livalry. uor n elia. (lviDg ~in her^ou^, adtlresses toiler husband a consolatory farewell, wliose eveiy word breaches her tender respect for all that is sacred in the ties of nature. The noble pride of a blameless life is well depicted in the majestic Latin ; in poetry august and severe as the masters of the world. 'Tes,' says Cornelia, 'no stain has sullied my career, from tt.e hour when Hymen's torch was kindled, even to that which lights my funeral pyre. I have lived spotless between two flames:' (13) What an admirable expression! what a sublime image! How enviable the woman who preserves this perfect unity in her fate, and carries but- one remembrance to the grave! That were enough for one life." As she ceased, her eyes filled with tears. A cruel suspicion seized the heart of Oswald. " Corinne," he cried, " Las your delicate miud aught with which to reproach you? H I could offer you. myself, should I not have rivals in the past? Could I pride in my choice? Might not jealousy disturb my delight?" — "1 am free," replied Corinne, "and love you as I never loved before. What would you have? Must I confess, that, ere I knew you, I might have deceived myself as to the interest with which others inspired me? Is there ruo divinity in man's heart for the errors which, beneath such illusions, might have been committed?" A modest glow overspread her face. Oswald shuddered, but was silent. There was such timid penitence in the looks of Corinne, that he could not rigorously judge one whom a lay from heaven seemed descending to absolve. He pressed her hand to his heart, and knelt before her, without uttering a promise, indeed, but with a glance of Iv . j which left her all to hope. "Let ns form no plan for years to come," she said: "the happiest hours ef life are those benevolently granted us by chance : it is not THE TOMBa, CHUKCHES AND PALACES. 03 liere, in the midst of tombs, tliat we siiould trust much to the future." — "No," cried Nevilj "I believe in no future that can ?art us: four days of absence have but too well convinced me tliat now exist but for you. " Corinne made no reply, but religiously hoarded these precious words in her heart ; she always feared, in pro- longing a conversation on the only subject of her thoughts, lest Os- wald should declare his intentions before a longer habit of being with her rendered separation impossible. She often designedly directed ■his attention to exterior objects, like the sultana in the Arabian tales, ' who sought by a thousand varied stories to captivate her beloved, and defer his decision of her fate, till certain that her wit must prova ▼ictoriotis. ' CHAPTER IL JTot far from the Appian Way is seen the Columbarium, whera slaves are buried with their lords; where the same tomb contains all who dwelt beneath the protection of one master or mistress. Tha women devoted to the care of Livia's beauty, who contended with time for the preservation of her charms, are placed in small urna beside her. The noble and ignoble there repose in equal silence. At a little distance is the field wherein vestals, unfaithful to their TOWS were interi'ed alive; a singular example of fanaticism in a reli- gion naturally so tolerant. "I shall not take you to the catacombs," said Corinne, "thou^ by a strange chance, they lie beneath the Appian Way, tombs upoq. tombs! But that asylum of persecuted Christians is so gloomy and terrible, that I cannot resolve to revisit it. It has not the touching melancholy which one breathes in open wilds ; it is a dungeon near a sepulchre — the tortures of existence beside the horrors of death. Doubtless one must admire men who, by the mere force of enthusi- asm, could support that subterranean life — forever banished from the sun ; but the soul is too ill at ease in such a scene to be benefited by it. Man is a part of creation, and finds his own moral harmony in that of the universe; in the habitual order of fate, violent excep- tions may astonish, but thsy create too much terror to be of service. Let us rather seek the pyramid of Cestius, around which all Protes- tants who die here find charitable graves." — "Yes," returned Os- wald, " many a countryman of mine is amongst them. Let us go there; in one sense at least, perhaps, I shall never leave you." Corinne's hand trembled on his arm. He continued, " Yet I am much better since I have known you." Her countenance resumed its wonted air of tender joy. Cestius presided over the Boman sports. His name is not f otmd in history, but rendered famous by his tomb. The massive pyramid 64 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. that inclosed him defends his deatli from the oblivion which has ■utterly effaced his life. Aurelian, fearing tliat t is pyramid would l)e used but as a fortres-i front whence to aitack tlie city, had it sur- rouudcd by walls which still exist, not as usel ss ruins, but as the actual boundaries of modern Rome. It is said lliat pyramids were formed in imilalion of the flames that rose from f uner'ii pjTCS. Cer. tainly their mysterious shape attracts the C3'e, and gives a pictu- resque iharacter to all the views of which they constitute a part. In front of this pyramid is Mount Testa>.,io, beneath which are several cool grottoes, where fetes are held in ihe summer. If, at a distance, the revellers see pines and cypresses shading their smiling lan^l and recalling a solemn < onsciousness of death, Ihis contrast produces the same effect witli thu lines which Horace has written in. the midst of verses teeming with earthly enjoyment: — * Moritnre Delli, Linqnenda tellue, et domcB, et placcne Uxor." " Dellius, remember thou must die — leaving the world, thy home, and gentle wife." The ancients acknowledged this in their very voluptiiousness; even love and festivity reminded them of it, and joy seemed helghtene I by a sense of its brevity. Oswald and Corinne returned by the side of the Tiber; formerly covered with vessels, and banked by palaces. Of yore, even its inundations were regarded as omens. It was then the frophetic, the tutelar divmity of Rome.(13)' It may now be said to flow among phantoms, so livid is its hue — so deep its lom'liness. The finest statues and other works of art were thrown into the Tiber, and are hidden ben ath its tides. Who knows but that,' in search of them, the river may at last be driven from its bed? But, wliile we muse on efforts of human genius that lie, perhaps, beneath us, and (hat some eye, m re pierci"g than our own, may yet see through these waves, we feel that awe which, in Rome, is constantly reviv- ing in various forms, ami giving the mind companions in those physical objects which are elsewhere dumb. CHAPTER IIL IJ^phael ' said that modem Rome was almost rntlrely built from the ruins of the ancient city; Pliny had talked of the "eternal walls." which are still seen amid the works of 1 tter times. Nearly all the building-i bear the stamp of history, teaching you to compare the pliysiognomies of different ag'^s. From the days of the Etruscans >-a people senior to the Romans uemselves, resembling the Egyptiana (THE TOMBS, CHURCHES AND PALACES. 65 'in the solidity and eccentricity of their designs — down to the time of Bernini, an artist, as guilty of mannerism as were the Italian poets of the seventeenth century, one may trace the progress of the human mind, in the characters of the arts, the buildings, and ruins. The middle ages and the hrilUant day of the Dc Medici, reappearing in tiieir worlis, it ii but to study the past in the present, to penetrate the secrets of all time. It is believed that Kome had formerly a mystic name, knr)wn but to few. The city has still spells, into which we requir ; initiation. It is not simply an assemblage of dwellings; it is a chronicle of the world, represented by figurative emblems. Gorinne agreed with Nevil, that they would now explore modern R.)me, reserving for another opportunity its admirable collection of pictures and statues. Perhaps, without confessing it to herself, she w.shed to defer these sights as long as possible: for ■who has ever left Rome, without looking on the Apollo Belvidere and the paintings of Raphael? This security, weak as it was, that Oswald would not yet depmrt, was everything to her. Where is their pride? some may ask, who would retain those they love by any otlier motive than that of affection. I know not — ^but, the more we love, the less we rely on our own power; and, whatever be the cause which secures us t:ie presence of the object dear to us, it is accepted ■with gratitude. There is often much vanity in a certain species of pride; and if women, as gunerally admired as Corinne, have one real advantage, it is the right to exult rather in wliat they feel than in what they inspire. Corinne and Niivil reconmienced their excursions, by visiting the; most remarkable among the numerous churches of Rome. They are all sdorned by mag ificent antiquities; but these festal ornaments, torn from pagan temples, have here a strange, ■wild effect. Granite and porphyry pillars are so plentiful, that they are lavished as if , almost valueless. At St. John Lateran, famed for the councils that^ have been held in it, so great is the quantity of marble bolumns, that many of them are covered with cement, to form pilasters; tl^ga ini'rfferent has this profusion of riches rendered its possessors. Soma of these pillars belonged to the tothb of Adrian, others to the Capitol; some still bear the forms of the geese which preserved the Romans, others have Gothic and even Arabesque embellishments. The urn of Agiippa contains the ashes of a pope. The dead of one generation give place to the dead of another, and tombs here as often change their occupants as the abodes of the living. Hear St. John Lateran are the holy stairs, brought, it is said, from Jerusalem, and which no one ascends but on his knees; as Claudius, and even Ceesar, mounted those which led to the temple of Jupiter CapltoUnus, Beside St. John's is the font where Coustantine is supposed to have been baptized. In the centre of this ground is an obelisk perhaps (be most ancient work of art in the world — contemporary with the OOBQIKE— 4 66 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. Troian war — so respected, even by the barbarous Cambyses, that he put a stop to the conflagratioa of a city in its honor; and, for its sake, a king pledged the life of his only son. The Romans brought it from the heart of Egypt by miracle. They turned the Nile from his course that it might be found, and carried to the sed. This obelisk is still covered witli hieroglyphics, •which have kept their secret for centuries, and defy the sages of to-day to decipher signs that miglit reveal tlie annals of India and of Egypt — the antiquities of antiquit i The wondrous charm of Rome consists not only in the real beauty of her monuments, but in the interest they excite; the material for thinking they suggest; the speculations which grow, every day, the stronger from each new study. One of the most singular churches in Rome is St. Paul's: ita exterior is that of an ill-built barn; yet it is bedecked within by eighty pillars of such exquisite material and proportion, that they are believed to have been transported from an Athenian temple, described by Pausanias. If Cicero said, in his day, " we are sur- rounded by vestiges of history, " what would he say now ? Columns, statues, and pictures are so prodigally crowded in the churches of modern Rome, that, in St. Agnes's, bas-reliefs, turned face down- wards, serve to pave a staircase, no one troubling himself to ascer- tain what they might represent. How astonishing a spectacle were ancient Rome, hud its treasures been left where they were found) The immortal city, nearly as it was of yore, were still before us: but could the men of our day dare to enter it? The palaces of the Roman lords are vast in the extreme, and often display much archi- tectural grace; but their interiors are rarely arranged by good t&ste. They have none of those elegant apartments invented elsewhere for the perfect enjoyment of social life. Superb galleries, hung with the cliefs'doeumre of the tenth Leo's age are abandoned to the gaze of strangers, by their lazy proprietors, who retire to their own obscure little chambers, dead to the pomp of their ancestors, as were t/tey to the austere virtues of the Roman republic. The coimtry-houses give one a still greater idea of solitude, and of their owners' care- lessness amid the loveliest scenes of nature. One walks immense gardens, doubting if they have a master; the grass grows in every path, yet in these very alleys are the trees cut into shapes, after the fantastic moue that once reigned in France. Strange inconsistency! this neglect of essentials, and affectation in what is useless I Host Italian towns, indeed, surprise us with this mania, in a people whp have constantly beneath their eyes such models of noble simplicity. They prefer glitter to convenience ; and in every way betray the advantages and disadvantages of not habitually mixing with society. Their luxury is rather that of fancy than of comfort. Isolated «mong themselves, they dread not that spirit of ridicule, which, yi truth, ssldompenetiutes the interior of Roman abodes. Contrasting this witit what they appear from witiiout, one mifht say that they THE TOMBS, CHURCHES AOT) PALACES. «7 ■were rather buUt to dazzle the peasantry than for the reception of friends. After having shown Oswald the churches and the palaces, Corinne led him to the Villa Melini, whose lonely garden is ornamented solely by majestic trees. From thence is seen afar the cliain of the Appennines, tinted by the transparent air, against which their out- lines are defined most picturesquely. Oswald and Corinne rested for some time, to taste the charms of heaven and the tranquillity of nature. Ko one who has not dwelt in southern climes can form an idea ot this .stirless silence, unbroken by the lightest zephyr. The tenderest blades of herbage remain perfectly motionless; even the animals partake this noontide lassitude. You hear no hum of insects, no chirp of grasshoppers, no song of birds; nothing is agi- tated, all sleeps, till storm or passion waken that natural vehemence Which impetuously rushes from this profound repose. The Roman giirden possesses a great number of evergreens, that, during winter, add to the illusion which the mild air creates. The tufted tops of pines, so close to each other that they form a kind of plain in the air, have a charming effect from any eminence; trees of inferior stature are sheltered by this verdant arch. Only two palms are to be found in the Monks' Gardens: one is on a height; it may be seen from some distance always with pleasure. In returning towards the city, this image of a meridian more burning th&n that of Italy awakens a host of agreeable sensations. "Do you not find," said Corinne, "that nature here gives birth to reveries elsewhere unknown? She is as intimate vrfth the heart of man as if the Creator made her the interpretress between his creatures and himself." — "I feel all this," replied Oswald; "yet it may be but your melting influence which renders me so susceptible. You reveal to me emotions which exterior objectt may create. I lived but in my heart; you have revived my imagi- nation. But the magic of the universe, which you teach me to ap- pfeciate, will never offer me aught lovelier than your looks, more touching than your voice." — "May the feeling 1 kindle in your breast to-day," said Corinne, "last as long as my life; or, at least, may my life last no longer than your love I" THiey finished their tiiur of Rome by the Villa Borghese. In no Roman palace or garden are the splendors of nature and art collected so tastefully. Every kind of tree, superb waterfalls, with an incredible blending of statues, vases, and sarcophagi, here reanimate the mythology of the land. Naiads recline beside the streams; nymphs start from thickets worthy of such guests. Tombs repose beneath Elysian shades ; Es- culapius stands in the centre of an island ; Venus appears gliding from a bower. Ovid and Virgil might wander here, and believe themselves still in the Augustan age. The great works of sculpture, which grace this scene, give it a charm forever new. Through its trees may be descried the city, St. Peter'ii, the Campagna, and thoM >«8 CORINNE ; OK, ITALY. long arcades, ruins of aqueducts, which formerly conducted many a mountain stream |into old Rome. There is everything that caa mingle purity with pleasure, and promise perfect happiness: but if you ask why this delicious spot is not inhabited, you will be told, that the cattiva aria, or bad air, prevents its being occupied in sum- mer. This enemy, each year, besieges Rome more and more closely — ^its most charming abodes are deserted perforce. Doubtless the want of trees is one cause; and therefore did the Romans dedicate their woods to goddesses, that they might be respected by the people; yet have numberless forests been felled in our own times. What can now be so sanctified that avarice will forbear its devastation? This malaria is the scourge of Rome, and often threatens its whole population; yet, perhaps, it adds to the effect produced by the lovely gardens to be found within the boundaries. Its malignant power is betrayed by no external sign: you respire an air that seems pure; the earth is fertile; a delicious freshnes' atones in the evening for the heat of day; and all this is death! "I love such invisible danger," said Oswald, "veiled as it is in delight. If death, as I believe, be but a call to happier life, why should not the perfume of flowers, the shade of fine trees, and thie breath of eve be charged to remind us of our fate? Of course, gov- ernment ought, in everyway, to watch over human life; but nature has secrets which imagination ordy can penetrate; and I easily con- ceive that neither natives nor foreigners find anything to disgust them in the oerUs which belong to the sweetest seasons of the year." ITALIAN OHARACTER AND MANNERS. BOOK VI. Vf mjUlAH CHASACTEB Ain> UAITNEBS. CHAPTER I Oswald'* irresolution, augmented by misfortunes, taught him tA lear every jrrevocable engagement. He dared not asls Corinne het name or story, though his love for her grew each day more strong; he could Bot look on her without emotion ; hardly, in the midst of society, quit her side for an instant; she said not a word he did not feel, nor expressed a sentiment, sad or gay, that was not reflected in his face. Yet, loving, admiring her as he did, he forgot not how little such a wife would accord with English habits ; how much she differed from the idea his father formed of the woman it would become him to marry; all he said to Corinne was restrained by the disquiet these reflections caused him. She perceived this but too plainly; yet so much would it have cost her to break with him, that she lent lierself to whatever could prevent a decisive explanation ; and never possessing much forethought, revelled jn the present, such as it was, not dreaming of the inevitabte future. She entirely secluded herself from tlio ■world in this devotion to him; but, at last, hurt by his silence qa. their prospects, she resolved to accept a pressing invitation to a bafi. Nothing is more common, in Rome, than for persons to leave and return to society by fits; there is so little gossip in Italy, that people do what they like, without comment, at least without obstacle, in affairs either of love or ambition. Foreigners are as safe as natives in this rendezvous of Europeans. When Nevil learned that Corinno was going to a ball, he was out of humor; for some time he had fan- cied that he detected in her a melancholy sympathetic with his own; yet suddenly she appeared to think of nothing but dancing (in which she so much excelled), and the eclat of a f§te. Corinne was not friv- olous; but, feeling everyday more subdued by love, she wished to combat its force. She knew by experience that reflection and for- bearance have less power over impassioned characters than dissipo- 70 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 4k>n; and she thought that, if unable to triumph over herself as si ought, the next best step was to do as she could. When Nevil ce Bured her intentions, she replied, " I want to ascertain whether wh formerly pleased can still amuse me, or whether my regard for you to absorb every other interest of my life." — "You would faincea to love me," he said. "Not so," she replied; "but it is onl^ domestic life that it can be agreeable to feel one's self lorded over 1 a single afEection. To me, who need my wit and genius to susta the reputation of the life I have adopted, it is a great misfortune love as I love you." — " You wiU not sacrifice your glory to me, then cried Oswald,' — "Of what importance were it to you," she replie " if I did? Since we are not destined for each other, I must not f( ever destroy the kind o£ happiness with which I ought to conte myself." Lord Nevil said nothing; conscious that he could not nc speak without explaining his designs ; and, in truth, he was ignorant them himself. He sighed, and reluctantly followed Corinne to t] ball. It was the first time, since his loss, that he had gone to such i assemblj'. Its tumult so oppressed him that he remained for son period in a hall beside the dancing-room, with his head reclini upon his hand ; not even wishing to see Corinne dance. All musi even if its occasion be a gay one, renders us pensive. The Cou d'Erfeuil arrived, enchanted with the crowd and amusements, whi( once more reminded him of France. " I've done my best," he sai " to interest myself in their vaunted ruins, but I see nothing in thei tis a mere prejudice, this fuss about rubbish covered with briers! shall speak my mind when I return to France; for it is high tin that the farce should be ended. There is not a single building ■ to-day in good repair, that is not worth all these trunks of pillai and moldy bas-reliefs, which can only be admired through the spect cles of pedantry. A rapture which one must purchase by study ca not be very vivid in itself. One needs not spoil one's complexic over musty books, to appreciate the sights of Paris." Lord Nevil was silent, and d'Erfeuil questioned him on his opinic of Rome. "A ball is not the place for serious conversation," sai Oswald; "and 3'ouknow that I can afford you no other." — "Might fine, " replied the Count. ' ' I own I am gayer than you ; but who ca say that I am not wiser too? Trust me, there is much philosophy i taking the world as it goes." — "Perhaps you are right," answere Oswald; "but, as you are what you. are by nature, and not by ri flection, your manner of living can belong to no one but yourself. D'Erfeuil now heard the name of Corinne from the ball-room, an went to learn what was doing there. Nevil followed him to the doo: and saw the handsome Neapolitan Prince Amalfi soliciting her t fiance the Tarantula with him. All her friends joined in this reques She waited for no importuuity, but promised with a readiness whic astonished d'Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refusals with whic it is the fashion to precede consent. In Italy these airs are unknowi ITALIAN CHARACTER AND MANNERS. 71 ttieie, every on is simple enough to believe that he cannot better please society than by promptly fulfilling whatever it requires. Corinne would have introduced this natural manner, if sbc had not lound it there. The dress she had assumed was light and elegant. Her looks were confined by a silken fillet, and her eyes expressed an anima- tion which rendered her more attractive than ever. Oswald was un- easy; displeased with his own subjection to charms whose existence he was inclined to deplore, as, far from wishing to gratify him, it was almost in order to escape from his power ihat Corinne shone forth thus enchantingly; yet, who could resist her seducing grace? Even in scorn she would have been still triumphant; but scorn was not in her disposition. She perceived her lover; and blushed, as slie bestowed on him one of her sweetest smiles. The Prince Amalfi. accompanied himself with castanets. Corinne saluted the assembly with both hands; then, turning, took the tambourine, which her partner presented to her, and she beat time as she danced. Her ges- tures displayed that easy union of modesty and voluptuousness, such as must have so awed the Indians when the Bayardfires — poets of the dance — depicted the various passions by characteristic attitudes. Corinne was so well acquainted with antique painting and sculpture, that her positions were so many studies for the votaries of art. Now the hela her tambour ine above 'jier head; sometimes advanced it with.- one hand, while the other ran over its little bells with a dexterous rapidity that brought to mind the girls of Herculaneum. (14) This was not French dancing, remarkable for the difficulty of its steps ; it was a movement more allied to fancy and to sentiment. The air to which she danced, pleased alternately by its softness and its precision. Co- rinne as thoroughly infected the spectators with her own sensations as she did while extemporizing poetry, playing on her lyre, or de- fiigniagan expressive ^roup. Evervt b"'g'»'i°lanf;"afffi fo rlier. T he muacians, in gazing on her, felt all the genius of their ar t:-and Jevery witne ss of this magic was electrified by impassioned j Qjr. "transported into an laeai woria, there to dream, of bliss unknown below. There is a part of the Neapolitan dance where the heroine kneels, vhile the hero marches round her, like a conqueror. How dignified looked Corinne at that moment! What a sovereign she was on her knees! jid when she rose, clashing her aiiy tambourine, she ap- peared animated by such enthusiasm of youthful beauty, that one znij^'ht have thought she needed no life but her own to make iier happy. Alas, it was not thus! though Oswald feared it, and sighed as if her ■every success separated her farther from him. When the Prince, in his turn knelt to Corinne, she, if possible, surpassed herself. Twice or thrice she fled round him, her sandalled feet skimming the floor frith the speed uf lightning; and when shaking her tambourine a.bove his head with one hand, she signed with the other for him ta ciae, everjr man present was t«mpted to prostrate himself before hei; TO CORINNE; OR, ITALY. except Lord Nevil, who drew back some paces, and d'Erfcuil, wta made a step or two forwards, in order to compliment Corinne. The- Italians gave way to wliat they felt, without one fear of making themselves remarkable. They were not like men so accistomed to society, and the self-love which it excites, as to think on the eCeot they might produce ; they are never to be turned from theii pleasures by vanity, nor from their purposes by applause. Corinne, charmed with the result of her attempt, than'.ced_ her friends with amiable simplicity. She was sati-^fied, and permitted her content to be seen, with childlike candor; her greatest deiiire was to get through, the crowd to the door, against which OswiJd was leaning. She reached it at last, and paused for him to speak. " Co- rinne," he said, endeavoring to conceal both his delight aid his distress, "you have extorted universal homage: but is there, lunong all your adorers, one brave, one trusty friend; one protector ft r life? or can the clamors of flattery suflSce a soul like yours!" CHAPTER IL The press of company prevented Corinne's reply: they were f X)ing to supper; and each cacaii^ sero^nie hastened to seat himself bi iside his lady. A fair stranger arrived and found no room; yet not a' man, save Oswald and d'Erfeuil, rose to offer her nis place. Not that the Romans were either- rude or selfish; but they believed that their honor depended on their never quiting their post of duty. Some, unable to gain seats, leaned behind tlieir mistresses' chairs, ready to obey the slightest sign. JThe femt»le » »po ke but to their lovers : strangers wandered in vain aroun d-a.cime • ^ ll Pt-g no one had a word to spare them; for Ita lian women j\re ignorant of that coquetry which renders a love agaimgtliiDg Jmgre an the Tri um ptt ot s5lf-6'0ii cei t; theywish to please noeye3~sav e those tnat a fS~dear to th e m. "The TninH is never misled beiore t be heart. 'I'h6 haost aorupt commen cements are often tallow ed By^3 n^ Icwii devutiuil, a nd eveii by lasting constancy. intidelity_ ia-inoi5^ xeilMUied in man man in woman. I'hree or four men, beneath dif- fCTSHtHTles, may follow the same beauty, who takes them with h'lr I everywhere, sometimes without troubling herself to name theltt 'to the master of the house which receives the party. One is tie favorite; another aspires to be so; a third calls himself the suffer* r (ilj)aiito); though disdained, he is permitted to be of use; all tli« rivals live peaceably together. It is among the common people thsit jou still hear of the stiletto; but the whole country presents a will mixture of simpleness and of vice, dissimulation and truth, good- nature and revenge, strength and weakness; justifying the lemarK that the best of these qualities may be found among those who trt 1 ITALIAN CHARACTER AND MANNERS. 73 do nothing for vanity; the worst among such as will do anythingfor interest; whether the interest of love, of avarice, or ambition. TOis- tinctioiis of rank are generally disregarded in Italy. It is not from stoicism, but from heedle^ familial ity, that men are here insensible to aristociatic prejudices; constituting themselves judges of no one, they admit everybody. After supper they sat down to play; some of the women at hazard, others chose silent whist ; and not a word was now uttered in the apartment, so noisy just before. The people of the south often run tUu* quickly from the extreme of agitation to that of repose; it is one of the peculiarities of their character, that indolence is succeeded by activity: ind ed, in all respects they are the last men on whose merits or defects we ought to decide at first sight ; so contrasted are the qualities they unite ; the creatures all pru- dence to-day may be all audacity to-moiTow. They are often apa- thetic, from just having made, or preparing to make, some great exertion. In fact, they waste not one energy of their minds on society, but hoard them till called forth by strong events. At this Assembly many persons lost enormi lus sums, without the slightest chana^e of countenance; yet the same beings could not have related % trivial anecdote without the most lively and expressive gesticulation. But when the passions have attained a certain degree of violence, they shrink from sight and veil themselves in silence. Nevil could noi surmount the bitter feeliuj-s this ball engendered! lie believed that the Italians had weaned his love from him at least lor a time. He was very wretched ; yet his pride prevented his evinc. ing a'jght beyond a contempt for the tributes offered her. 'VVhsi; asked to play he refused, as did Corinne, who beckoned him to 'si beside her; he feared to compromise her name by passing a whol« evening alone with her before the eyes of the world, "fie at ease on tliat head," she replied; "no one thinks about us. Here no establi,i]trffpyhing hgra elt M uie loitreM of herment aJL, ■aperiority ITAUAN CHARACTKR AND MASTNERS. W "to LOKD NKVn,. "Jan. 25, 1795. ••if yonr letter concerned no one but me, my Lord, I should, not Ittempt to justify myself. My character is so easily known, that he who cannot comprehend it intuitively, would not be enlightened by «iy explanation I could give. The virtuous reserve of English- """"■"."ITJ th" T""". artful grafpa nf rnp. Iir""'"", "Tlp.n POl)rBq~nn(> i alt "of what passes in their bosoms; and what you are pleased to sa il magic m me, is notmng but an unconstrained disposition, w iiicli' >ermii3 m y varym g, my inconsistent tlioughts to be h eara, witEout I iiy UtkiuK Ihe palliiJ ol biingmg tnem into tunej Kuch harmony is icu f ly alway s factitious; for most genuine characters are heedlessly lonfiding. But it is not of myself that I would speak to you; it is. if the unfortunate nation^which.yaa. attack so cruelly. Can my egafd for my frii-nds have instilled this bitter malignity? You Luow me too well to be jealous of them: nor have I the vanity to uppose that any such sentiment has rendered you thus unjust. fou say but what all foreigners say of the Italians, what must strike ivery one at first: but you should look deeper ere you thus sentence . people once so great. Whence came it that, in the Roinan day, hey were the most military in the world ; during the republics of the aiddle ages, the most tenacious of their freedom ; and, in the six- eenth century, the most illustrious for literature, science, and the rts? HaJs not Italy pursued fame in shape? If it be lost to her ow, bkime her political situation; since, in other circumstances, he diowed herself so unlike aU she is. I may be wrong, but the faults f th« Italians only eiihance my pity for their fate. Strangers, from me to time, have conquered and distracted this fair land, the object f their perpetual ambition ; yet strangers forever reproach her atives with the defects inevitable to a vanquished race. " Europe owes her learning, her accomplishments, to the Italians; ud, having turned their own gifts against them, would gladly deny hm the. only glory left to a people deprived of martial poweraaa ablic liberty. It is true that governments form the characters of ations; and, in Italy herself, you will find remarkable distinctions etween the inhabitants of different states. The Piedmontese, |Who Dce formed a small national corps, have a more warlike spirit than lo rest. The Florentines, who have mostly possessed either freedom r liberal rulers, are well-educated and well-mannered.. The Venetians id the Genoese e\ince a capacity for politics, because they have a ^publican aristocracy. The Milanese are more sincere, manks to teir long intercourse with northern nations. The Neapolitans ar* rompt to rebel, having for ages lived beneath an imjierfeet govem- icnt, but still one of their own. The Roman nobles have nothiii( I do, either diplomatic of military, and may well remain idly inorant; but the ecclesiastics, whose career is definite, have facuItlM tr more developed: and. as the papal law observes no distinction of ' 78 CORINITE; OB, ITALY. birth, but is purely elective in its ordinance of the clergy, the reaoK is, a species of liberality, not in ideas, but in habits, which renders Borne the most agreeable abode for those who have neither power nor emulation for sustaining a part in the world. The people of the South are more easily modified by existing institutions than those of the North. This clime induces a languor favorable to resignation, and natures offers enough to console man for the advantages society denies. Undoubtedly, there is much corruption in Italy: its civilim- tion is far from refinement. . There is a savage wilderness beneath Italian cunning; it is that of a hunter lying in wait for his prey. Indolent people easily become sly and shifting; their natural gentle- ness serves to hide even a fit of rage; for it is by our liabitual manner that an accidental change of feeling may be best concealed. Yet Italians have both truth and constancy in their private connectioBS. Interest may sway them, but not pride. Here is no ceremony, no fashion ; none of the little everyday tricks for creating a sensation. The usual sources of artifice and of envy exist not here. Foes and rivals are deceived by those who consider themselves at war with them; but, while in peace, they act with honesty aad candor. This is the very cause oi'your complaint. Our women hear of nothing but love; they live in an atmosphere of seduction and dangerous example ; yet their frankness lends an innocence to gallantry itself . They have no fear of ridicule: many are so ignorant that they cannot even write, and confess it without scruple. Tliey engage a Paglietto to answer letters for Uiem, which he does on paper large enough for a petition; but among the better classes you see professors from the academies in their black scarfs, giving lessons publicly. If you are inclined to laugh at them, they ask you: 'Is there any harm in understanding Greek or living by our own exer- tions? How can you deride so matter-of-course a proceeding?' Dare I, my Lord, touch on a more deUcate sub;iect?- ^the reason why o ur -men so teldom dl sDlaY..a military spir it. They readily expose t.li pir ■live s for love orhateT in such causes, the wounds given and received •ieitber..8s.tonisu jno.rj,larm_their. jKitnssses, _ Jearless of death, . when naturiil4)a;:JDns commamithe m to defy it. thev still . I must confess. yalue life jove the political interes ts w hi(^li slig htly aff ect those w ho ca B.sO'rceiy pe saia toTiave a_coun^yL. rhivalrmi.'i linnor \\!\s littJe influ ence over a people a mong whom the opi Di""s tl'^t nnj rriijh it sm^. dead: naturally tiuoiinh, 'in suctia disor^nizatio n of public a ffairs. ain|^agR?gt-gscepdg ncx; ,p crhaps too iriuch so forthem to _ . -respectJ^ ^mift! their tovers. who ricveftlie lessrt reat~them with fhp Tno st. rtplic atf fipypr^ S". .,JJQnii!estic Virtue co nstitutes the wguare aniltbe^B.ride.ol^gliskKflinen ; liiiii^jaQjagdrwhereJflxadispfinses ■i gith it« i^red bonds, is the hap piness ff VTTV^njTiitnlipd nvpr hb in 1*w1y^ If^ur men cannot make a moTSPcode for immorality, they are at least just and generous in their participation of cares and duties. They consider themselves more culpable thwtheir_imstresseswliea ITALIAN CHARACTER AND MANNERS. TO 4heyt)reak their chains : they iknpw that womgn,make_the_heavie3t sacnficer'a nd-betieve that, before the tribunal of tlie hear t, th e great - es{~crimina ls are those who have clone most wroni;. JVljglfSJJ TroA selflstmess r wome ", h'"''""i'' tJipy ar^ wtWg" where society is at , once vigorous and corrupt, flint JgjTTngt^infrfiilffgat.n Ihg fnnlfa that. are fol lowed 6y the worst m isfortunes, wome n of course are used witH more"sevei:rfy ; "but'wliere we have no SttrtittSSedr^tiqueltes, natural charily lias a greater power. Spite all tliat hasjjeenjaidof Italian perfidy, I will assert that there is as much real gboSSature here as in any other country of the world; and that, slandered as it is by strangers, they -will nowhere meet with a kinder reception. Italians are reproached as flatterers; it is with no premeditated plan, but in mere e;igerness to please, that they lavish expressions of affec- tion, not often belied by their conduct. Would they be ever-faith- ful friends, if called on to prove so in danger or adversity? — A very ■ small number, I allow, might be capable of such friendship; but it is not. Jo Italy alone that this observation is applicable. I have pre- viously admitted their Oriental indolence. Yet the very women, ■who appear like so many beauties of a harem, may surprise yoij })y traits of generosity or of revenge: as for the men, give them but^n object, «"d^Jn giv ninTitha, ynn miglit. find tli^,f, thfty Wftlll'' have learaed- and understQod w hatever was required of them: but, J^jlgjhey are untaught, w hy tOioiild females he instructed? An '^^'"". ji''' wniUfi fifinn bp cpme worthy of an intellii'ent husband , firoyldgd that slifi_lQifid-Jiirol_bu t in a country where all great inter - ests are supp ressed, a card ess rep^se is mo re no ble than a vam agita- t ion about trifl^ Literature itself must lan(iuish, wlTcrc thOughta are not renewed by vigorous and varied action. Yet in what land have arts and letters been mor^ worshipped? History shows, us that the popes, princes, and people have at all times done homage to dis- tinguished painters, sculptora, poets, and other writers. (15) This eeal was, I own, my Lord, one of the first motives which attached me to this country. I did not find here those seared imaginations: that discouraging spirit, nor that despotic mediocrity, which, else- where, can so soon stifle innate ability. Here a felicitous phrase takes fire, as it were, among its auditors. As genius is the gift which ranks highest among us, it inevitably excites much envy. Peregolese ■was assassinated : Giorgione ■wore a cuirass, when obliged to paint in any public place; but the violent jealousy to which talent gives birth hen.', is such as in other realms is created by power; it seeks not to depreciate the object it can hate, or even kill, from the very fanati- cism of admiration. Finally, when we see so much life in a circle BO contracted, in tlie midst of so many obstacles and oppressions, we can hardly forbear from a vjvid solicitudef or those who xeaaiia-adth ■ sncmmmty the little air that t ahcjljreathes through the boundaries which confine them. 'Oiesa4ire-SO-iimited,-thatnienjQOuir_day.£an tarsly acquire the pride and. fij-mness. wJuch.mark.those-DOreer_aiid 80 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. Hiore.jnilitary states. . I will even confess, if you desire it raxJ aard, ij}!,t. cnnh a national (•namcxpr must inspire a woman willi m^e ea -^ feu siasm: but is it not nossible that a man may be brave, noaorapie^ '-iiay,~unite all the attributes which can teach us to love,_srithput pos- sessing those that might promiseus content? "Cokinne." CHAPTER IV. This letter revived all Oswald's remorse at liaving even thought of detaching himself from his love. The commanding intellectual mildness of its reproof affected him deeply. A superiority so vast, so real, yet so simple, appeared to him out of all ordinary rule. Ho was never insensible that this was not the tender creature his fancy Lad chosen for the pa: tnerof his life; all he remembered of Luct Edgarmond, at twelve years of age, better accorded with that ideal. But who coul(^ be compared with. Corinne? She was a miracle formed by nature, in his behalf, he dared believe ; since he might flatter himself that he was dear to her. Yet what would be his pros- pects if he declared his inclination to make her bis wife? Such, he thought, would be his decision; yet the idea that hsr p ist life had not been entirely irreproachable, and that such a union would as- suredly have been condemned by his father, again overwhelmed him with painful anxiety. He was not so subdued by grief as he had been ere he met Corinne; but he no longer felt the calm which may accompany repentance, when a whole life is devoted to expiate our faults. Formerly, he did not fear yielding to his saddest memories, but now he dreaded the meditations which revealed to him the secrets of his heart. He was preparing to seek Corinne, to thank her for her letter, and obtain pardon for his own, when his apartment waa , suddenly entered by Mi\ _jBdgarmond, the young Lucy's near rela- tion. /""■"• ■ \ This gentleman had lived chiefly on his estate in Wales; he pos- sessed just the principles and t..e prejudice that serve to keep things as they are; and this is an advantage where things are as well arr^anged as humi;n reason permits. In such a case, the partisans of established order, even tliough stubbornljr bigoted to their own ways of thinking, deserve to be regarded as rational sad enlightened men. Lord Nevil shuddered as this name was announced. All the past seemed to rise before him in an instant ; and his next idea v aS, that Lady Edgarmond, the mother of Lucy, had charged her kinsman "With reproaches. This thought restored his self-command; he re- ceived his countrymen with excessive coldness; though not a single aim of the good man's journey concerned our hero. He was travelling for his health, exercising himself in the chase, and drinking " Suc- cess to King George and old England!" He was one of the best f^ ITALIAN CHARACTER AND MANNERS. 81 lows in the world, with more wit and education than would have been supposed; ultra-English, even on points where it would have been aavisalile to be less so: Itceiang np, in all countries, the habit of his own, and avoiding their natives, not from contempt, hut a re- luctanc to spea'; in foreign tongues, and a timidity which, at the age of fifty, rendort'd him extremely shy of new acquaintance. "I am delighted to see you," he said to Nevil. "I go to Naples in a fortnight: shall I find you there? 1 wish I mayl having but little time to stay in Italy, as my regiment embarks shortly." " Your regiment !" repeated Oswald, coloring, not that he had forgotten that, having a year's leave of absence, his presence ■would not be so soon required ; but he blushed to think that Coriiine might banish even duty from his mind. "Your corps," continued Mr. Edgarinond, "will leave you more leisure for the quiet necessary to restore your strength. Just before I left England, I saw a little cousin of mine in whom you are in- terested: she is a charmi.ig girl' and, by the time you return, next year, I don't iloubi that shu will be the finest woman In England." Nevil was silent, and Mr. Edgarmond too. ITor some time after thi-;, they addressed each other very laconically, though with kind politeness, and the ?uest rose ti.. depart; but, turning from the door, said, abruptly, " Apropos, my liOrd, you can do me a favor. I am told that you know the celebrated Corinne; and, though I generally shrink from foreigners, I am really curious to see her." " I will ask her permission to take you to her hodse, then," replied Oswald " Do, I beg: let rae see her, some day v. hen she extemporises, dances, ami sings. "Oorinne," returned Nevil, "does not thus display her accomplishments before strangers: she is every^ way your equal and mine;" "Forgive my mistake," cried his friend ; "but as she. is mprely called Coriime, and, at six-and-twenty, lives unprotected by tai) une of her family, I thought that she subsisted by her talents, and might gladly se'ze any opportunity of making them known." " Her fortune is independent, ' replied Oswald, hastily; " her mind still more so." Mr. Edgarmond regretted that he had mentioned her, seeing that the topic interested Lo d Nevil. No people on earth deal more considerately with true affections than do the English. He departed ; Oswald remained alone, ex- claiming to himself, " I ought to marry Corinne I I must secure her a^inst fui ure misinterpr etation. I will offer her the little I can, T&k audt^me, in return for the felicity which she alone can grant me." In this mood, full of hope and love, he hastened to her house: yet, by a natural impulse of diffidence, began by reassuring himself witli conversation on indifferent themes : among them was th» request of Mr. Edgarmond. She was evidently discomposed by that name, and, in a trembling vo ce, refused his visit. Oswald was greatly astonished. '"I should have thought that with yon, ■who receive so much company," he said, "the title of mytaend 88 GORINNJS; OR, ITALY. ■would be no motive for exclusion." — "Do not be" offended, ray Lord," she said; "believe me, I must have powerful reusons for depying any wish of yours." — "Will you tell me those reasons'" he asked." "Impossible!" she answered. "Beit so, then," he an.^ju- lated. The vehemence of his feelings checked his speech; he weald have left her, but Corinne, through her tears, exclaimed in English: "For God's sake stay, if you would not break my heart!" These words and accents thrilled Nevil to the soul ; he reseated himself at some distance from her, leaning his head against an ala- baster vase, and murmuring: " Cruel woman, you see I love you, and^am twenty times a day ready to offer you my hand; yet you will not tell me who j'ou aie, Corinne! Tell me now!" — "Oswald," she sighed, " you know not how you pain me : were I rash enough to obey, you would cease to love me" — "Great God!" he cried, "what have you to reveal?" — " Nothing that renders me unworthy of you: but do not exact it. Some day, perhaps, when you love me better — ^if — ah 1. 1 know not what I say — ^you shall know all, but do not abandon me; unheard. Promise it in the name of your now sainted father!" "Name him not!" raved Oswald. " Know you if he would unite or part us? If you believe he would consent, say so, and I shall sur- mount this anguish. I will one day tell you the sad story of my life; but now, behold the state to which you have reduced me!" Cold dews stood on his pale brow; his trembling lips could utter noinore. Corinne seated herself beside him: and, holding his hands in hers tenderly.recalled him to himself. "My dear Oswald?" she said, " ask Mr. Edgarmond if he was ever in Northumberland; or, at least, if he has been there only within the last five years: if so, you may bring him hither." Oswald gazed fixedly on her; she cast down her eyes in silence. ' ' I will do what you desire," he said,and departed. Secluded in bis chamber, he exhausted Ms conjectures on the secrets of Corinne. It appeared evident that she had passed some time in X}ngland, and that her family name must be known there! but what was her motive for concealment, and why had she left his country? tie was convinced that no stain could attach to her life; but he feared Ihat a combination of circumstances might have made her seem blamable in the eyes of others. He was armed against the disapproba- tion of every country save England. The memory of his father Was BO entwined with that of his native land, that each sentiment Btrengthened the other. Oswald learned from Edgarmond that he had visited Northumberland for the first time a year ago; and there- fore promised to introduce him at Corinne's that evening. He was the first to arrive there, in order to warn her against the misconcep- ticfcs of his friend, and beg her, by a cold reserve of manner, to show him how much he was deceived. " If you permit me," she observed, " I would rather treat him as I do everjr one else. If he wishes to hear the improvisatrice, he shall ; I will show myself to him such as I am ; for I tbink he will as ITALIAN CHARACTER AND MANNERS. «8 easily perceive my rightful pride through this simple conduct, as If I behaved with an a&ected constraint." — " You are right, Corinnc," said Oswald: " how wrong were he who would attempt to change you from your admirable self?" The rest of the party now joined them. Nevil placed himself near his love, with an added air of deference, rather to command that of others than to satisfy himself ; he had soon the joy of finding this effort needless. Slie captivated Edgarmond, not only by her charms and conversation, but by inspir- ing that esteem which sterling characters, however contrasted, naturally feel for each other; and when he ventured on asking her to extemporise for him, he aspired to this honor with the moat revering earnestness. She consented without delay; for she knew how to give her favors a value beyond that of difficult attainment. She was anxious to please the countryman of Nevil— a man whose report of her ought to have some weight— but these thoughts occasioned her so sudden a tremor, that she knew not how to begin. Oswald, grieved that she should not shine her best before an Englishman, turned away his eyes, in obvious embarrassment; and Corinne, think- ing of no one but himself, lost all her presence of mind; nor ideas, nor even words, were at her call; and, suddenly giving up the attempt, she said to Mr. Edgarmond, "Forgive me, sir; fear robs me of all power. 'Tis the first time, my friends know, that I was ever thus beside myself; but," she added, with a sigh, "it may not be the last." Till now, Oswald had seen her genius triumph over her affections: but now feeling had entirely subdued her mind; yet so identified I was he with her glory, that he suffered beneath this failure, instead I of enjoying it. Certain, however, that she would excel on a future J interview with his friend, he gave himself up to the sweet pledge off his own power which he had just received; and the' image of hj» ^ beloved reigned more securely in his heart than ever. 9i CORIimE; OR, ITALY. BOOK VII. ITALIAN LITBEATUKE. CHAPTER I. Lord Nevil was very desirous that Mr. Edgarmond should partake the conversation of Corinne, which far surpassed her improvised verses. On the following day, the same parly as emblod at her house ; and, to elicit her remarks,' he turned the discourse on Italian literature, provoking her natural vivacity by affirming that England could boast a greater number of true poets than Italy. " In the first place," said Corinne, "foreigners usually know none but our first- rate poets: Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Guarini, Tasso, and Metastasio; but we have many others, such as Chiabrera, Guidi, Filicaja, and Parini, without reckoning Sannazer Politian, who wrote in Latin. All their verses are harmoniously colored; all more or less knew how to introduce the wonders of nature and art into their verbal pictures. Doubtless they want the melancholy grandeur of your bards, and their knowledge of the human heart; but does not this kind of Buperiority become the philosopher better than the poet? The brilliant melody of our language is rather adapted to describe external objects than abstract meditation; it is more competent to depict fury than sadness; for reflection calls for metaphysical expres- sions; while revenge excites the fancy, and banishes the thought of grief. Cesarotti has translated Ossian in the most elegant manner; but in reading him, we feel that his words are in themselves too joy- ous for the gloomy ideas they would recall; we yield to the charm of^our soft phrases, as to the murmer of waves or the tints of flowers. What more would you exact of poetry? If you ask the nighingale the meaning of his song, he can explain but by recommencing it; we can only appreciate its music by giving way to the impression it makes on us. Our measured lines, with rapid terminations, com- posed of two brief syllables, glide along as their name (Sdrucaioli) deBOtes, sometimes imitating the light steps of a dance; sometimes. ITALIAN LITERATURE. 85 •wKh graver tone, realizing the tumult of a tempest, or the clash of .ms. Our poetry is a -wonder of imagination: you ought not in it to seeli: for every species of pleasure." — "I admit," returned Nevil, " that you account as well as possible for the beauties and defects of your national poetry; but when these faults, without these graces, are found in prose, how can you defend it? what is but vague in the one becomes unmeaning in the other. The crowd of common ideas, that your poets embellish by melody and by figures, is '--irved up cold' ill your prose, with the most fatiguing pertinacivy. The greatest portion of your present prose writers use a language 80 declamatory, so difEuse, so abounding in superlatives, that one would think they all dealt out the same acceptet phrases by word of command, or by a kind of convention. Their style ia a tissue, a piece of mosaic. They possess in its highest degree the art of inflating an idea, or frothing up a sentiment; one is tempted to ask them a similar question to that put by the negress to the Frenchwoman, in the days of hoop-petticoats, ' Pray, Msdam, is all Ihat yourself?' Now, how much is real beneatli this pomp of words, which one true expression might dissipate like an idla dream?' — "You forget," interrupted Corinne, "first Machiavel and Boccaccio, then Gravini, Filangieri, and even, in our own days, Cessarotti, Veri, Bettinelli, and many others, who knew both how to write and how to think. (16) I agree with you, that, for the last century or two, unhappy circumstances having deprived Italy of her independence all zeal for truth has been so lost, that it is often impossible to speak it in any way. The result is, a habit of resting content with words, and , never daring to approach a thought. Authors, too sure that they can effect no change in the state of things, write but to show their wit — the surest way of soon conclud- ing with no wit ■aX all; for it is only by directing our efforts to a ' nobly useful aim that we can augment our stock of ideas. When writers can do nothing for the welfare of their country; when, indeed, their means constitute their end; from leading to no better, they double in a thousand windings, without advancing one step. . The Italians are afraid of new ideas, rather because they are indolent than from literary servility. By nature they have much originality; but they give themselves no time to reflect. TTieir eloquence, so vivid in conversation, chills as they work; besides this, the South- ems feel hampered by prose, and can only express themselves fully in verse. It is not thus with French literatiu-e," added Corinne to d'Erfeuil: "your prose writers are often more poetical than your ▼ersifiers."— "That is a tnith established by classic authorities," replied the Count. "Bossuet, La Bruyfere, Montesquieu, and Buffon can never be surpassed; especially the first two, who belonged to the «ge .of Louis XIV. ; vhey are perfect models for all to imitate who can;— a hint as important to foreigners as to ourselves." — "I can hardly think," returned Corinne, " that it were dasirable for distinct 86 CORINKE; OR, ITALY. countries to lose their peculiarities; and I dare to tell you. Count, that, in your own land, the national orthodoxy which opposes. all felicitous innovations must render your literature very barren. Genius is essentially creative; it bears the character of the individual whr -possesses it. Nature, who permits no two leaves to be exactly alikv., has given a still greater diversity to human minds. Imi- tion, then, is a double murder; for it deprives both copy and original of their primitive existence." — "Would you wish us," •sked d'Erfeuil, "to admit such Gothic barharisms as Young's "Night Thoughts," or the Spanish and Italian Concellif What would become of our tasteful and elegant style after such a mix- ture?" The Prince Castel Forte now remarked: "I think lliat we all are in want of each other's aid. The literature of every coun- try offers a new sphere of ideas to those familiar with it. Cliarles V. said: " The man who understands four languages is worth (bur men." What that great Genius applied to politics is as true in the state of letters. Most foreigners understand French; their views, therefore, are more extended than those of Frenchmen, who know no language but their own. Wliy do they not of tener learn other tongues? They ■would preserve what distinguishes themselves, and might acquire some tMngs in which they still are wanting." CHAPTER II. . "You will confess,, at least," replied the Count, "that there is one department in which ice have nothing to learn from any one. .Our thc'iter is decidedly the first in Europe. I cannot suppose that the English themselves would tliink of placing their Shakespeare nbove' us." — "Pardon me, they do think of it," answered Mr. Edgamiond;. anil, having said this, resumed his previous silence. "Oh !" exclaimed the Count, with civil contempt; "let every man think as he pleases; tilt I persist in believing that, without presumption, we may call ourselves the highest of all dramatic artists. As for tlie Italians, if I may speak frankly, they ar.' in doubt whether there is such an art in the world. Music is everything with theiu; the piece nothing: if a second act possesses a better t-cena than J^he first, they begin with that; na}', they will play portions of different operas on the same night, and between them an act from some prose comedy, contain- ing ii(5thing but moral sentences, siich as our iincestors turueii over to th(! u«e of other countries, as worn too threadbare for their own. Your famed musicians do what they will with your poets. One won't sing a certain air, unless the woid Felidtd be introduced; the tenor demands his Tcirib't ; a third can't shake unless it be upon Oateru. The poor poet must do his best to harmonize these varied tastes with the dramatic situations. Nor is this the worst: some of ITAIilAil LITERATURE. 87 \jbjn ■will not deign to walk on the stage; they must appear sur- jHnded by clouds, or descend from the top of a palace staircase, In order to give their entrance due efEect. Let an air be s-ung in ' ever so tender or so furious a passage, the actor must needs bow his thanks for the applause it draws down. In Semiramis, the other night, the spectre of Ninus paid his respects to the pit with an obse- quiousness quite neutralizing the awe his costume should have created. In Italy, the theater is looked on mei'ely as a rendezvous, ■where you need listen to nothing but the songs and the ballet. I may well say they listen to the ballet, for they are never quiet till after its commencement; in itself it is th6 chef-i,'ceuvre of bad taste; I know not what there is to amuse in your ballet beyond its absurdity. I have seen Gengis Khan, clothed in ermine and magnanimity, give Tip his crown to the child of his conquered rival, and lift him into the air upon his foot, a new way of raising a monarch to the throne; I .have seen the self-devotion of Gurtius, in three acts, full of diver- tissements. The hero, dressed like an Arcadian shepherd, had a long dance with his mistress, ere he mounted a real horse upon the stage, and threw himself into a fiery gulf, lined with orange satin and gold paper. In fact I have seen an abridgement of the Roman history, turned into ballets, from Romulus down to Caesar." — "All' that is very true," mildly replied the Prince of Castel Forte; "but you speak only of our opera, which is in no country considered the dramatic theater." — "Oh it is still worse when they represent trage- dies, or dramas not included under the head of those with happy wtastrophes; they crowd more horrors into five acts than human imagination ever conceived. In one of these pieces a lover kills his mistress' brother, and burns her brains before the audience. The I'oarth act is occupied by the funeral, and ere the fifth begins, the lover, with the utmost composure, gives out the next night's harlequi- nade; then resumes his character, m order to end the play by shoot- ing himself. The tragedians are perfect counterparts of the cold exaggerations in which they perform, .committing the greatest atro- cities with ihe most exemplary indifference. If an actor becomes impassioned, he is called a preacher, so much more emotion is be- trayed in the pulpit than on the stage ; and it is lucky that these heroes are so peacefully pathetic, since as there is nothing inter- esting in your plays, the more fuss they made, the more ridicu- lous they would become: it were well if they were divertingly so; hut it is all too monotonous to laugh at. Italy has neither tragedy nor comedy; the only drama truly her own is the harlequinade. A thievish, cowardly glutton ; an amorous or avaricious old dupe of a guardian, are the materials. Tou will own that such inventions tost no very great efforts, and that the 'Tartuffe' and the 'Misan-' thrope ' called for some exertion of genius." This attack displeased the Italians, though they laughed at it. In conversation the Count I»ef erred displaying his wit to his good-humor. I^atural benevolence «8 COiijiNNE ; OR, ITALY. prompted his actions, but self-love his words. CasteL Forte and others longed to refute his accusations, but they thought the cai se ■would he better defended by Corinne; and as they rarely sought to shine themselves, they were content, after citing such names as MafEei, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, and Monti, with begging her to answer Monsieur d'Erfeuil. Corinne agreed with him that the Italians ha d no n ational theater; but she sought to prove that cir- cumstances^ and not want of talent, had caused this deficiency. "Comedy," she said, "as depending on observation of manners, can only exist in a country accustomed to a great varied population. Italy Is animated by violent passions or effeminate enjoyments. Such ' passions ^ve birtli to crimes that confound all shades of character. But that ideal comedy, which suits all times, all countries, was in- vented here. Harlequin, pantaloon, and clown are to be found in every piece of that description. Everywhere they have rather masks than faces; that is, they wear the physiognomy of their class, and not of individuals. Doubtless our modern authors found these parts all made to their hands, like the pawns of a chess-board ; but these fantastic creations, which, from one end of Europe to the other, still amuse not only children, but men whom fancy renders childish, surelv give the Italians some claim on the art of comedy. Observa- tion of the human heart is an inexhaustible source of literature; but nations rather romantic than reflective yield themselves more readily to the delirium of joy, th?n to philosophic satire. Something of sadness lurks beneath the pleasantry founded on a knowledge of mankind: the most truly inoffensive gayety is that which is purely imaginative. Not that Italians do not shrewdly study those with whom they are concerned. They detect the most private thoughts, as subtly as others; but they are not wont to make a literary use of the acuteness which marks their conduct. Perhaps they are reluc- tant to generalize and to publish their discoveries. Prudence may •forbid their wasting on mere plays what may serve to guide their behavior, or converting into witty fictions that which they find so Tisef ul in real life. Nevertheless, Machiavel, who has made known . all the secrets of criminal policy, may serve to show of what terrible sagacity the Italian mind is capable. Goldoni, who lived in Venice, where society is at its best, introduced more observation into his work than is commonly found. Yet his numerous comedie. but on the generality of theatrical pieces. Irony is not the true character of Italian wit. It is Ariosto, and not Molifire, who can amuse us here. Gozzi, the rival of Goldoni, had much more irrsguliir originality. He gave himself up freely to his genius; mingling buffoonery with magic, imitating nothing in nature, but dealing with those fairy chimeras that bear the mind beyond tho boundaries of this world. He had a prodigious success in his day, and perhaps is the best specimen of Italian comic fancy; but, to ITALIAN LITERATURE. 89 ascertain what our tragedy and comedy might become, they must lie allowed a theater, and a company. A host of small towns dissi- pate the few resources that might be collected. That division of 8ta es, usually so favorable to public welfare, is destructive of it here. We want a center (if light and power, to pierce the mists of surrounding prejudice. The authority of a government would be a blessing, if it contended with the ignorance of men, isolated amoiig themselves, in separate provinces, and, by awakening emulation, gave life to a people now content with a dream. " These and other discussions were spiritedly put forth by Corinne; she equally understood the art of that light and rapid style, which insists on nothing; in her wish to please, adopting each by turns, though frequently abandoning herself to the talent which had ren- dered her so fcelebrated as an improvisatrice. Often did she call on Castel Forte to support her opinions by his own ; but she spoke so ■well, that all her auditors listened with delight, and could not have endured an interruption. Mr. Edgarmond, above all, coulJ never have wearied of seeing and hearing her: he hardly dared explain to himself the admiration she excited ; and whispered some words of praise, trusting that she would understand, without obliging him to repeat them. He felt, however, so anxious to hear her sentiments on tragedy, that, in spite of his timidity, he. risked the question. " Madame," he said, " it appears to me that tragedies are what your literature wants most. I think that yours come less near an equality ■with our own, than children do to men ; for childish sensibility, 2 light, is genuine ; while your serious dramas are so stilted and un- natural, that they stifle all emotion. Am I not right, my Lord?" he added, turning his eyes toward Nevil, with an appeal for assistance, and astonished at himself for having dared to say so much before so large a party.— "I think justas you do," returned Oswald: "Metas- taaio, whom they vaunt as the bard of love, gives that passion the sdme coloring in all countries and situations. His songs, indeed, abound ■with grace, harmony, and lyric beauty, especially when detached from the dramas to which they belong; but it is impossible for us, whose Shakespeare is indisputably fhe poet who has most profoundly fathomed the depths of humaa passions, to bear with the fond pairs •who fill nearly all the scenes of Metastasio, and, whether called Achilles or Thyrsis, Brutus or Corilas, all sing in the same strain, the martyrdom they endure, and depict, as a species of insipid idiotcy, the most stormy impulse that can wreck the heart of man. It is 'with real respect for Alfieri that I venture a few comments on his wprke, their aim is so noble I The sentiments of the author so wiell accord with the life of the man, that his tragedies ougbt alway to be praised as so many great actions, even though they may be criticized in a lit- erary sense. It strikes me, that some of them have a monotony a. their vigor, as Metastasio's have in their sweetness. Alfieri gives us sach a profussion of energy and wortli, or such an exaggeration of 90 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. violence and guilt, that It is impossible to recognize one human l)eiiig among his heroes. Men are never either so vile or so generous as he describes them. The object is to contrast vice with virtue; but thee* contrasts lack the gradations of truth. If tyrants were obliged to put up with half he makes their victims say to their faces, One would really feel tempted to pity them. In the tragedy of ' ' Octavia," this outrage of probability is most apparent. Seneca lectures Nero, as if the one were the bravest, and the other the most patient of men. The master of the world allows himself to be insulted, and put in a rage, scene after scene, as if it were not in his own power to end all this by a single word. It is certain, that, in these continual dialogues, Seneca utters maxims which one might pride to hear in a harangue or read in a dissertation; but is this the way to give an idea of tyranny? — instead of investing it with terror, to set it up as a block igainst" which to tilt with wordy weapons! Had Shakespeare repre- sented Nero surrounded by trembling slaves, who scarce dared an- swer the most indifferent question, himself vainly endeavoring to ippear at ease, and Seneca at his side, composing the apology for A.grippina's murder, would not our horror have been a thousand times more great? and, for one reflection made by the author, would not millions have arisen, in the spectator's mind, from the silent rhetoric of so true a picture?" Oswald might have spoken much longer ere Corinne would have interrupted bim, so fascinated was she by the sound of his voice, and the turn of his expressions. Scarce could she remove her gaze from his countenance, even when he ceased to speak; then, as her friends eagerly asked what she thought of Italian tragedy, she answered byaddressing herself to Nevil. — "My lord, I so entirely igree with you, that it is not as a disputant I reply; but to make some exceptions to your, perhaps, too general rules. It is true tliat Metastasio is rather a lyric than a dramatic poet; and that lie depicts love rather as one of the fine arts that embellish life, than us the secret source of our deepest joys and sorrows. Although our poetry has been chiefly devoted to love, I will hazard the assertion that we have more truth and power in our portraitures of every other passion. For amatory themes, a kind of conventional style has been Eormed amongst us; and poets are inspired by what they have read, not by their own feelings. Love as it is iu Italy, bears not the slight- est resemblance to love such' as our authors describe. "I know but one romance, the "Fiammetta" of Boccaccio, in which the passion is attired in its truly national colors. Italian love is a deep and rapid impression, more frequently betrayed by the silent ardor of our deeds, than by ingenious and highly wrought langulige. Our literature, in general, bears but a faint stamp of our manners. We are too humbly modest to found tragedies on our own history, or fill them with our own emotions. (17) Alfieri, by a singular chance, was transplanted from antiquity into modern times. He was born for action; yet permitted but to write: his style resented ITALIAN LITERATURE. «1 fbia restraint. He wished by a literary road to reach a political Koal; a noble one, but such as spoils all worlu of fancy. Hp wa« unpatient of living among learned writers and enlightened retJers, who, nevertheless, cared for nothing serious; but amused themselves ■with madrigals and nouvellettes. Alfieri sought to give his tragedies ft more austere character. He retrenched everything that could interfere with the interest of his dialogue; as if determined to make his countrymen do penance for their natural vivacity. Yet he was much admired: because he wasVuly great, and because the inhabi- tants of Rome applaud all praise bestowed on the ancient Romans, as if it belonged to themselves. They are amateurs of virtue, as o£ the pictures their galleries possess ; but Alfieri has not created any- thing that may be callel the Italian drama; that is, a school of tragedy, in which a merit peculiar to Italy may be found. He has not even characterized the manners of the times and countries he selected. His 'Pazzi,' -'Virginia,' and 'Philip II.' are replete with powerful and elevated thought ; but you everywhere find the impress of Alfieri, not that ot the scene nor of the period assumed. Widely as he differs f roiu all French authors in most respects^ he resembles them in the habit of painting every subject he touches ■with the hues of his own mind. " At this allusion, d'Erf euil observed* "It would be impossible for us to brook on our stage either the insig- nificance of the Grecians, or the monstrosities of Shakespeare. The French have too much laste. Our drama stands alone for elegance and delicacy: to introduce anything foreign, were to plunge us into barbarism." — " You would as soon think of surrounding Fj-ance with the great waU of Chinal" said Corinne, smiling: "yet the rare beauties of your tragic authors would be better developed, if you would sometimes permit others besides Frenchmen to appear in their scenes. But we, poor Italians, would lose much, by confining our- selves to rules that must confer on us less honor than constraint. The national character ought to form the national theater. We love the fine arts, music,' scenery, even pantomime ; all, in fact, that strikes our senses. How, then, can a drama, of which eloquence is the best ch'irm, content us? In vain did Alfieri strive to reduce us to this; he himself felt that his system was too rigorous. (18) Hi, •'Saul,' Maffei's 'Merope,' Monti's 'Aristodemus,' above all, the poetry of Dante (though he never wrote a tragedy), seem to give the best notion of what the dramatic art might become here. In ' Merope ' ihe action is simple, but the language glorious; why should such style be interdicted in our plays? verse becomes so magnificent in Italian, that we ought to be the last people to renounce its beauty. Alfieri, who, when he pleased, would excel in every way, has in his 'Saul' made superb use of lyric poetry; and, indeed, music itself might there be very happily introduced; not to interrupt the dialogue, but to calm the fury of the king, by the harp of Oavid, We possess such delicious musir., as may well inebriate «8 CORIKNE; OR ITALY. all mental power ; we ought, therefore, instead of separating, tb unite these attributes ; not by making our heroes sing, wlaicki i destroys their dignity, but by choruses, like those of the ancients, connected by natural links with the main situation, as often happens in real life. Far from rendering tlie Italian drama lesa imaginative, I think we ought in every way to increase the illusive pleasure of the audience. Our lively taste for music, ballet and spectacle, is a proof of powerful fancy, and a necessity to interest ourselves incessantly, even in thus sporting with serious images, in- etead of rendering them more severe than they need be, as did AlfierL We think it our duty to applaud whatever is grave and majestic, but soon return to our natural tastes; and are satisfied with any tragedy, «o it be embellished by that variety which the English and Spaniards 80 highly appreciate. Monti's " Aristodemus " partakes the terrible pathos of Dante; and has surely a just title to our pride. Dante, so versatile a master-spirit, possessed a tragic genius, which would have produced a grand effect, if he could have adapted it to the stage: he knew how to set before the eye whatever passed in the soul ; he made us not only feel but look upon despair. Had he written plays, they must have affected young and old, the many as well as the few. Dramatic literature must be in some way popular, a whole nation constitute its judges." — "Since the time of Dante," said Osw:.ld, " Italy has played a great political part — ere it can boast a national tragic school, great events must call forth, in real life, the emotions which become the stage. Of all literary diefs-cCaeuvres, a tragedy "most thoroughly belongs to a whole people : the author's genius is matured by the public spirit of his audience; by the government and manners of his country; by all, in fact, which recurs each day to ihe mind, forming the moral being, even as the air we breatlie invijror- ates our physical life. The Spaniards, whom you resemble in cli- mate and in creed, have nevertheless, far more dramatic talenL Their pieces are drawn from their history, their chivalry, and reli- gious faith; they are original and animated. Their success in this way may restore them to their former fame as a nation; but how can wc found in Italy a style of tragedy which she has never possessed?" — "I have better hopes, my Lord," returned Coiinne, "from the soar- ing spirits that are among us, though unfavored as yet by circum- stances; but what we most need is histrionic ability. Affected lan- guage induces false declamation; yet there is no tongue in which a great actor could evince more potency than iu our own; for melodi- ous sounds lend an added charm to just accentuation, without rob- bing it of its force." — "If you would convince us of this," inter- Tupted Castel Forte, " do so, by giving us the inexpressible pleasure of ,^eeing you in tragedy; you surely consider your foreign friends worthy of witnessing the talent which you monopolize in Italy ; and in which (as your own soul is peculiarly expressed iu it) you caa liave no superior on earth." ITALIAN LITEBATima 03 Corinne eecretly desired to perform before Oswald, and thus a]^ pear to the best advantage; but she could not consent without his approval: her looks requested it. He understood them; and, {imbi- tious tliat she sliould ciiarm Mr. Edgaimond in, a manner which her yesterday's timidity had prevented, he joined his solicitations to those of her other guests. She hesitated no longer. — " Well, then," she said to Castel Forte, " we will, if you please, accomplish a long- formed scheme of mine, that of playing my translation of ' Romeo And Juliet.'" — "What!" exclaimed Edgarmond, "Do you under-, stand English and love Shakespeare?" — "As a friend," she replied — "And you will pli^ Juliet in Italian! and I shall hear you? and you; too, dear Nevil 1 Howhappy you will be!" Then, instantly repent- ing his indiscretion, he blushed. The blush of delicacy and kind- ness is at all ages interesting. — "How happy we shall be," he added with embarrassment, "if we may be present at such a mental baa- quetl" CHAPTER III. All was arranged in a few days; parts distributed, the night fixed on, and the palace of a relative of Prince Oastel Forte devoted to the representation. Oswald felt at once disquiet * and delight ; he enjoyed Corinne's success, by anticipation ; but even thus grew jealous, beforehand, of no one man in particu- lar, but of the public, who would .witness an excellence of which he felt as if lin alone had a right to be aware. He would have had Corinne reserve her charms for him, and appear to others as timid as an Englishwoman. However distinguished a man may be, he rarely feels unqualified pleasure in the superiority of a woman. If he does not love her, his self-esteem takes offence; if he does, his heart is oppressed by it. Beside Corinne, Oswald was rather intoxi- cated than happy: the admiration she excited increased his passioa, without giving stability to his intents. She was a phenomenon ever^ day new; but the very wonder she inspired seemed to lessen his hopes ot domestic tranquillity. She was, notwithstanding, so gentle, so easy to live with, that she might have been beloved for her lowliest attributes, independent of all others; yet it was by these others that she had become remarkable. Lord Nevil, with all his advantages, thought hinaiself beneath her, and doubted the duration of their at- tachment. In vain did she make herself his slave: the conqueror was too much in awe of his captive queen to enjoy his realm in. peace. Some hours before the performance, Nevi) led her to the house of the Princess, where the theater had been fitted up. The eun shone beautifully; and at one end of the staircase windows, -which commanded a view of Rome and the Campagna, he paused a «4 CORUmE; OB. ITALY. moment, saying: "Behold, how heaven itself lights you to victory I* — " It is to you, who point out its favor, that I owe such protection, then," she replied. "Tell me," he added, "do the pure emotions kindled by the sweetness of nature suffice to please you? Remember, this is a very different air from that you will respire in the tumultu- ous hall which soon will re-echo your name?" — "Oswald," she said, " if I obtain applause, will it not be because you hear it that it may touch my heart? If I display any talent, is it not my love for Sou that inspires me? Poetry, religion, all enthusiastic feelings, aro 1 harmony with nature; and while gazing on the azure sky, whil« yielding to the reverie it creates, I understand better than ever the sentiments of Juliet, I become more worthy of Romeo." — "Yes, thou art worthy of him, celestial creature!" cried Nevil: "this jealous wish to be alone with thee in the universe, is, I own, a weakness. Gol receive the homage of the world I but be thy love, which is niore divine even than thy genius, directed to none but me!" They parted, and Oswald took his place, awaiting her appearance on the stage. In Verona, the tomb of Romeo and Juliet is still shown. Shakespeare has written this play with truly southern fancy ; at once impassioned and vivacious; triumphant in delight; and rushing from voluptuous felicity to despair and death. Its sudden love, we feel, from the first, will never be effaced; for the force of nature, beneath a burning clime, and not habitual fickleness, gives it birth. The sun is not capricious, though the vegetation be rapid; and Shakes- peare, better than any other foreign poet, knew how to seize the national character of Italy — that fertility of mind which invents a thousand varied expressions for the same emotion ; that Oriental eloquence which borrows images from all nature, to clothe the sen- sations of young hearts. In Ossian, one chord constantly replies to the thrill of sensibility; but in Shakespeare nothing is cold nor same. A sunbeam divided and reflected in a thousand varied ways, pro- duces endlessly multiplied tints, all telling of the light and heat from whence they are derived. Thus "Romeo and Juliet," translated into Italian, seems but resuming its own mother-tongue. The first meeting of the lovers is at a ball given by the Capulets, mortal enemies of the Montagues. Corinne was charmingly attired, her tresses mixed with gems and flowers ; and at first sight scarce appeared herself : her voice, however, was soon recognized, as was her face, though now almost deified by poetic fire, tlnanimous ap- plause rang through the house as she appeared. Her first look dis- covered Oswald, and rested on him, sparkling with hope and love. The gazers' hearts beat with rapture and with fear, as if beholding bappmess too great to last on earth. But was it for Corinne to real- ize such a presentiment? When Romeo drew near, to whisper his ' sense of her grace and beauty, in lines so glowing in English, so mag- nificent in Italian, tlie spectators, transported at being thus interpreted, fully entered into the passion whose hasty dawn appeared more than ITALIAN LITERATURE. tS excusable. Oswald became all uneasiness ; he felt as if every man •w'ai ready to proclaim her an angel among women, to challenge him oh ■what he lelt for her, to dispute his rights, and tear her from his arms. A dazzling cloud passed before bis eyes ; he feared that he should faint, and concealed himself behind a pillar. Corinne's eyes anxiously sought him, and with so deep a tone did she pronounce — "Too early seen nnkuown, aud kuowu too late I" that he trembled as if she applied these words to their personal situ, ation. He renewed his gaze on her dignified anil natural gestures, her countenance which spoke more than words could tell, those mys- teries of the heart which must ever remain inexplicable and yet for- ever decide our fate. The accents, the looks, the least movements of a truly sensitive actor, reveal the depths of the human breast. The ideal of the fine arts always mingles with these revelations; the harmony of verse and the charm of attitude lending to passion the grace and majesty it so often wants in real life — it is here seen through tiie medium of imagination, without losing aught of its truth. In the second act, Juliet has an interview with Romeo from a bal- cony in her garden. Of all Corinne's ornaments, none but the flowers were left; and even they were scarce visible; as tbe theatre was faintly- illumined in imitation of moonlight, and tho countenance of the fond Italian veiled in tender gloom. Her voice sounded still more sweetly than it had done amid the splendors of the fete. Her hand, raised towards the stars, seemed invoking them, as alone worthy of her confidence; and when she repeated, " Oh, Romeo, Romeo!" certain as Oswald felt that it was of him she thought, he was jealous that any other name than his own should be breathed by tones so delici- ous. She sat in front of the balcony ; the actor who played Romeo was somewhat in the shade ; all the glances of Corinne fell on her beloved, as she spoke tLiose entrancing lines: — "Id trntb, fair Montague I I am too fond And therefore tliou may&t think my 'havior light ; But trust me, geutleuian, I'll prove more true Than those who have more cuanmg to be etrange." •* Therefore — pardon me I" At those words, "pardon me!" for loving, for letting thee know it-^ so tender an appeal filled the eyes of Corinne, such respect for h6r lover, such pride in her " fair Montague," that Oswald raised his head, and believed himself the monarch of the world, since he z^igned 'over a heart inclosing all the treasures of love and life. Corinne, perceiving the effect this took on him, became doubly ani- mated by that heartfelt enthusiasm, which, of itself can worH such miracles; and when, at the approach of day, Juliet fancies that aba as CORINNE; OR, ITALY. hears the lark, the signal of Borneo's departure,* the accents of Co- rinne acquired a superhuman power; the^ told of love, indeed, but a religious mystery was now mingled with it; recollections of heaven — a presage of returning thitlier — the celestial grief of a soul exiled on earth, and soon to be reclaimed by its diviner home. Ah, how happy was Corinne, -while playing so noble a part before the lover of her choice! How few lives can bear a comparison witli one such night! Had Oswald himself been the Romeo, her pleasure could not have been so complete. She would have lonsred to break through ■ the greatest poet's verse, and speak after her own heart; or perhaps the diffidence of love would have enchained hcT genius; truth carried wn situa- tion. Passion and modesty alternately impelled and restrained her, now piquing her pride, now enforcing its submission; but thus to display her perfections without arrogance, to unite sensibility with the calm it so often disturbs; to live a moment in the sweetest dreams of the heart — such was the pure delight of Corinne while acting Juliet. To this was united all her pleasure in the applause she won; and her looks seemed laying her success at the feet of him whose acceptance was worth all fame, and who preferred her glory to his own. Yes, for that hour, Corinne, thou wert enviable! tasting, at the price of thy repose, the ectasies for which, till then, thou hadst Tainly sighed, and must henceforth forever deplore. Juliet secretly becomes the wife of Romeo. Her parents com- mand her to espouse another, and she obtains from a friar a sleep- ing-draught, which gives her the appearance of death. Corinne's trembling step and altered voice; her looks, now wild, now dejected; betrayed the struggles of love and fear; the terrible image of being borne alive to the tomb of her ancestors, and the brave lidelity which bade her young soul triumph over so natural a dread- Once she Taised her eyes to heaven, with an ardent petition for that aid with which no human being cau dispense; at another time Oswald fancied that she spread her arms towards him; he longed to fly to her aid; he rose in a kind of delirium, then sank on his seat, recalled to him- self by the surprise of those around him; but his agitation was too strong to be concealed. In the fifth act, Romeo, believing Juliet dead, bears her from the tomb. Corinne was clad in white, her * Corinne^s transtatioD deriated widely from the original. Minor points I have nnmed to reconcile, but ttiie I must leave ne I find, though the two parting ecenes :omeo and Juliet are so diesimilur that it is difficult to gnesa how they could be- come conf nsed iu such a mind as Madame de yta^re ; or why ahe ahoald baTo omit' ted all mention of Tybalt's dea) much! here ends the combat that so nearly re- duced me to thu grave. Corinne ! you, who conceal your own secrets, shall hear all mine, and p onounce our doom." — "Our doom," ehc replied, "if jou fed as 1 do, is — not to part; yet believe me, till now, :it least, 1 have never dared to wish myself your wife: the sclieme of my e islence is entirely disordered by the love that ivery day enslaves me mo e and more; yet I know not if we ought to marry." — "Corinne," he cried, "do you despise me for having hesi aied? Can you attribute my delay to > J contemptible motives? Have you not guessed that the deep remorse ll to which I have been for two years a prey alone has been the cause?" c — " 1 know it," she answered. " Had I suspected you of considera- tions foreign to those of the heart, you would not have been dear to me. But life, I know, belongs not all to love; habit and memory weave' such nets around us that even passion cannot quite destroy: Droken for a moment, they will grow again, as the ivy clasps the Oik. My dear Oswald! let us give no epoch of life more than it requires. At this, it is essential to me that you leave me not. The dread of a sudden separation incessantly pursues me. You are a atrangei' here: no lies detain you: if once you go, all is over; nothings will be left to me of you, but my own grief. Nature, the arts, jioetry, ur-glass for a seclusion in whicii time glides so noiselessly. Sometimes the moon's pale glimmer penetrates these shades — its absence or return forming quite an event; and yet these monks niiglithave found all the activity of war insufficient for their spirits, had tliey been used to it. What an inexhaustible field for conjecture we find in the combinations of of human destiny! What habits are thrust on us by chance, forming each individual's world and history. To know another perfectly, would cost the stucy of a life. What, then, is meant by knowledge of mankind? Governed they may be by each other, but understood by God alone. tX OOBINNE; OR, ITAI.Y. Oswald went ne^ to the monasteiy of Bonaventure, built on tbB mins of Nero's palace; and where so many crimes had reigned remorselessly, poor friars, tormented by conscientious scruples, doom themselves to fasts and stripes for the least omission of dut^. "Our only hope," said one, "is, that when we die, our faults will not have exceeded our penances." Nevil, as he entered, stumbled over a trap, and asked its purpose. "It is through that we are interred," answered one of Ihe youngest, already a prey to the bad air. The natives of the South fear death so much, that it is wondrous to find there these perpetual mementoes: yet nature is often fascinated by what she dreads: and such an intoxication fills the soul exclu- sively. The antique sarcophagus of a child serves as the fountain of this institution. The boasted palm of Rome is the only tree of its garden ; but the monks pay no attention to external objects. Their rigorous discipline allows them no mental liberty ; their down- cast eyes and stealthy pace show that they have forgotten the use of free will, and abdicated the government of self — an empire which may well be called a "heritage of woel" This retreat, -however, acted but feebly on the mind of Oswald. Ima^-., nation' revolts at so manifest a desire to remind it of death in every possible way. When such remembrancers are unexpected, when nature, and not man, suggests them, the impression is far more salutary. Oswald grew calmer as he strayed through the garden of San Giovanni et Paulo, whose brethren are subjected to exercises less austere. Their dwelling lords over all the ruins of old Bome. What a site for such asylum ! The recluse consoles himself for his nothingness, in contemplating the wrecks of ages past away. Oswald walked long beneath the shady trees, so rare in Italy: sometimes they intercepted his view of the city, only to augment the pleasure of his next glimpse at it. All the steeples now sounded the Ave Maria — * * • eqnilla de lontano . , Che paja il giomo piauger, che si maore. — Bakte. ",The bell from far moumeth the dying day." The evening prayer serves to mark all time. "I will meet you an hour before, or an hocr after .Ave Maria," say the Italians, so devouUy are the eras of night and day distinguished. Oswald then enjoyed the spectacle of sunset, as the luminary sank slowly amid ruins, and seemed submit- ting to decline, even like the works of man. This brought back aU his wonted thoughts. The image of Corinne appeared too promising, too hopeful, for such a moment. His soul sought for its father's, in tUb home of heavenly spirits. This animated the clouds on which he gazed, and lent them the sublime aspect of his immortal friend: he trusted that his prayers at last might call down some beneficent pity, lesembling a good father's benediction. VASSIOK WEEK. iW CHAPTER II. Oswald, In his anziet j to study the religion of the country, Tesolved *o hear some of its preachers, during Passion •week. He counte4 the days that must elapse ere his reunion with Corinne ; while she was awiiy, ie could endure no imaginative researches. He forgave his oyra Iiappiness while beside her; but all that charmed him then would have ledoubled the pangs of his exile. , It is at night, and by half -extinguished tapers, that the preachers, at this period, hold forth. All the women are in black, to commem- orate the death of Jesus: there is something very affecting in these yearly weeds, that have been renewed for so many centuries. One enters the noble churches with true emotion; their tombs prepare ■us for serious thought,iibut the preacher too often dissipates all this in an instant. His pulpit is a somewhat long tribunal, from one end to the other of which he walks, with a strangely mechanical agita- tion. He fails not to start with some phrase to which, at the end of the sentence, he returns like a pendulum; though, by his impassioned gestures, you would think him very likely to forget it: but this is a systematic fury, " a fit of regular and voluntary distraction," often seen in Italy, and indicating none but superficial or artificial feelings. A cru- cifix is hung in the pulpit; the preacher takes it down, kisses, presses it in his arms, and hangs it up .again, with perfect coolness, as soon as the pathetic passage is got through. Another method for produc- ing effect is pulling off and putting on his cap, with inconceivable rapidity. One of these men attacked Voltaire and Rousseau on the skepticism of the age. He threw his cap into the middle of the ros- trum, as the representative of Jean Jacques, and then cried : " Now, philosopher of Geneva, vhat have you to say against my arguments?" He was silent for some seconds, as if expecting a reply; but, as the cap said nothing, he replaced it on his head, and terminated the dis- course by adding: "Well, since I've convinced you, let us say no more about it." These tmcouth scenes are frequent in Rome, where real pulpit oratory is extremely rare. ReUgipn is there respected as an all-powerful law; its ceremonies captivate the senses; but its preachers deal less in morals than in dogmas that never reach the heart. Eloquence, in this, as in many other branches of literature, is • there devoted to common-places, that can neither describe nor explain. A new thought raises a kind of rebellion in minds at once so ardent < and so languid, tliat they need uniformity to cahn them; and lov of the Virgin is particularly dear to southern people; it seems allied to all that ia most chaste and tender in iheir love of woman; but every preacher treats this subject with the same exaggerated i hetoric, unconscious that hi^ gestiiies perpetually turn it into ridicule. There is scarcely to be heard, from one Italian pulpit, a single specimen of correct accent, or natural delivery. Oswald fled from this most fatiguing of inflictions — that of afl°ectea vehemence — and sought the Coliseum, w. ere a Capuchin was to preach in the open a r. at the foot of an altar, in the center of the in- closure which marks the road to the cross. What » theme were this arena, where martyrs succeeded gladiators: but there was noliope of hearing it dilated on by the poor Oapuchiiv who knew nothing of the liistory of man, save in his own life. Without, however, com- ing there to hear his bad sermon, Oswald felt interested by the ob- jects around him. The congregation was principally composed of the Camaldoline fraternity, at that time attired in gray gowns that covered both h-ad and body, leaving but two little openings for the eyes, ant. having a most ghostly air. Their unseen fa- es were pros- trated to the earth; tUey beat their breasts; and when their preacher threw himself on his knees, crying: "Mercy and pityl" ihey fol- lowed his example. As this appeal from wretchedness to compas- aon, from Earth to Heaven, echoed through the classic portices, it was impossible not to experience a deeply pious feulii'g in the soul's inmost sanctuary. Oswald shuddered; he remained standing, that he might not pretend to a faith which was not his own; yet it cost him an eflEort to forbear from this fellowship with mortals, whoever they were, thus humbling themselves before their God; for, does not an invocation to heavenly sympathy equally become us all ? The people were struck by his noble and foreign aspect, but not displeased with his omitting to join them; for no men on earth can he more tolerant than the Romans. They are accustomed to persona who come among them but as sight eeers; and, either from pride or indolence, never seek to make strani^ers participate in their opinions. It is a still more extrtioidinary fact, that, at tliis period especially, there are many who take on themselves the strictest punishments; yet, while the scourire is in their hands, the church-door is still open, and every stranger welcome to enter as usual. They do nothing for tBfe sake of being looked at, nor are thev frightened from anyuing |>ecause they hap|icn to be seen; ihey proceed towards their own aims, or pleasures, without knowing thiit there is such a thing as vanity, whose only aim and pleasure consists iu the applause of others. PASSION WEEK. 128 C~HAPTER III. Uucb Tias been said of Passion week in Borne. A nuniuer of for- eigners arrive during Lent, to enjoy this spectacle; and as the musio at the Sixtine Chapel, and the illumination of St. Peter's, are uniqm of their Idnd, they naturally attract much' curiosity, wliich is not always satisfied. The dinner served by the Pope to the twelve repre- sentatives of the Apostles, whose feet he bathes, must recall solemn ideas; yet a thousand inevitable circumstances often destroy their dignity. All the contributors to these customs are not equally ab- sorbed by devotion; ceremonies so of t repeated become mechanical to most of their agents; the young priests hurry over the service ■with a dexterous activity anything but imposing. All the mysteries that should vail religion are dissipated, by the' attention we cannot help giving to the manner in which each performs his function. The avidity of the one party for the meat set before them, the indififereace of the other to their prayers and genuflections, deprive the whole of its due sublimity. ' The ancient costumes still worn by the ecclesiastics iU accord with their modem heads. TUe bearded Patriarch of the Greek Church IS the most venerabls figm-e left for such offices. The old fashion, too^ of men courteseying like women, is dangerous to decorum. The past and the present indeed, rather jostle than harmonize; little care is taken to strike the imagination, and none to prevent its being dis- tracted. A worship as brilliantly majesiic in its externals is certainly well fitted to elevate the soul; but more caution should be observed, lest its ceremonies degenerate into plays, in which the actors get by rote what they have to do, and at what time ; when to pray, when to have done praying; when to kneel, and when to rise. Court rules Introduced at church restrain that soaring elasticity which alone can give man hope of drawing near his Maker. ;,' The generality of foreigners observe this; yet few Romans but yearly find fresh pleasure in these sacred fgtes. It is a peculiarity in. Italian character, that versatility of taste leads not to inconstancy; and that vivacity removes all necessity for truth; it deems everythinjf more grand, more beautiful than reality. The Italians, patient anic persevering even in thPir amusements, let imagination embellish what they possess, instead of bidding them crave what, they have not; and as elsewhere vanity teaches men to seem fastidious, in Italy, warmth of temperament makes it a pleasure to admire. After all the Romans had said to Nevil of their Passion week, he had expected much mors than he had found. He sighed for tha OOBINHX— 8. - 180 CORINNE; OR, ITAIiT. august simplicity of the English Church, and returned home discon tented with himself, for not having been afEected by that which he ought to have felt. In such cases we fancy that the soul is withered, and fear that we have lost tha enthusiasm, without which reason itself would serve but to disgust us with life. CHAPTER IV. Qood Friday restored all the religious emotions of Lord Navil; he was about to regain Corinne — the sweet hopes of love blended with that piety, from which nothing save the factitious career of the . world can entirely wean us. He sought the Sixtine Chapel, to hear the far-famed Miserere. It was yet light enough for him to see the pictures of Michael Angelo — the Day of Jud^ent, treated by a genius worthy so terrible a subject. Dante had infected this painter with the bad taste of representing mythological beings in the presence of Christ; but it is chiefly as demons that he has clS,racterized these Pagan creations. Beneath the arches of the roof are seen the pro- phets and heathen priestesses, called as witnesses by the Christians (teste David cum Sibylla); a host of angels surround them. The roof is painted as if to bring heaven nearer to us; but that heaven is gloomy and repulsive. Day scarcely penetrates the windows, which throw on the pictures more shadows than beams. This dimness, too, enlarges the already commanding figures of Michael Angelo. The funereal perfume of incense fills the aisles, and every sensation prepares us for that deeper one which awaits the touch of music. While Oswald was lost in these reflections, he beheld Corinne, whom he had not expected yet to see, enter that part of the chapel devoted to females, and separated by a grating from the rest. She was in black; pale with abstinence, and so tremulous, as she perceived him, that she was obliged to support herself by the balustrade. At this moment the Miserere commenced. Voices well practised in this pure and antique chant rose from an unseen gallery ; every instant rendered the chapel darker. The music seemed to float in Uie air; no longer in the voluptuously impassioned strains which the lovers had heard to- gether a week since, but such as seemed bidding them renounce all - earthly things. Corinne knelt before the grate. Oswald himself was forgotten. At such a moment she would have loved to die. If the separation of soul and body were but pangless ; if an angel would bear away thought and feeling on his wings — divine sparks, that shall return to their source — death would be then the heart's spontaneous act? an ardent prayer most mercifully granted. The verses of this psalm are sung alternately, and in very contrasted styles. The heavenly harmony of one is answered by murmured recitative, heavy and even harsh, like the reply of worldings to the appeal of sendi- PASSION WEEK. 181 bility, or the realities of life defeating the vows of generous souls: when the soft choir reply, hope springs again, again tobe frozen by that dreary sound which inspires not terror, but utter discourage- ment; yet the last burst, most reassuring of all, leaves just the stam- less and exquisite sensation in the soul which we would pray to be accorded when we die. The hghts are extinguished ; night advances ; the pictures gleam like prophetic phantoms thifeugh tlie dusk; the deepest silence reigns: speech would be insupportable in this state of . self-communion; every one steals slowly away, reluctant to resume the vulgar interests of the world. Corinne followed the procession to St. Peter's, as yet illumined but by a cross of fire: this type of grief shining alone through the immense obscure, fair image of Christianity amid the shades of life! A wan light falls over the statues on the tombs. The living, who throng these arches, appear but pigmies, compared with the efBgies of the dead. Around the cross is a space cleared, where the Pope, arrayed in white, with all the cardinals behind him, prostrate them- selves to the earth, and remain nearly half an hour profoundly mute. None hear what they request; but they are old, going before us towards the tomb, wliither we must follow. Grant us, O God I the grace so to ennoble age, that the last days of life may be the first of immortality. Corinne, too, the young and lovely Corinne, knelt near the priests; the mild light weakened not the lustre of her eyes. Oswald looked on her as an entrancing picture, as well as an adored woman. Her orison concluded, she rose ; her lover dared not ap- proach, revering the meditations in which he believed her stUl plunged; but she came to him, with all the rapture of reunion; — ^hap- piness was so shed over her every action, that she received the greet- ings of her friends with unwonted gayety. St. Peter's, indeed, had suddenly become a public promenade, where every one made ap- pointments of business or of pleasure. Oswald was astonished at this power of running from one extreme to another; and, much as he rejoiced in the vivacity of Corinne, he felt surprised at her thus instantly banishing all traces of her late emotions. He could not conceive how this glorious edifice, on so solemn a day, could be con- verted into the Cafe of Rome, where people meet for amusement; and seeing Corinne encircled by admirers, to whom she chatted cheerfully, as if no longer conscious where she stood, he felt some mistrust as to the levity of which she might be capable. She read his thoughts, and hastily breaking from her party, took his arm to walk the church with him, saying: " I have never spoken to you of my religious sentiments; let me do so now; perhaps I may thus dis- perse the clouds I see rising in your mind." t36 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. CHAPTER V. "The difference of our creeds, my dear Oswald," continued Corinne, "is the cause of the unspoken displeasure you cannot prevent me from detecting. Your faith is serious and severe, ours lively and tender. It is generally believed that my church is the most rigorous; it may be so, in a country where struggles ezisi between the two; but here we have no doctrinal dissensions England has experienced many. The result is, that Catholicism here has taken an indulgent character, such as it cannot havb where Reformation is armed against it. Our religion, like that of the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the poets, and makes part of all the joys of life; while yojirs, established in a country where reason predominates over fancy, is stamped with a moral sternness that will never be effaced. OursTalls on us in the name of love; jrours in that of duty. Tour principles are liberal; our dogmas bigoted; yet our orthodox despotism has some fellowship with private, circumstances; and your religious liberty exacts respect for its own laws, without any exception. It is true that our .monastics undergo sad hardships, but they choose them freely; their state is a mysterious engagement between God and man. Among the secular Catholics here, love, hope, and faith, are the chief virtues, all renouncing, all bestowing, peace. Far from' our priests forbid- ding us to rejoice, they tell us that we thus evince our • gratitude for the gifts of Heaven. They enjoin us to practise (iarity and repent- ance, as proofs of our respect for our faith, and our desire to please its Pounder; but they refuse us not the absolution we zealously im- plore ; and the errors of the heart meet here a mercy elsewhere denied. Did not our Saviour tell the Magdalene that much should be pardoned to the greatness of her love? As fair a sky as ours echoed tiiese •wwrds: shall we then despair of our Creator's pity?" — " Goriime," re- turned Nevil, ' 'how can I combat arguments so sweet, so needful to me ? and yet I must. It is not for a day I love Corinne; to her I lookfor a long futurity of content and virtue. The purest religion is that which sacrifices passion to duty, as a continual bomage to the Supreme Being. A moral life is the best offering. We degrade the Creator by attributing to him a wish that tends not towards our intellectual per|ection. Paternity, that godlike symbol of faultless sway, seeks but to render its children better and happier. How, then, suppose that God demands of man actions tliat have not the welfare of man for their object? what confused notions spring from the habit of attaching more importance to religious ceremonies than to active worth I You know that it is just after Passion week the greatest PABSIOS WEEK. 183 number of mxirders are committed in Eome. The long fast has, in more senses than one, put its votaries in possession of funds, and they spend the treasures of their penitence in assassinations. The most disgusting criminal here scruples to eat meat on Fridays; convinced that the greatest of crimes were that of disobeying the ordinances of the Church: all conscience is lavished on that point; as if the Divin- ity were like one of this world's rulers, vho prefers flattering sub- mission to faithful service. Is this courtier-like behavior to be sub- stituted for the respect we owe the Eternal, as the source and tha recompense of a forbearing and spotless life? The external demonstra- tions of Italian Catholicism excuse the soul from all interior piety. The spectacle over, the feeling ends — the duty is done ; no one re- mains, as with us, long occupied by thoughts born of strict and si»- cere self-examination." "You are severe, my dear Oswald," said Corinne; "this is not the first time I have remarked it. If religion consists but in morality, how is it superior to philosophy and reason? And what piety could we truly feel, if our principal end was that of stifling all the feelings of the heart? The Stoics knew almost as much as ourselves of aus- tere self-denials; but something more due to Christianity is the en- thusiasm which weds it with all the affections of the soul — the power of loving and sympathizing. It is the most indulgent worship, which best favors the light of our spirits towards Heaven. What means the parable of the Prodigal Son, if not, that true love of God is preferred even above the most exact fulfillment of duty? He quitted the paternal roof; his brother remained beneath it. He had plunged into all the pleasures of the world; his brother had never, for an in- stant, broken the regolarity of domestic life ; but the wanderer returned, all tears, and his beloved, father received him with rejoicing! Ahl doubtless, among the mysteries of nature, love is all that is left us of our heavenly heritage ! Our very virtues are often too constitutional for us always to comprehend what is right, or what is the secret im- pulse that directs us. I ask my God to teach me to adore him. I feel the effect cf my petition by the tears I shed. But, to sustain this disposition, religious exercises are more necessary than you may think, a constant intercourse with the Divinity; daily habits that Kave no connection with the interests of life, but belong solely to the invisible world. External objects are of great assistance to piety. The soul would fall back upon herself, if music and the arts reanimated not that poetic genius, which is also the fenius of religion. The vulgarest man, while he prays, suf- ers, or trusts in Heaven, would express himself like Milton, Homer, or Tasso, if education had clothed his thoughts in words. There are but two distinct classes of men bom — those who feel enthusiasm, and those who deride it; all the rest is the work of society. One class have no words for their sentiments; the (>ther know what they ought to say to hide the void of tneir beartw 134 CORINKE ; OR, ITALY. but the stream flowed from the rock at the command of Heaven; even so gush forth true talent, true religion, true love. The pomp of our -worship ; those pictures of kneeling saints, whose looks express continual prayer; those statues placet! on tombs, as if to awaken one day with the dead; our churches, with their lofty aisles — all seem intimately connected without devout ideas. I love this splendid homage, made by man to that which promises him neither fortune ■ nor power; which neither rewards nor punishes, save by the feelings it inspires; I grow proud of my kind, as I recognize something so ■disinterested. The magniflcence of religion cannot be too much increased. I love this prodigality of terrestrial gifts to another world; offerings from time to eternity: sufficient for the morrow are the cares required by human economy. Oh 1 how I love what would be useless waste, were life nothing better than a career of toU for despicable gain I if this earth be but our road to heaven, what can we do better than so elevate our souls Ihat they feel the infinite, the invisible, the eternal, in the midst of the limits that surround them? Jesus permitted a weak, and, perhaps, repentant woman, to steep his head in precious balms, saying to those who bade her turn them to more profitable use: 'Why trouble ye the woman? the poor ye have always with ye, but me ye have not always.' Alas! whatever is good or sublime on this earth is ours but for awhile ; we have it not always. Age, infirmities, and death soon sidly the heavenly dewdrop that only rests on flowers. Sear Oswald, let us, then, blend love, religion, genius, sunshine, odors, music, and poetry. There is no Atheism but cold selfish baseness. Christ has said, ' When two or three are gathered together in my name, I will be amongst them ;' and what, O God! is assembling in thj name, if we do not so whUe enjoying the charms of nature, therem praising and thanking thee for our life; above all, when some other heart, created by thy hands, responds entirely to our own?" 8o''ceIestial an inspiration animated the countenance of Corinne, that Oswald could scarce refrain from falling at her feet in that august temple. He was long silent, delightedly musing over her words, and reading their meaning in her looks: he cotild not, how- ever, abandon a cause so dear to him as that he had undertaken; therefore resumed: "Corinne, hear a few words more from your friend: his heart is not seared; no, no, believe me, if 1 reqtui* austerity of principle and action, it is because it gives our feelings depth and duration; if I look for reason in religion — that is, if I leject contradictory dogmas, and human means for affecting the ^oul — It is because I see the Divinity in reason as in enthusiasm ; if I ca]^ot allow man to be deprived, of any of his faculties, it is because they are all scarce sufficient for his comprehension of the truths, revealed to him as mucli by mental reflection as by heartfelt instinct — the existence of a God, and the immortality of tJie soul. To these egl^mn thoughts, so entwined with virtue, what can be added, tha^ PASSION WEEK. 135 tn fact, belongs to them? The poetic zeal to which you lend so many attractions, is not, I dare assert, the most salutary kind of devotion! Corinne, how can it prepare us for the innumerable eacrifices that duty exacts? It has no revelation, save in its own impulses: while its future destiny is seen but through clouds. Now we, to whom Christianity renders it clear and positive, may deem such a sensation our reward, but cannot make it our sole ^ide. You describe the existence of the blest, not that of mortals ; a religious life is a combat; not a hymn. If we were not sent here to repress our own and others' evil inclinations, there would, as you say, be no distinctions save between apathetic and ardent minds. But man is more harsh and rugged than you think him; rational piety and imperious duty alone can check his proud excesses Whatever you may think of exterior pomp, and numerous ceremonies, dearest I the contemplation of the universe and its author will ever be the only worship which so fills the heart that self-knowledge can find in it nothing either idle or absurd. The dogmas that wound my reason, also chill my enthusiasm. Doubtless, the world is in itself an incomprehensible mystery, and he were most unwise who refused to believe whatever he could not ex- plain; but contradictions are always the work of man. The secrets of God are beyond our mental powers, but not opposed to them. A German philosopher has said; ' 1 know but two lovely things in the universe — the starry sky above our heads, and the sense of duty within our hearts. ' In sooth, all the wonders of creation are included in these. Far from a simple religion withering the heart, I used to think, ere I knew you, Corinne,' that such alone could concentrate and perpetuate its affections. I have witnessed the most austere purity of conduct from a man of inexhaustible tenderness. I have seen it preserve, in age, a virgin innocence which the storms of pas- sion must else have blighted. Repentance is assuredly commendable, and I, more than most men, had need rely on its efiicacy ; but repeated penitence wearies the soul; it is a sentiment that can but once regen- erate us. Redemption accomplished, cannot be renewed ; accustomed to the attempt, we lose the strength of love; for it requires st^ngth of mind to love God constantly. I- object to the splendid forms which here act so powerfully on the fancy, because I would have imagination modest and retiring, like the heart: emotions extorted from it, are always less forcible than those that spring spontaneously. In the Cevennes, I heard a Protestant minister preach one eve among the mountains: he addressed the tombs of the Frenchmen, banished by their brothers, and promised their friends that they should meet them in a better world: a virtuous life, he said, would secure that blessing, adding, ' Do good to man, that God may heal the wounds within your breasts 1' He wondered at the inflexibility with which the creature of a day dared treat his fellow-worm; and spoke of that terrible death, which all conceive, but none fully expound. In 188 COKmiTE ; OK, ITALY. short, he said naught that was not touching, tnie, and perfectly in harmony with nature. The distant cataract, the sparkling starlight, seemed expressing the same thoughts in other ways. There was the magnificence of nature, the only one whose spectacles offend not the unfortunate ; and this imposing simplicity affected the soul as it was never affected by the most brilliant of ceremonies." On Easter Sunday, Oswald and Corinne went to the Place of St. Peter's to see the Pope, from the highest balcony of the church, caU down Heaven's blessing on the earth; as he pronounced Urhi et orbi — on the city and the world — the people knelt, and our lovers felt all creeds alike. Religion links men with each other, unless self-love and fanaticism render it a cause of jealousy and hate. To pray to- gether, in whatever tongue or ritual, is the most tender brotherhood of hope and sympathy that men can contract in this life. CHAPTER VL Easter was over, yet Corinne spoke not of accomplishing her pro- mise, by confiding her history to NeviL Hurt by this sUence, he one day told her that he intended paying a visit to their vaunted Naples. She understood his feelings, and proposed to make . the journey with him; hoping to escape the avowal he expected from her, by giving him a proof of love which ought to be so satisfactory: besides, she thought that he would not take her with him, unless he designed to become hers for life. Her anxious looks supplicated a favorable reply. He could not resist, though surprised at the sim- plicity with which she made this offer; yet he hesitated for some time, till, seeing her bosom throb, and her eyes fill, he consented, without considering the importance of such a resolution. Corinne was overwhelmed with joy: at that moment she implicitly relii d on his fidelity. The day was fixed, and the sweet perspective of travelling together banished every other idea. Not an arrangement they made for this purpose but was a source of pleasure. Happy mood ! in which every detail of life derives a charm from some fond hope. Too soon comes the time when each hour fatigues; when each morning costs us an effort, to support oxa walking, and drag on tlie day to its close. As Nevil left Corinne, in order to prepare everything for ttieir de- parture, the Count d'Erfeuil called on her, and learned lier plaiu " You cannot think of it!" he said: " make a tour with a man who has not even promised to be yowr husband! what wiU become of you if he turns deserter?" — "I should become," replied she, "but what I must be, in any situation, if he ceased to love me, the most unhappy person in the world." — "Yes; but if you had done nothing to com- promise your name, you would still remain yourself." — "Myself!" she repeated, " when the best feelings of my s»ul were blighted, and PASSION WEEK. 187 my heart broken?" — " The public would not guess that ; and with a little caution you might preserve its opinion." — "And why humor that opinion, unless it were to gain one merit the more in the eynly -jnHprp hi mself crrectly in the pas t ; his existin g situation appearpd to him ever in fn^f ngjan SiiappptihlB alike of rashness and remorse, of passion and timidity, he was incap- able of understanding his own state, until events had decided the combat. When tlie friends of Corinne were apprised of her plan they were greatly distressed, especially Prince Caste! Forte, who resolved to follow her as soon as possible. He had not the vanity to oppose her accepted lover, but he could not support the frightful void left by the absence of his fair friend ; he had no acquaintance whom he was not wont to meet at her house; he visited no other. The society she attracted round her must be dispersed by her de-_ parture, so wrecked that it would soon be impossible to restore it. He was little accustomed to live among his family; though extremely intelligent, study fatigued him; the day would have been too heavy but for his morning and evening visit to Corinne. She was going; he could but guess why; yet secretly promised himself to rejoin her, not like an exacting lover, but as one ever ready to console her, if unhappy, and who might have been but too sure that such a time would come. Corinne felt some melancholy in loosening all the ties ^of habit; the life she had led in Rome was agreeable to her; she was 'the center round which circled all its celebrated artists and men of letters — perfect freedom had lent charms to her existence: what was she to be now? if destined to be Oswald's wife, he would take her to England: how should she be received there? how restrain herself to a career so different from that of her last six years? "These thoughts did but pass over her mind; love for Oswald effaced their light track. She saw him, heard him, and counted the hours but by his presence or absence. Who can refuse the happiness that seeks them? Corinne, of all women, was the least f orethoughted ; nor hope nor fear was made for her; her faith in the future was indistinct, and in this respect her fancy did her as little good as harm. The morning of her departure Castel Forte came to her, with tears in his eyes, " WiU you return no more to Rome?" he asked. — "My God, yes!" sh« PASSION WEEK. IsJft cried; "we Bhall be back in a month." — "But, if you wed Lord Nevil, you will leave Italy." — "Leave Italy!" she sighed. — "Yes; the country where we speak your language, and understand you so well; where you are so vividly admired; and for friends, Corinne, where will you be beloved as you are here? where find the arts, the thoughts that please you? Can a single attachment constitute your life? Do not language, customs, and manners, compose that love of country which inflicts such terrible grief on the exile?" — "What say you?" cried Corinne: "have I not experienced it? Did not that very grief decide my fate?" She looked sadly on the statues that decked her room; then on the Tiber, rolling beneath her vrindows;^ and the sky whose smile seemed inviting her to stay; but at that' moment Oswald crossed the bridge of St. Angelo on horseback. "Here he is!" cried Corinne; she had scarcely said the words ere he was beside her. She ran before- him, ahd both, impatient to set forth, took their places in the carriage ; yet Corinne paid a kind adieu to Castel Forte; but it was lost among the shouts of postillions, the neighing of horses, and all the bustle of departure — sometimes sad, sometimes intoxicating — just as fear or hope maybe inspired by the new chances of coming destiny. 140 OORmNB; OR, ITALY. BOOK XL ITAPLES, AND THE HERMITAGE OF ST. 8ALTADOB. CHAPTER I. Oswald was proud of bearing ofif his conquest; though usually disturbed in his enjoyments by reflections and regrets, he felt less so now: not that he was decided, but that he did not trouble him- self to be so ; he yielded to the course of events, hoping to be borne towards the haven of his wishes. They crossed the Cam- pagna d'Albano, where still is shown the supposed tomb of the Horatii and CuratiL (35) They passed near the Lake of Nemi, and the sacred woods that surround it, where it is said Hippolitus was restored to life by Diana, who permitted no horses ever to enter it more, in remembrance of her young favorite's misfortune. Thus, in Italy, almost at every step, history and poetry add to the graces of nature, sweeten the memory of ^he past, and seem to preserve it in eternal youth. Oswald and Corinne next traversed the Pontine Marshes, fertile and pestilent at once, unenlivened by a single habi- tation. Squalid-looking men put to the horses, advising you tc keep awake while passing through this air, as sleep is ever the herald of death. Buffaloes, of the most stupid ferocity, draw the plough, which imprudent cultivators sometimes employ upon this fatal land; and the most brilliant sunshine lights up the whole. Un- wholesome swamps in the north are indicated by their frightful aspects; but in the most dangerous countries of the south nature de- ceives the traveller by her serenest welcome. If it be true that slumber is so perilous on these fens, the drowsiness their heat pro- duces adds still more to our sense of the perfidy around us. Nevil ' watched constantly over Corinne. When she languidly closed her eyes, or leaned her head on the shoulder of Theresma, he awakened hef with inexhaustible terror; and, silent as he was by nature, now found inexhaustible topics for conversation, ever new, to prevent her submitting for an instant to this murderous sleep. May we not torgive the heart of woman for the despairing regret with which U Naples. 141 flings to the days when she was beloved? when her existence was so essential to that of another, that its every instant was protected by his arm? What isolation must succeed that delicious time! Happy they whom the sacred link of marriage gently leads from love to friendship, without one cruel moment having torn their hearts. At last our voyagers arrived at Terracina, on the coast bordering the kingdom of Naples. There the south indeed begins, and receives the stranger in its full magnificence. The Gamvpagna Felice seems separated from the rest of Europe, not only by the sea, but by the destructive land which must be crossed to reach it. It is as if nature wished to keep her loveliest secret, and therefore rendered the road to it so hazardous. Not far from Terracina is the promontory chosen by poets as the abode of Circea, behind rises Mount Anxur, where Theodoric, king of the Goths, built one of his strongest castles. There are few traces of these invading barbarians left, and those, being mere works of destruction, are confounded with the works of time. The northern nations have not given Italy that warlike aspect which Germany retains. It seems as if the soft earth of Ausonia could not keep the fortifications and citadels that bristle through northern snows. Earely is a Gothic edifice or feudal castle to be found here. The antique Romans stiU reign over the memory even of their conquerors. The whole of the mountain above Terracina is covered with orange and lemon trees, that delicately embalm the air. Nothing in our own climes resemble the effect of this perfume: it is like that of some exquisite melody, exciting and inebriating talent into poetry. The aloes and large-leaved cactus that abound here remind one of Africa's gigantic vegetation, almost fearfully; they seem belonging to a realm of tyranny and violence. Every- thing is strange as another world, known but by the songs of antique bards, who, in all their lays, evinced more imagination than truth. ' As they entered Terracina, the children threw into Oorinne's car- riage immense heaps of flowers, gathered by the wayside, or on the hiUs, and strewn at random, so confident are they in the prodigality of nature. The wagons that bring the harvest from the fields are daily garlanded with roses: one sees and hears, besides these smiling pictures, the waves tluit rage unlashed by storms against the rocks, eternal barriers that chafe the ocean's pride. E noa Qdite ancor oome risaona II roco ed alto fremito marino 7 Aud hear you not Htill bow resonodB The hoalse aud deep roar of the sea 7 This endless motion, this aimless strength, renewed eternally, whose cause and termination are alike unknown to us, draws us to tiie shore whence so grand a spectacle may be seen, till we feel a fearful desire to rush into its waves, and stun our thoughts amid their tumultuous Toicee, 142 COBIimE; OR, ITALY. Towards evening all is calm. Corinne and Nevil wandered siowly forth: they stepped on flowers, and scattered their sweets a~ iJiey pressed them. The nightingale rests on the rose-bushes, and blends the purest music with the richest scents. All nature's charms set in mutually attracted; but the most entrancing; and inexpressible of ail is the mildness of the air. In contemplatmg a fine northern viow, the climate always qualifies our pleasure. Like false notes in a con- cert, the petty sensations of cold and damp distract attention ; but in approaching Naples you breathe so freely, feel such perfect ease; with such bounteous friendship does nature welcome you, that noth- ing impairs your delight. Man's every relation, id our lands, is with society: in warm climates his affections overflow among exterior ob- jects. It is not that the south has not its melancholy — in what scenes can human destiny fail to awaken it? — ht^ here/it is unmixed with discontent or anxiety. Elsewhere life, such as it is, s ffices not the faculties of man: here those faculties suffice not for a life whose superabundance of sensation induce a pensive indolence, for which those who feel it can scarce account. During the*night the fire-flies fill the air: one might suppose that the burning earth thus let her flames escape in liirht: these insects wanton through the trees, sometimes pitching on their leaves; and as the wind waves them, tlie uncertain gleam of these little stars is varied in a thousand ways. The sand also contains a number of small ferruginous stones, that shine through it, as if earth cherished in her breast the last rays of the vivifying sun. Everywhere is united a life and a repose that satisfy at once all the wishes of exist ence. Corinne yielded to the charm of such a night with heartfelt oy. Oswald could not conceal his emotion. Often he pressed her land to his heart, then withdrew, returned, retired asrain, in respect for her who ought to be the companion of his life. She thought not of her danger : such was her esteem for him, that, had he demanded the gift of her entire being, she would not h ive doubted »Jiat such prayer was but a solemn vow to make her his wife; she was glad, however, that he triumphed over himself, and honored her 'ly the sacrifice: her soul was so replete wi,th love and happiness, that she could not form another wish. Oswald was far from this calm: fired by her beauty, he once embraced her knees with violence, and seemed to have lost all empire over his passion; but Corinne looked on him with so sweet a fear, as if confessing his power, in entreating him not to abuse it, that this humble defense extorted more reverence than any other could have done. They saw reflected in tlie wave a torch jyhich some unknown hand bore along the beach, to a rendez- vous at a neighboring house. "He goes to his love," said Oswald; "and for me the happiness of this day will soon be over." Corinne's eyes, then raised to heaven, were filled with tears. Oswald, fearing he Md offended her, fell at her feet, begging hei to pardon the loVQ i^ NAPLES. 143 which hurried him away. She gave him her hand, proposing their re- turn together. ' ' Oswald, " she said, ' 'you will, I am assured, respect her you love ; you know that the simplest request of yours would be resist- less: it is you, theuj who must answer for me; you, who would re- fuse me for your wife, if you had rendered me unworthy to be so. " — " Well, " said Oswald, "since you know the cruel potency of your will over my heart, whence, whence this sadness?" — "Alas!" she re- plied, "I had told myself that niy last moments passed with you were the happiest of my life; and, as I looked gratefully to heaven, I know not by what chance a childish superstition came back upon my mind. Themoouwashidby acloudof fatal aspect. I have always found the skyeitlier paternal or angry; and Itellyou, Oswald, that to-ni^ht it condemns our love." — "Dearest," cried he, " the only auguries are good or evil actions; and have I not this evening immolated my most ardent desires to virtue?" — "It is well," added Corinne: "if you are not involved in this presage, it may be that the stormy heaven menaces but myself." CHAPTEE II. They arrived at Naples by day, amid its Immense population of animated idlers. They first crossed the Strada del Toledo, and saw the Lazzaroni lying on the pavement, or crouching in the wicker works that serve them for ciwellings night and day; this savage state, blending with civilization, has a very original air. There are many among these men who know not even their own names; who come to confession anonymously, because they cannot tell what to call tl^e offenders. There is a subterranean grotto, where thousands of Laz^ zaroni pass their lives, merely going at noon to look on the sun, and sleeping during the rest of the day, while their wives spin. In cli- mates where food and raiment are so cheap, it requires a very active government to spread sufficient nalional emulation; material subsist- ence is so easy Uiere that they dispense with the industry requisite elsewhere for our daily bread. Idleness and ignorance, combined with the volcanic air they imbibe, must produce ferocity when the passions are excited; yet these people are no worse than others;-they have imagination which might prove the parent of disinterested action, and lead to good results, did their political and religious in- stitutions set them good examples. The Calabrese march towards the fields they cultivate with a mu- sician at their head, to whose tunes they occasionally dance, by way of variety. Every year is held, near Naples, a f Ste to our Lady of the Grotto, at which the girls dance to the sound of tambourines and castanets; and they often make it a clause in their marriage con- tracts, that their husbands shall take them annually to this fSte, < 144 COJIINNE; OK, ITALY. There was an actor of eighty, who for sixty years diverted the Neapolitans, in their national part of PolichineUo. What immor- tality does the soul deserve which has thus long employed tka body? The people of Naples know no good but pleasure; yet even such taste is preferable to barren selfishness. It is true that they love money inordinately; if you ask your way in the streets, the man addressed holds out his hand as soon as he has pointed — they are often too lazy for words; but their love of gold is not that of the miser: they spend as they receive it. If coin were introduced among savages, they would demand it in the same way. What the Neapoli- tans want most is a sense of dignity. They perform generous and benevolent actions rather from impulse than principle. Their theo- . ries are worth nothing; and public opinion has no influence over them ; but, if any here escape this moral anarchy, their conduct is more admirable than might be found elsewhere, since nothing in their exterior circumstances is favorable to virtue. Nor laws nor manners are there to reward or punish. The good are the more heroic, as they are not the more sought or better considered for their pains. With some honorable exceptions, the highest class is very like the lowest ; the mind is as little cultivated in the one as in the other. Dress makes the only difference. But, in the midst of all this, there is at bottom a natural cleverness and aptitude, which shows us what such a nation might become if the government de- voted its powers to their mental and moral improvement. As there is little education, one finds more originality of character than of wit; but the distinguished men of this country, such as the Abbe Galiani and Caraccioli, possessed, it is said, both pleasantry and reflection — rare union, without which either pedantry or frivolity must prevent men from knowing tlie true value of things. li some respects the Neapolitans are quite uncivilized; but their vul- garity is not like that of others; their very grossness strikes the imagination. We feel that the African shore is near us. There is something Numidian in the wild cries we hear from all sides. The brown faces, and dresses of red or purple stuff, whose strong colors catch the eye, those ragged cloaks, draped so artistically, give something picturesque to the populace, in whom, elsewhere, we can but mark the steps of civilization. A certain taste for ornament is here found, contrasted with a total want of all that is useful. The shops are decked with fruit and flowers; some of them have a holiday look, that belongs neither to private plenty nor public felicity; but solely to vivacious fancy, which fain would feast the eye at any rate. The mild clime permits all kinds of laborers to work in the streets. Tailors there make clothes, and cook^pastry — these household tasks performed out-of-doors much augment the action of the scene. Songs, dances, and noisy sports accompany tlys spectacle. There never was a country in which the difference between amusement and happiness might be more clearly NAPLES. 146 felt; yet leave the interior for the quays, look, on the sea, and Vesu- vius, and you forget all that you know of the natives. Oswald and Corinne reached Naples while the eruption still lasted. By day it 6ent forth hut a black smoke, which miglit he confounded with the clouds; but in the evening, going to the balcony of their abode, they received a most unexpected shock. A flood of fire rolled down to the seas, its flaming waves imitating the rapid succession and indefa- tigable movement of the ocean's billows. It might be said that nature, though dividing herself into different elements, preserved some traces of her single and primitive design. This phenomenon really makes the heart palpitate. We are so familiarized with the works of heaven, that we scarcely notice them with any new sensation in our prosaic realms; but the wonder which the universe ought to inspire, is suddenly renewed at the sight of a miracle like this ; our whole be- ing is agitated by its Maker's power, from which our social connec- tions have turned our thoughts so long; we feel that man is not the world's chief mystery; that a strength independent of his own at once threatens and protects him by a law to him unknown. Oswald and Corinne promised themselves the pleasure of ascending Vesuvius, and felt an added delight in thinking of the danger they thus should brave together. OHA-PTER III. There J7as at that time in the harbor an English ship of war, where divine service was performed every Sunday. The captain and other English persons than at Naples invited Lord Nevil to attend on the morrow. He promised ; but while thinking whether he should take Corinne, or how she could be presented to his countrywomen, he was tortured by anxiety. As he walked with her near the port next day, and was about to advise her not to go on board this vessel, a boat neared the shore, rowed by ten sailors, dressed in white, wear- ing black velvet caps, with the Leopard embroidered on them in sil ver. A young officer stepped on shore, and entreated Corinne to let him take her to the ship, calling her " Lady Nevil." At that name she blushed, and cast down her eyes. Oswald hesitated a moment, then said in English, " Come, my dear:" she obeyed. The sound of the waves made her thoughtful, as did the silence of the weU-discip- li^ed crew, who, without one superfluous word or gesture, rapidly winged their bark over the element they had so often tral«ersed. Co- rinne dared not ask Nevil what she was to anticipate; she strove to guess his projects, never hitting on what, at all times, was most prob- able, that he had none, but let himself be borne away by every new occurrence. For a moment, she imagined that he was leading her to a Church of England thaplain, to make her his wife; this thought 146 CORINNE • OR, ITALY. alarmed more than it gratified her. She felt about to leave Italy for England, where she had suffered so much; the severity of its manners returned to her mind, and not even love could triumph over her fear. How she would in other circumstances have wondered at these fleeting ideas! She mounted the vessel's side; it was airanged with the most careful neatness. Nothing was heard from its deck but the commands of the captain. Subordination and serious regularity here reigned, as emblems of liberty and order, in contrast with the impassioned turmoil of Naples. Oswald eagerly- watched the impression this made on Corinne, yet he was often di- verted from his attention by the love he bore his country. There is no second country for an ±inglishman,-except a ship and the sea. Oswald joined the Britons on board to ask the news, and talk poli- tics. Corinne stood beside some English females who had come to hear prayers. Theyweresurroundedbychildren, beautiful as day, but timid like their mothers, and not a word was spoken before the stranger. This restraint was sad enough for Corinne; she looked towards fair Naples, thought of its flowery shore, its lively habits, and sighed. Happily, Oswald heard her not; on the contrary, seeing her seated among his sisters, as it were, her dark eyelashes cast down like their £ght ones, and in every way conforming with their customs, he felt a tmrill of j oy. Vainly does an Englishman take a temporary pleasure atdong foreign scenes and leople; his heart invariably flies back to his first impressions. If you find him sailinq; from the antipodes, and ask whither he is going, he answers, "home," it it is towards England that he steers. His vows, his sentiments, at whatever dis- tance he maybe, are always turned tow.irds her.* They went below for divine service. Corinne perceived that her first conjecture was unfounded, and that Nevil's intentions were less solemn than she supposed; then she reproached herself for having feared, and again felt all the embarrassment of her situation; for every one present believed her the wife of Lord Nevil, and she could say nothing either to confirm or to destroy this idea. Oswald suffered as cruelly. Sucl faults as weakness and irresolution aro never detected by their pos- sessor, for whom they take new names from eacb fresh circumstance; sometimes he tells himself that prudence, sometimes that delicacy, defers the moment of action, and prolongs his suspense. Corinne, m spite of her painful thoughts, was deeply impressed by all she wit- nessed. Nothing speaks more directly to the soul than divine ser- vice on board ship, for which the noble simplicity of the Reformed Church seems particularly adapted. A young man acted as chaplain, • Who that has one beloved object absent for any considerable space of time, can read this tribdfe from a foreigner without tears of pride and rapture at the conscions- seaa febat wlioever is left behind, though little valued while near, gains a sad impoit- ance as part of that Itome, that Bngland, to which the dear one moat long to re- torn T The natives of great continents may love their birth-placea as well as \Te do ours; but it cannot be In the same maimer.— Ta. „,^ NAPLES. 147 with a firm, sweet voice; his face hespoke a piirity of soul; he stood " severe in youtlrful beauty," a type of the religion fit to be preached amid the risks of war. At certain periods the English minister pro- nounced prayers, the last words of which were repeated by the whole assembly; these confused, yet softened tones, coming from various distances,- reanimated the interest of the whole. Sailors and oflacera alike knelt to the words, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" The cap tain's cutlass hung by liis side, suggesting the glorious union of hu- mility before God, and courage among men, which renders the devo- tion of warriors so affecting. While all thesti brave fellows addressed the God of Hosts, the sea was seen through the ports ; the light sound of its now peaceful waves was audible, as if to say, " Your prayers are heard. " The chaplain concluded with a petition peculiar to English sailors: "And may God grant him us the grace to defend our happy constitution abroad, and to find, on our return, domestic peace at home." What grandeur is contained in these simple words! The preparatory and continual study which the navy demands, the life led in those warlike and floating cloisters, the uniformity of their grave toils, is seldom inteiTupted, save by danger or death. Never- theless, sailors often behave with extreme gentleness and pity toward women and children, if thrown on their care ; one is the more touched by this, from knowing the heedless coolness with which they expose their lives in battle, and on the main where the presence of man seems something supernatural. Nevil and Corinne were again rowed on shore ; fhey gazed on Naples, built like an amphitheater, thence to look on the spectacle of nature. As Corinne's foot touched the shore, she could not cheek a senti- ment of joy: had Oswald guessed this, he would have felt displeased, perhaps excusably; yet such displeasure would have been \mj\ist, for he was passionately beloved, though the thought of his country always forced on his adorer the memory of events which had ren- dered her miserable. Her fancy was changeful; talent, especially in a woman, creates a zest for variety that the deepest passion cannot entirely supply. A monotonous life, even in the bosom of content, idismays a mind so constituted: without a breeze to fill our sails we may always hug the shore; but imagination will atrai^, be.sen.sibility never so feithfm, at least till misfortune slays these trifling impulses, and leaves us but one thought, one only sorrow. Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne solely to the awkward situation of her having been called Lady Nevil; he blamed himself for not extricating her from it, and feared that she might suspect him of levity. He therefore began the long-desired explanation, by offering to relate his own history. "I shall speak first," he said, "and your confidence will follow mine?" — "Doubtless it ought," replied Corinne, trembling; "you wish it — at what day — what hour? when you have spoken, I wiu teU all." — " How sadly you are agi- tated I" said Oswald. " Will you always fear me thus, nor ever learn 148 COtimitE ; OR, ItALY. to trvist my heart?" — "It must be," she answered: "I have written It, and if you insist — ^to-morrow " — " To-morrow we go to Vesuvius; you shall teach me to admire it; and on our way, if I have strength enough, I will give you the story of my own doom: that shall precede yours, I am resolved." — "Well," replied Corinne, "you give me to-morrow; I Uiank you for that one day more. Who can tell if, when I have opened my heart to you, you will remain the same? How can I help trembling beneath such doubt?" CHAPTER IV. Our lovers commenced their route by the ruins of PompeiL Both were silent, for the decisive moment now drew nigh; and the vague hope so long enjoyed, so accordant with the clime, was about to give place to yet unknown reality. Pompeii is the most curious ruin of antiquity. In Rome, one hardly finds any wrecks, save those of public works, associated with the political changes of bygone cen- turies. In Pompeii, you retrace the private life of the ancients. The volcano which buried it in ashes preserved it from decay. No edifices, exposed to the air, could thus have lasted. Pictures and bronzes keep their primal beauty, while all domestic imple- ments remain in overawing peKection. The amphoras are still decked for the morrow's festival. The flour that was to have been kneaded into cakes is yet there: the remains of a female are adorned for this interrupted f gte, her fleshless arm no longer filling the jew- eled bracelet that yet hangs about it. Nowhere else can one behold such proofs of death's abrupt invasion. The track of wheels is visible in the streets •. and the stone- work of the wells bears^ the marks of the cords that had worn away their edges by degrees. On the walls of the guard-room are seen tha ill-formed letters and rudely-sketched figures which the soldiers had scrawled to beguile their tmie, while time himself was striding to devour them. When, from the midst of tiie cross-roads, you see all sides of the town, nearly as it existed of yore, you seem to expect that some one will come from these masterless dwellings: -this appearance of life renders the eternal silence of the place still more appalling Host of the houses are built of lava — and fresh lava destroyed them. The epochs of the world are counted from fall to fall. The thoughts of human beings, toiling by the light that consumed them, fills the breast with melan- choly. How long it is since man first lived, suffered, and died I Where can we find the thoughts of the departed ? do they still float art>und these ruins? or are they gathered forever to the heaven of immortality? A few scorched manuscripts, which were partly un- rolled at Portici, are all that is left us of these victims to earthquake •nd volcano. But in drawing near such relics we dread to breaOie, NAPLES. 14« lest we should scatter with their dust the noble ideas perhaps im- pressed on it. The public buildings, even of Pompeii, which was one of the smallest Italian towns, are very handsome. The splendor of the ancients seemed always intended for the general good. Their private houses are small, and decked but by a taste for the fine arts. Their interiors possess agreeable pictures and tasteful mosaic pave- ments; on many of them, near tlie door-sill, is inlet the word Salve. This salutation was not surely one of simple politeness, but an in- vitation to hospitality. The rooms are remarkably narrow, with no windows towards the street, nearly all of them opening into a portico, or the marble court round which the rooms are constructed; m its center is a simply elegant cistern. It is evident that the inhabitants lived chiefly in the open air, and even received their friends there. Nothing can give a more luxurious idea of life than a climate which throws man into the bosom of nature. Society must have meant something very different in such habits from what it is where the cold confines men within doors. We better appreciate the dialogues of Plato, while beholding the porticos beneath which the ancients passed half of their day. They were incessantly animated by the beauteous sky. Social " order, they conceived, was not the barren combination of fraud and force, but a happy union of institu- tions that excite the faculties, and develop the mind, making man's object the perfection of himself and his fellow-creatures. Antiquity inspires insatiable curiosity. The learned, employed solely on col- lections of names, which they call history, were surely devoid of all imagination. But to penetrate the past, interrogate the human heart through many ages; to seize on a fact in a word, and on the man- ners or character of a nation in a fact; to re-enter the most distant time, in order to conceive how the earth looked in its youth, and in what way men supported the life which civilization has since ren- dered so complicated; this were a continual effort of imagination, whose guesses discover secrets that study and reflection cannot reveal. Such occupation was particularly attractive to Nevil, who often told Corinne tlmt, if he had not nobler interests to serve in his own land, he could not endure to live away from this. We should, at least, re- gret the glory we cannot obtain. Forgetfuluess alone degrades the soul, which can ever take refuge in the past, when deprived of a present purpose. Leaving Pompeii they proceeded to Portici, whose inhabitants beset them with loud cries of " Come and seethe mountain I" thus they designate Vesuvius. Has it need of name? It is their gloiy, their country is celebrated as the shrine of this marvel. Oswald - begged Corinne to ascend in a sort of palanquin to the Hermitage of St. Salvadore, which is half-way up, and the usual resting-place for travelers. He rode by her side to overlook her bearers; and the more his heart filled with the generous sentiments such scenes in- gpire, the more he adored Corinne. The country at the foot of Vesn- 150 CORINNE; OR, ITALT. Viiis is the most fertile and best cultivated of tlie kingdom most favored by Heaven in all Europe. Tiie celebrated Lacryma Chnati vine flourislies beside land totally devastated by lava, as if nature here made a last effort, and resolved to perish in her richest aiTay. As you ascend, you turn to gaze on Naples, and on the fair laud around it — the sea sparkles in the sun as if strewn with jewels; but all the splendors of creation are extinguished by degrees, as you en- ter the region of ashes and of smoke, that announces your approa«.'.h to the volcano. The iron waves of other years have traced thevr large black furrows in the soil. At a certain height, birds are no longer seen ; further on, plants become very scarce ; then, even insocw find no nourishment. At last, all life disappears; you enter the realm of death, and the slain earth's dust alone slips beneath you>' unassured feet Ni grcggj, nd armenti Guida oifolco inai, gaida pastore. Never doth ewalQ nor cowboy thither lead the flocks or herds. A hermit lives betwixt the confines of life and death. One tree, the last farewell to vegetation, stands before his door, and beneath the shade of its pale foliage are travelers wont to await the night ere they renew their course ; for during the day the fixes and lava, so fierce when the sun is set, look dark beneath his splendor. This metamorphose is in itself a glorious sight, which every eve renews the wonder that a continual glare might weaken. The solitude of this spot gave Oswald strength to reveal his secrets; and, wishing to encourage the confidence of Corinne, he said: '•' You would fain read ,;your unhappy lover to the depth of his souL Well, I will confess alL My wounds will reopen, I feel it; but in the presence of im- mutable nature ought one to fear the changes time can bring?" HISTORY OF LORD NEVIL. 161 BOOK XII. HISTOKT OF LORD NBYIl. • CHAPTER I. " I was educated in my paternal home, with a tenderness and vir- tue that I admire the more, the more I know of manlcind. I have never loved any one more profoundly than I loved my father; yet I think, had I then known as I now do, how alone his character stood in the world, my affection would have been still more devoted. I remember a thousand traits in his life that seemed to me quite sim- ple, because he found them so, and that melt me into tears now I can appreciate their worth. Self-reproach on our all these means of turning the brain, I must add their spectacles, and you will have tome idea of the most social city in the world. I almost start at breathing its name in this hermitage, in the midst of a desert, and under impressions the extreme reverse of those which active population create; but I owe you a description of that place, and the effect it took upon myself. Can you believe, Corinne, gloomy and discouraged as you have known me, that I permitted myself to be seduced by this spirited whirlpool ? I was pleased at having not a moment of ennui; it would have been well if I could have deadened my power of suffering, capable as I was of love. If I may judge by myself, I should say that a thoughtful and sensitive being may weary of his own intensity; and that which woos him from himself awhile does him a service. It is by raising me above myself, that you, Corinne, have dissipated my natural melan- choly; it was by depreciating my real value, that a woman of whom I shall have soon to speak benumbed my internal sadness. Yet though I was infected by Parisian tastes, they would not long have detained me, had I not conciliated the friendship of a man, the per- fect model of French character in its old loyalty, of BVench mind in its new cultivation. I shall not, my love, tell you the real names of the persons I must mention; you will understand why, when you have heard me to the end. i Count Raimond, then, was of the most illustiious birth; he inherited all the chivalrous pride of his ances- tors, and his reason adopted more philosophic ideas whenever they HISTOBT OP LORD NEVIL. 163 Commanded a personal sacrifice; he had not mixed actively in the revolution, but loved what was virtuous in either party. Courage and gratitude on one side, zeal for liberty on the other: whatever was disinterested pleased him; the cause of all the oppressed seemed just to him; and this generosity was heightened by his perfect negligence of his own life. Hot that he was altogether unhappy, but his mind was so contrasted with general society, that the pain he had daily felt there detached him from it entirely. I was so fortunate as to interest him; he sought to vanquish my natural reserve; and, for this purpose, embellished our friendship by little artifices perfectly ro- mantic : he knew of no obstacles to his doing a great service or a slight favor: he designed to settle for six months of the year in Eng- land, to be near me ; and I could hardly prevent his sharing with me the whole of his possessions. 'I have but a sister,' he said, 'mar- ried richly, so I am free to do what I please with my fortune. Be- sides, this revolution wUl turn out ill, and I may be killed; let me then enjoy what I have in looking on it as yours.' Alasl the noble Baimond but too well foresaw his destiny. " When man is capable of self-knowledge, he is rarely deceived as to his own fate ; and presentiment is oft but jud^ent in disguise. Sincere even to imprudence, Baimond 'wore his heart upon his sleeve ;' such a character was new to me ; in England, the treasures qf the mind are not thus exposed ; we have even a habit of doubting those who display them; but the expansive bounty of my friend afEorded me enjoyments at once ready and secure. I had no suspi- cion of his quafities, even though I knew them all at our first meet- ing. I felt no timidity with him; nay, what was better, he put me at ease with myself. Such was the amiable Frenchman for whom I felt the friendship of a brother in arms, which we experience but in youth, ere we acquire one sentiment of rivalry — ere the unreturning wheels of time have furrowed the partitions betwixt the present and the future. "One day Count Baimond said to me: 'My sister is a widow. I confess, 1 am not sorry for it. I never liked the match. She ac- cepted the hand of a "dying olil man, Yfhen we were both of us poor; for what I have has but lately been bequeathed to me. Yet, at the time, I opposed this union as much as possible. I would have no mercenary calculations prompt our acts, least of all the most impor- tant one of life; still, she has behaved in an exemplary manner to the husband she never loved : that is nothing in the eyes of the world. Now that she is free, she will return to my abode. You will see her: she is very pleasing in the main, and you English hke to make dis- coveries; for my part, I love to read all in the face at once. Yet your manner, dear Oswald, never vexes me; but from that of my Bister I feel a slight restraint.' "Madame d'AfBigny arrived; I was presented to her. In fea- tures she resembled her brother, and even in voice; but in both 154 OORINNE; OR, ITALT. there was a more retiring caution: her countenance was very agreeable, her figure all grace and faultless elegance. She said not a word that was unbecoming; failed in no species of atten- tion; and, without exaggerated politeness, flattered sgUJfive by an address which showed with what she was pleased, but never com- mitted her. She expressed herself, on tender subjects, as if seeking to hide the feelings of her heart. This so reminded me of my own countrywomen, tliat I was attracted by it; methought, indeed, that she too often betrayed what she pretended to conceal, and that chance did not afEord so many occasions for melting' moments as she passed oflE for involuntary. This reflection, however, flitted but lightly over my mind; for what I felt beside her was both novel and deughtf ul. I had never been flattered by any one. In England, we feel both love and friendship deeply; yet the art of insinuating ourselves into favor by bribing the vanity of others is little known. Madame d'Arbigny hung on my every word. I do not think that she guessed all I might become; but she revealed me to myself by a thousand minute observations, the discernment of which amazed me. Sometimes I thought her voice and language too studiously sweet; but her resemblance to the frankest of men banished these notions, and bound me to confide in her. One day I mentioned to him the eCect this likeness had on me. He thanked me ; then, after a moment's pause, said: 'Yet our characters are not congenial.' He was silent; but these words, and many other circumstances, have since convinced me that he did not wish to see his sister my wife: that she designed to be so, I detected not for awhile. My days glided on without a care; she was always of my opinion. If I began a subject, slie agreed with it, ere explained ; yet, with all this meekness, her power over my actions was most despotic: she had a way of saying, ' Surely, you intend to do so and so;' or, 'You certainly cannot think of such a step as that.' I feared that I should lose her esteem by dis- appointing her expectations. Yet, Corinne, believe me — for I thought so ere I met you — it was not love I felt. I had never told her that I loved her, and was not . sure whether such a daughter-in- law would suit my father; he had not anticipated my mariying a Frenchwoman, and I could do nothing without his consent.. My 'silence, I believe, displeased the lady; for she had now and then fits of ili^emper — she called them low spirits, and attributed them to very affecting causes, though her countenance, if for a moment off her guard, wore a most irritated aspect. I fancied that these little inequalities might arise from our intercourse, with which I was riot satisfied myself; for it does one more harm to love by halves than to lovetwith all one's heart. "Raimondand I never spoke of his sister; it was the first constraint that subsisted between us; but Madame d'Arbighy had conjured me not to make her the theme of my conversations with her brothir; aad, seeing me astonished at this request, added: 'I know not if HISTORY OF LORD NEVIL. 165 you think with me, but 1 can endure no third person, not even an intimate friend, to interfere with my regard for another. I love the secrecy of afEection.' The explanation pleased me, and I obeyed. At this time a letter arrived from my father, recalling me to Scotland. The half year had rolled by; France was every day more disturbed j and he deemed it unsafe for a foreigner lo remain there. This pained me much, though I felt its justice. I longed to see him again, yet could not tear myself from the Count and Madame d'Aibigny without regret. I sought her instantly, showed her the letter, and, while she read it, was too absorbed by sadness to mark the impression it made. I was merely sensible that she said something to secure my delay; bade me write word that I was ill, and so tack away from my father's cwnmands. I remember that was the phrase she used. 1 was about to reply that my departure was fixed for the morrow, when Raimond entered the room, and, hearing the state of the case, declared with the utmost promptitude, that I ought to obey my parent without hesitation. I was struck by this rapid decision, ex- pecting to have been pressed to stay. I would have resisted my own reluctance, but I did not like to have my proposed triumph talked of as a matter of course. For a moment I misinterpreted my friend: he perceived it, and took my hand, saying: ' In three months I shall visit England; why, then, should I keep you here? I have my reasons,' he added, in a whisper; but his sister heard him, and said, hastily, that he was right, that no Englishman ou^ht to be involved in the dangers of the revolution. I now know it was not to such peril that the Count alluded ; but he neither contradicted nor con- firtned her explanation. I was going, and he did not think it neces- sary to tell more. ' If I could be useful to my native land, I should stay here,' he said; 'but you see it is no longer France; the princi- ples for which I love it are destroyed. I may regret this soil, but shall regain my country when I breathe the same air with you.' " How was I moved by this touching assurance of true friendship ! How far above his sister ranked Count Eaimond at that monient in my heart. She guessed it; and the same evening appeared in quite a new character. Some guests arrived; she did the honors admira- bly; spoke of my departure as if it were in her eyes the most unin- teresting occurrence. I had previously remarked, that she set a price on her preference, which prevented her ever letting others wit- ness the favor she accorded me: but now this was too much. I was so hurt by her indifference, that I resolved to take leave before the party, and not remain alone with her one instant. She heard me ask her brother to let me see him in the morning, ere I started ;^ and, coming to us, told me aloud that she must charge -me with a letter for a friend of hers ia England; then added, hastily, and in a low voice, 'You regret — ^you speak but to my brother: would you break my heart, by flying thus?' In an instant she stepped back, and re- seated herself among her visitants. I was agitated by her words. im CORINNE; OR, ITALY. and should have stayed as she desired, but that Raimond, taking my arm, led me to his own room. When the company had dispersed, ■we suddenly heard strange sounds from Madame d'Arbigny's apart- ment: he took no notice of them; but I forced him to ascertain their cause. We were told that she was very ill. I would have flown to her: but the Count obstinately forbade. ' Let us have no scene!' he said; 'in these affairs, women are best left to themselves.' I could not comprehend this want of feeling for a sister, so contrasted with his invariable kindness to me ; and I left him in an embarrassment which somewhat chilled my farewell. Ah! had I known the deli- cacy which would fain have baffled the captivations of a woman he did not believe formed to make me happy, could I have foreseen the events which were to separate us forever, my adieu would have better satisfied his soul and mine own." CHAPTER IL Oswald ceased for some minutes. Corinne had listened so trem- blingly that she too was silent, fearful of regarding the moment when he would renew his narrative. — " I should have been happy," he continued, " had my acquaintance with Madame d'Arbigny ended there — had I never set foot in France. But my fate, or, rather, per- haps my own weakness, has poisoned my life forever. Yes, dearest love! even beside you. I passed a year in Scotland with my father: our mutual tenderness daily increased. I was admitted Into the sanctuary of that heavenly spirit; and, in the friendship that united us, tasted all the consanguine sympathies whose mysterious links belong to our whole being. L received most affectionate letters from Raimond, recounting the difficulties he found in transferring his property, so as to join me; but his perseverance in that aim was un- wearied. I loved him for it; but what friend could I compare with my fiither? The reverence I felt for him never checked my confi- dence. I put my faith in his words as in those of an oracle; and the unfortunate indecision of my character was suspended while he spoke. 'Heaven has formed us for a love of what is venerable,' says an English author. My father knew not, could not know, to what degree I loved him; and my fatal conduct might well havd taught him to doubt whether I loved him at all. Tet he pitied me, while dyin^, for the grief his loss would inflict. Ah, Corinne! I draw -near the recital of my woes; lend my courage thy support, for in tHith I need it." — "My dear friend," she answered, "be it some solace that yon unveil your nobly sensitive heart before the being who most admires and loves you in the world." Nevil proceeded: "He sent me to London on business; and I left him without ona warning fear, though never to see him aj;ain. He was mor« endear f HISTOBir^OF LORD NBVIL. 1S7 tng than ever in our last conversation: it is said that the souls of the just, like flowers, breathe their richest balms at the approach of night. He embraced me with tears, sajdng that at his age all part- ings were solemn; but I believed his life like mine: our souls under- stood each other so well; and I was too young to think upon his age. The fears and the confidence of strong affection are alike inexplica- ble: he accompanied me to the door of that old hall which I have since beheld desert. and devastated, like my own heart. I had been but a week in London, when I received the cruel letter of which I remember every word : ' Yesterday, the 10th of August, my brother was massacred at the Tuileries, while defending his king. I am Eroscribed, and forced to fly, to hide from my persecutors. Baimond ad taken all my fortune, with his own, to settle in England. Have you yet received it ? or know you whom he trusted to remit it ? I had but one line from him, written when the chateau was attacked, . bidding me only apply to you, and I should know all. If you could come hither and remove me, you might save my life. The English still travel France in safety; but I cannot obtain a passport under my own name. If the sister of your hapless friend sufficiently in- terests you, my retreat may be learned at Paris of my relation. Mon- sieur Maltigues: but should you generously wish to aid me, lose not a moment; for it is said that war will shortly be declared between our two countries.' Imagine the effect this took on mel my friend murdered, his sister in despair, their fortune, she said, in my hands, though I had not received the least tidings of it; add to these cir- cumstances, Madame d'Arbigny's danger, and belief that I could preserve her; it was impossible to hesitate. I sent a messenger to my father with her letter, and my promise to return in a fortnight; then set forth instantly. By the most distressing chance the man fell ill on the way, and my second letter, from Dover, reached my father before the first. Thus he knew of my flight, ere informed of its motives; and ere the explanation came, had taken an alarm which could not be dissipated. I arrived at Paris in three days, and found that Madame d'Arbigny had relired to a provincial town sixty leagues off; thither I followed her. We were both much agitated at meet- ing. She appeared more lovely in her distress than I had ever thought her — less artificial, less restrained. "We wept together for her noble brother, and distracted country. I anxiously inquired as to ber fortune. She told me that she had no news of it; but in a few days I learned that the banker to whom Count Baimond con- fided it, had returned it trf him; and, what was more singular, a mer- chant of the town in which we were, who told me this by chance, assured me that Madanie d'Arbigny never needed to have felt a mo- ment's doubt of its safety. I could not understand this; went to ask her what it meant; and found M Maltigues, who, with the readiest coolness, informed me that he had just brought from Paris intelli- gence of the banker's return, as, not having heard of him for a 158 OORINNEj OR, ITALY. month, they had thought he was gone to England.* She confirmed her kinsman's statements, and I believed them; but, since, have recollected her pretexts for not showing me the note from Eaimond, mentioned in her letter, and am now convinced that tlie whole was but a stratagem to secure me. It is certain that, as she whs rich, no interested motives blended with her scheme; but her great fault lay in using address where love ulone was required, and dissimulating when candor would better have served the cause of her sentimental •nterprise : she loved me as much as those can love, who preconcert not only their actions but their feelings, and conduct an affair of the heart with the policy of a state intrigue. I formerly declared that I would never marry without my father's approval; yet I could not forbear betraying the transports her beauty and sadness ex- cited. Her jjlan being to make me captive at any price, she let me perceive that she was not thoroughly resolved in repulsing my wishes. As I now retrace what passed between us, I am assurca that she hesitated from motives quite independent of love and vir- tue; nay, that their apparent struggles were but her own secret deliberations. I was constantly alone with her; and my delicacy could not Jong resist the temptation. She imposed on me all the du- ties, in yielding me all the rights of a husband; yet displayed more remorse, perhaps, than she really felt; and thus so bound me to her, that I would fain have taken her to England, and implor^ my father's consent to our union; but she refused to quit France, unless as my wife. There she was wise, indeed; but, well knowing my filial resolutions, she erred in the means she used to retain me in spite mine every duty. When the war broke out, my desire to leave France became stronger, and her obstacles to it multiplied. She could obtain no passport; and if I went alone, her reputation would be ruined ; nay, she should be doubly suspected, for her correspond- ence with me. This woman, so mild, so equable, in general, then gave way to a despair which perfectly overwhelmed me. She em- ployed her wit and graces to please, her grief to intimidate me. Per- haps women are wrong in commanding tears, enslaving by the strength of their weakness; yet, when t£ey fear not to exert this weapon, it is nearly always victorious, .at least for awhUe. Doubt- less, love is weakened by this sort of usurpation; and the power of tears, too frequently exerted, chills the imagination; but, at that time, tl»ere were a thousand excuses for them m France. Madame d'Arbiguy's health, too, seemed daily to decrease: another terrible instrument of female tyranny is illness. Those who have not, like you, Corinne, a just reliance on their minds, or are not like English- women, so proudly modest that feigning is impossible, have always recourse to art; and the best we can then hope of them is that their *Thi8istlie less cleur for beinsr literal, X caunot compreheiid bow tbe banker^ return should conceru Madame d'Arbigny, 1( he b3d prerioaslj retoraed Baimoad's fortune ; nor who poaseseed it— Tb. HISTORY OP LORD NEVIL. 159 deceit is caused by a real attachment. A third party was now blended with our connection,* Monsieur Maltigues. She pleased him; he asked nothing better than to marry her; though a speculative im- morality rendered him indifferent to everything. He loved intrigue as a game, even while not interested in the stake; and seconded Madame d'Arbigny's designs on me, ready to desert this plot if occa- sion served for accomplishing his own. He was a man against whom I felt a singular repugnance; though scarcely thirty, his manners and person were remarkably hackneyed. In England, where we are accused of coldness, I never met anything comparable with the geriousness of his demeanor on entering a room. I should never have taken him for a Frenclmian, if he had not possessed some taste and pleasantry, with a love of talking very extraordinary in a man who seemed sated of the world, and who carried that disposition to a system. He pretended that ha was born a sensitive enthusiast, but that the knowledge of mankind be owed to the revolution had un- deceived him. He perceived, he said, that tliere was nothing good on earth, save fortune, or power, or both; and that fine quaUtieB must give way to circumstances. He practiced on this theory clev- erly enough; his only mistake lay in proclaiming it; but though he ,haQ not the national wish to please, he nevertheless desired to create some sensation, and that rendered him thus imprudent: he differed in these respects from Madame d'Arbigny, who sought to attain her end without betraying herself, or seeking to shine, even in her errors. What was most strange in these two persons is, that the ardent one could keep her secret, while the insensible knew, not how to hold his tongue. Such as he was, Maltigues had a great ascendency over his relative; either he guessed it, or she told him all; for even from her habitual wariness, she requiredi now and then, to take breath, as it were, by an indiscretion. If Maltigues looked on her severely, she was always distiu-bed; if he seemed discontented, she would take him aside to ask the reason; if he went away angry, she almost in- stantly shut herself up to write to him. I explained this to myself from the fact of his having known her from her childhood; he had managed her affairs since she liad lost all nearer ties; but the chief cause was her project, which I discovered too late, of marrying him, if I left her; for at no price would she pass for a deserted woman. Such a resolution might make you believe that she loved me not; yet love alone coxild have induced her preference: but through life she could mix calculation even with passion, and the fac- titious pretenses of society with her natural feelings. She wept when she was agitated, but she could also weep because that was the way to express emotion. She was happy '.n being loved, because she loved, but also because it did her honor be- ♦Thc lady's professed nvciSiOQ to a third party In her attachments seens un- KoouDtably reversed. — Tb. / 160 OORINNB; OB, ITAI,T. fore the world. She had right impulses while left to herself, but could only enjoy them when they were rendered profitable to her self-love. She was a person formed for and by good 'company,' and made that false use even of truth itself, which is so often found in a country where a zeal for producing effect, by certain sentiment, is much stronger than the sentiments themselves. It was long since I had heard from my father, the war having cut ofE ail communication. At last, chance favored the arrival of a letter,* in which he adjured me to return, in the name of my duty and his aaection; at the same time declaring that, if I married Madame d'Arbigny, I should cau.se him the most fatal sorrow; beg- f'.ng me, at least, to decide on nothing until I had heard his advice, replied to him instantly, giving my word of honor that I would shortly do as he required. Madame d'Arbigny tried, first prayers, then despondence, to detain me; and finding these fail, resorted to a fresh stratagem; but how could I then suspect it? She came to ma one morning pale and dishevelled, threw herself into my arms as if dying with terror, and besought me to protect her. The order, she said, was come for her arrest, as sister to Count Raimond, and I must find her some asylum from her pursuers; at this time women, indeed, were not spared, and all kinds of horrors appeared probable. I took her to a merchant devoted to my Interest, and hoped to save her, as"^ only Maltigues shared the secret of hei- retreat. In such a situation, how could I avoid feeling a lively interest in her fate? how separate myself from her? how say: 'You, depend on my support, and I withdraw it?' Nevertheless, my father's image continually haunted me, and I took many occasions to entreat her leave for setting forth alone; but she threatened to give herself up to the assassins it I quitted her, and twice, at noonday, rushed from the house in a fran- tic state that overwhelmed me with grief and fear. I followed, vainly conjuring her to return; fortunately it happened (unless by conspir- acy) that each time we were met by Maltigues, who brought her back with reproaches on her rashness. Of course, I resigned myself to Btay, and wrote to my father, accounting, as well as I could, for my conduct; though I blushed at being in France, amid t>^3 outrages then acting there, while that country, too, was at war with my own. Maltigues often rallied me on my scruples; but clever as he was, ha did not perceive the effect of his jests, which revived all the feelings he sought to extinguish. Madame d'Arbigny, however, remarked this ; but she had no influence over her kinsman, who was often de- cided by caprice, if self-interest was absent. She relapsed into her griefs, both real and assumed, to melt me; and was never more at- tractive than while fainting at my feet; for she knew how to heighten her beauty as well as her other charms, and wedded each* to some * Pi-uqtteut UTiexplained chances frtvor Biibseqneiit letters ; indeed, the corres- pondeuce henceCoith eeeuis to proceed as easily w U the conutriee bid b«aa at peace.— QkL HISTORY OF LORD NEVIL. 161 eaiOHon in order to S"bdue me. Thus did I live, ever anxioua. ever vacillating, trembling wien I received no latter from my father, still more wretched when I did; enchained by my infatu- ation for M- dame d'Arbigny, still more dreading her violence; for, by a strange inconsistency, though the gentlest, and often the gayest of women, habitually she was the most terrible person in a scene. She wished to bind me both by pleasure and by fear, and thus always transformed her nature to her use. One day, in September, 1798, more than a year after my coming to France, I had a brief letter from my father; but its few words were so afflicting, that I must spare myself their repetition, Corinne ; it would too much unman me. He was already _iU, though he did not say so; his pride and delicacy for- bade; but his letter breathed so much distress, both on account of my absence, and of my possible marriage, that, while reading it, I wondered how I could have been so long blind to the misfortunes ■with which I was menaced. I was now, however, sufficiently awakened to hesitate no more, and went to Madame d'Arbigny, per- fectly decided to take leave of her. She perceived this, and at once retiring within herself, rose, saying: 'Before you go, . you ought to be infnrmed of a secret which 1 blush to avow. If V' you abandon me, it is not me alone you kiU. The fruit of my guilty- love will perish with me.' Nothing can describe my sensations;' that new, that sacred duty, absorbed my whole soul, and made me more submissively her slave than ever. I would have mar- ried her at once, but for the ruinous consequences that must have befallen me, as an Englishman, iu then and there giving my name to the civil authorities. I deferred our union, therefore, till we could fly to England, and determined never to leave my victim till then. At first, this calmi d her; but she soon renewed her complaints against me, for not braving all impediments to make her my wife. I should shortly have bent to her wUl, for I had fallen into the deepest -melan- choly, and passed whole days alone, without power to move— a prey to an idea which I never confessed to myself, though its persecutioa ■was incessant. I had a foreboding of my father's illness, which I considered a weakness unworthy of belief. My reason was so bewil- dered by the shock my mistress had dealt me, that I now combated my sense of duty as a passion, and that which I might have then thought my passion, tormented me as a duty, ifladama d'Arbigny was perpetually writing me entreaties to visit her; at last I went, but did not speak on the subject -(vhich gave her such righjts over me: indeed, she now less frequently alluded to it herself than I expected, but my sufferings were too great for me to remark that at the time. Once; when I had kept my house for three days, writing twenty letters to my father, and tearing them all, M. Maltigues, who seldom souirht me, came, deputed by his cousin, to tear me from my solitude. Though little interested iu the success of his embassy, as you will discover, he entered before I had time to conceal that mf ooBnoni— & 163 OORINNE; OB, ITALY, facrf was bathcf In tears. ' What is the use of all this, my dear boy 7* he mAA; 'either leave my cousin, or marry her. The one step is as good as the ofcer, each being conclusive.' — 'There are situations in me,' replied I, ' where even by sacrificing one's self, one may not be able to fulfill every duty.' — ' That is, there ought to be no such sacri- fice,' he added. ' 1 know no circumstances in which it is necessary; •with a little address, one may back out of anything. Management is Uie queen of the world.' — ' I covet no such ability,' said I; ' but at least would wish, in resigning myself to unhappinesSj to aflBict no one tlmt 1 love.' — ' Have nothing to do, then, with the intricate work they call love; it is a sickness of the soul. I am attacked by it at times, like any one else; but when it so happens, I teU myself that it shall soon be over, and always keep my word.' Seeking to, deal, like himself, with generalities— for I neither could nor would con- fide in him — I answered: 'Do what you will with love, we cannot banish honor and virtue, that often oppose our inclination.' — 'If you mean, by honor, the necessity for fighting when insulted, there can be no doubt on that head; but, in other respects, what interest have we in allowing ourselves to be perplexed by a thousand fastidious £ witches, conjuring down the moon from heaven. All that la near VBSUVIUS. 165 the volcano bears bo supernal an aspect, that doubtless the poets thence drew their portnaitures of hell. There we may conceive how man was first persuaded that a power of evil existed to thwart the de- signs of Providence. Well may one ask, in such a scene, if mercy alone presides over the phenomena of creation: or if some hidden principle forces natures, like her sons, into ferocity? "Corinne," sighed Nevil, "is it not from hence- that sorrow comes? Does the angel of death take wing from yon summit? If I beheld not thy lieavenly face, I sliould lose all memory of the charms with which ' the Eternal has adorned the earth; yet this spectacle, frightful as it is. overawes me less than conscience. All perils mav be braved ; but how can the dejd absolve us for the wrongs we did them living? Never, never. Ah, Corinne what need of fires like these? The wheel that turns incessantly, the stream that tempts and flies, the stone that rolls back the more we would impel it on — these are but feeble images of that dread thought, the impossible, the irreparable!" A deep silence now reigned around Oswald and Corinne; their very guides were far behind ; and near the crater naught was heard save the hissing of its fires ; suddenly, however, one sound from the city reached even this region — the chime of beUs, perhaps announcing a ceath, perhaps a birth, it mattered not — most welcome was it t^ our travelers. ' ' Dear Oswald, " said Corinne, ' ' let us leave this desert, and return to the living world. Other mountains raise us above terrestrial life, and bring us nearer Heaven, but here nature seems treated as a criminal, and condemned no more to taste the beneficent breath of her Creator. This is no sojourn for the good— let us de scend." An abundant shower fell as they sought the plain, threat- ening each instant to extinguish their torches : the Lazzaroni accom- panied them with yells that might alarm anyone who knew not that such was their constant custom. These rcen are some- times agitated by a superfluity of life, with which they knew not what to do, uniting equal degrees of violence and sloth. Their physiognomy, more marked than their characters, seem to in- dicate a kind of vivacity in which neither mind nor heart are at all concerned. Oswald, uneasy lest the rain should hurt Corinne, and lest their lights should fail, was absorbed by this indefinite sense of - her danger; and his tenderness by degrees restored that composure which had been disturbed by the confidence he had made to her. They regained their carriage at the foot of the mountain, and stopped not at the ruins of Herculaneum, which are, as it were, buried afresh beneath the buildings of Portici. They arrived at Naples hear mid- night, and Corinne promised Nevil, as they took leave, to give him the history of her life on the morrow. «ro COEINNE; OB, ITALY. CHAPTER II. The next morning Corinne resolved to impose on herself the effort she had promised: the intimate knowledge of Oswald's character which she had acquired redoubled her inquietude. She left her chamber, carrying what she had written in a trembling yet deter- mined hand. She entered the sitting-room of their hotel. Oswald was there: he had just received letters from England. One of them lay on the mantel-piece : its direction caugbt her eye, and, with inex- pressible anxiety, she asked from whom it came. " From Lady Ed- garmond," replied Nevil. — "Do you correspond with her?" added Corrinne. — "Her late lord was my father's friend," he said; "and since chance has introduced the subject, I will not conceal from you that they thought it might one day suit me to marry the daughter, Lucy." — "'Great God!" cried Corinne, and sank, hall fainting, on a seat. — "What means this?" demanded Oswald; " Corinne, whit can you fear from one who loves you to idolatry? Had my parent's dyina: command been my union with Miss Bdgarmond, 1 certainly sliould not now be free, and would have flown from your resistless spells; but he merely advised the match, writing me word that he could form no judgment of Lucy's character, as she was still a child. I have seen her but once, when scarcely twelve years old. I made no arrangement with her mother; yet the indecision of my conduct, I own, has sprung solely from this wish of my father's. Ere I met you, I hoped for power to complete it, as a sort of expiation, and to prolong, beyond his death, the empire of his will; but you have tri- umphed over my whole being, and I now desire but your pardon for what must have appeared so weak and irresolute in my conduct. Corinne, we seldom entirely recover from such griefs as I have ex- perienced: they blight our hopes, and iistil a painful timidity of the future. Fate had so injured me, that even while she offered the greatest of ear(;hly blessings I could not trust her: but these doubts are over, love: t am thine forever, assured that, had my father known thee, hewpuld have chosen such a companion for piyhfe." — "Hold!" wept forth Coriime: "I conjure you, speak not thus to me. " — "Why," siiid Oswald, "why thus constantly oppose the pleasure I take in blending your image with his? thus wedding the two dearest and mosf sacred feelings of my heart ?" — "You cannot," returned Co- rinne; " too well I know you cannot." — "Just Heaven! what have you to tell me, then? Give me that history of your life." — "I vrill, but let me beg a week's delay, only a week: what I have just learned obliges me to add a few particulars." — " Howl" said Oswald, " what VEsuntrs. m connection lave you — -" — "Do not exact my answer now," in- terrupted Oorinne. " You will soon know all, and that, perhaps, will be the end, the dreaded end of my felicity; but ere it comes, let us explore together the Campagna of Naples, with minds still ac- cessible to the charms of nature. In these fair scenes will I so cele- brate the most solemn era of my life, that you must cherish some fcemory of Oorinne, such as she was, and might have ever been, had she not loved you, Oswald."— "Corinne, what mean these hints? Tou can have nothing to disclose which ought to chill my tender admiration; why then prolong the mystery that raises barriers be- tween us?" — "Dear Oswald, 'tis my will: pardon me this last act of power: soon you alone will decide for us botli. I shall hear my sen- tence from your lips, unmurmucingly, even if it be cruel; for I have on this earth nor love nor duty condemning me to live when you are lost." She withdrew, gently repulsing Oswald, who would fain have followed her. CHAPTER III, Corinne decided on giving a fete, united as the idea was with melancholy associations. She knew she must be judged as a poet, as an artist, ere she could be pardoned tor the sacrifice of her rank, her family, her name, to her enthusiasm. Lord Nevil was indeed capable of appreciating genius, but, in his opinion, the relations of social life overruled all others; and the highest destiny of woman, nay of man too, he thought, was accomplished, not by the exercise of intellectual faculties, but by the fulfillment of domestic duties. Re- morse, in driving him from the false path in which he had strayed, fortified, the moral principles innately his. The manners and habits of England, a country where such respect for law and duty exists, held, in many respects, a strict control over him. Indeed, the dis- couragement deep sorrows inculcate, teaches men to love that natural order which requires no new resolves, no decision contrary to the circumstances marked for us by fate. Oswald's love for Corinne modified his every feeling; but love never wholly effaces the original character, which she perceived through the passion that now lorded over It; and, perhaps, his ruling charm consisted in the opposition of his character to his attachment, giving added value to every pledge of his love. But the hour drew nigh when the fleeting fears she had constantly banished, and which had but slightly disturbed her dream of joy, were to decide her fate. Her mind, formed for delight, ac- customed to the various moods of poetry and talent, was wonder- struck at the sharp fixedness of grief; a shudder thrilled her heart, such as no woman long resigned to suffering ever knew. Yet, in the midst of the moat torturing fears, she secretly prepared for the in CORINNli!; OR, ITALY. one more brilliant evening she might pass with Oswald. Fancy and eeling were thus romantically blended. She invited the English ■who were there, and some Neapolitans whose society pleased h' r. On the day chosen for this fSte, whose morrow might destroy her happiness forever, a singular wildness animated her features, and lemt them quite a new expression. Careless eyes might have mis- taken it for that of joy; but her rapid and agitated movements, her looks that rested nowhere, proved but too plainly to Nevil the strug- gle in her heart. Vainly he strove to soothe her by tender protesta- tions. "You shall repeat them two days hence, if 3'ou will," she said; "now these soft words but mock me." The carriages of Corinne's party arrived at the close of day, jnst as the sea-breeze refreshed the air, inviting man to the contemplation of nature. They went first to Virgil's tomb. It o veiflooks the bay of Naples ; and such is the magnificent repose of this spot, that one is tempted to believ* the bard himself must have selected it. These simple words from his Georgics might have served him for epitaph: — Ele Virglllum me tempore dulcls alebat Parthenope, Then did the ooft Parthenope receive me. . His ashes here repose, and attract universal homage — all, all that man on earth can steal from death. Petrarch set a laurel beside them — like its planter, it is dead. He alone was wortliy to have left a lasting trace .near such a grave. One feels disgust at tlie crowd of ignoble names traced by strangers on the walls about tlie um;_ they trouble the peace of this classic solitude. Its present visitants left it in silence, musing over the images immortalized by the Mantuan. Blest intercourse between the past and future I which the art of writing perpetually renews. Shadow of death, what art thou? Man's thoughts survive; can he then be no more? Such contradiction is impossible. "Oswald," said Corinne, "these impressions are strange preparatives for a fgte; yet," she added, -with wild sublimity, "how many fStes are held thus near the grave?" — "My life," he said, "whence all this secret dread? ..Confide in me; for' six months have I owed you everything; per- haps have shed some pleasure over your path. Who then can err so impiously against happiness as to dash down the supreme bliss of soothing such a soul? it is milch to feel one's self of use to the most humble mortal; but Corinne I to be her comfort I trust me, is a glory too delicious to renounce." — "I believe your promises," she said; "yet there are moments when something strange and new seizos the heart, and hurries it thus sadly." They passed through . the Grotto of Pausilipo by torchlight, as indeed would have been the ease at noon; for it extends nearly a quarter of a league beneath the mountain; and in the centre, the light of day, admitted at either extremity, is scarcely visible. In this long vault the tramp of steeds VESUVIUS. 173 *nd cries of their drivers resound so stunningly that they deaden all thought in the brain. Corinne's horses drew her carriage with aston- isbing rapidity; yet did she say: "Dear Nevil, how slowly we advancel pray hasten them." — "Why thus impatient?" he asked; " formerly, while we were together, you sought not to expedite time, but to enjoy it." — "Yet now," she said, "all must he decision; everything must come to an end; and I would hasten it, were it my death." On leaving the grotto, you feel a lively semsation at regain- ing daylight and the open country; such a country, tool What are 80 often missed in Italy, fine trees, here flourish in abundance. Italian earth is everywhere so spread with flowers that woods may better be dispensed with here than in most other lands. The heat at Naples is so great that, even in the shade, it is impossible to walk by day: but in the evening the sea and sky alike shed freshness through the transparent air; the mountains are so picturesque that painters love to select their landscapes from a country whose oiiginal charm can be explained by no comparison with other realms. " I lead ye," said Corinne, to those near her, " to the fair scene celebrated by tlie name of Baise ; we will not pause there now, but gather its recollec- tions into the moment when we reach the spot which sets them al] before us." It was on the Cape of Micena that she had prepared hei fete; nothing could be more tastefully arranged. Sailors, in habitj of contrasted hues, and some Orientalists from a Levanvine barque thenSn the port, danced with the peasant girls from Ischia and Pro- cida, whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace; sweet voices were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental music an- swered from behind the rocks. It was like echo echoed by sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The softness of the air animated all around — even Corinne herself. She was entreated to dance among the rustics; at first, she consented with pleasure; but scarcely had >6he begun, ere her forebodings rendered all amusement odious to her, and -she withdrew to the extreme verge of the cape; thither Oswald followed, with others, who now begged her to extemporize in this lovely scene: her emotions were such that she permitted them to lead her towards the elevation on which they had placed her lyre, without T>m!rer to comprehend what they expected. CHAPTER IV. Still, Corinne desired that Oswald should once more hear her, as on the day at the Capitol. If the talent with which Heaven had gifted her was about to be extinguished forever, she wished its last rays to shine on him she loved : these very fears afforded her the inspiration she required. Her friends were impatient to hear her Even the common people knew her fame; and, as imagination ren- lU ' CORIKNE; OR, ITALY. dered them judges of poetry, they closed silently round, their eager faces erprefifling the deepest attention. The moon arose; but the last beams of day still paled her light. From the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea, forms the Cape of Micena, Vesuvius is plainly seen, and the bay and isles that stud its bosom. With one consent, the friends of Corinne begged her to sing the memories that scene recalled. She tuned her lyre, and began with a broken voice. Her look "was beautiful ; but one who knew her, as Oswald did, could there read the trouble of her soul. She strove, however, to restrain her feelings and once more, if but for awhile, to soar above ^e^ per- sonal situation. ooRonrE'i ohjlkt in thk tiozkitt or naplss. Ay, NatnMj History and Poetle Rival each othcr'e preatneas;— liere the eye Sw««pB with a glance, all wonders and all time. A dead volcano now, 1 see thy lake Averntis, with tlie fear-IuBtJiriug wavea, Acheron, and Phldgeton hoUiiig up With Bubterrane.in flame : these are the streams Of that old heU ^ueas visited. Ffre, the devouring life which first creates Ttio world which it conenines, struck: terror most When least its laws were known— Ah 1 Nature then Reveal'd her secrets but to poetry. The town of Cnma and the Sibyl's cave. The temple of Apollo mark'd this height; Here Is the wood where grew the bough of gokL The country of the ^ueTd ia around ; ' The fables genius consecrated here Are memories whose traces still we seek. A Triton has beneath tliese billows plunge4| The daring Trojan, who in song defied The sea divinities : still are the rocks Eollow and sonuding, such as Virgil Lold. Imagination's trnth is from its power: Hun's geiilui can create when nature's felt; He copies when he deems that he invents. Amid these mosses, terrible and old, Creation's wltuee^es, you see arise A yoanger hill of the volcano bom : For here the enrth is stormy hs the sen, But doth not, like the s^a, peaceful retnrn Within its bounds : the heavy element, ^ • Unshaken by the tremulous abrss, 9igs valleys, and rears mountnins ; while tlie wavoL^ Hardeu'd to stone, attest the storms which rend Her depths ; strike now upon the earth, ^ Ton hear the suhterntnean vault resound. It Is as if the ground on which we dwell r •> Wore but a surface ready to nnclote. TESUVIUa 175 Kaplee I how doth thy country likences hew- To nnnian passioDs; fertile; sulphurous: Its dangers aod its pleasures both seem bom Of those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow , Upon the atmosphere so many charms, Yet bid the tlmuder s^rowl beneath oar feet. Fliiiy but studied nature that the more He might love Italy; andcall'd his land The loveliest, when all other titles faiPd. He Bought for science as a warrior seeks For conquest : it was from this vety cape He went to watch Vesuvius through the flamei i Those flames consumed him. O Memory I noble power I thy reign Is her«. Strange destiny, how thus, from age to age, Doth man complain of that which he has lost. Still do departed years, each in their turn, Beem treasures 'of happiness gone by: And while mind, joyful in its fur advance, Plupgesamid the futnre, still the Soul Seems to regret some other ancient home To which it ia dravm closer by the past. ' "We envy Koman grandeur — did they not Envy their fathers' brave simplicity 7 Once this voluptuous country they despised; Its pleasures bat subdued their enemies. See, in the distance, Capua I she o'ercame The warrior, whose firm soul resisted Bom« Kore time than did a world. ** The Romans In their tarn dwelt on these plaln^ Whou strength of mindbnt only served to feel More d'^piy shame and gi'ief ; effeminate They Fan k without remorse. Tet Baise saw The conqucr'd sea give place to palaces ; Columns were dug from mountains reut in twain, And the world's masters, now in their turn slaves. Hade nature shbject to console themselves That they were subject too. And Cicero on this promontory died : This GaSta we see. Ah I no regard Those triumvirs paid to posterity. Robbing her of the thoughts yet nnconceived Of this great man : their crime continues still; Committed against us was this offense, Cicero 'neaththe tyrant's dagger fell, But Scipio, more unhappy, was exiled With yet his conntry free. Beside this shore He died ; and still the ruins of his tomb Ketain the name, " Tower of my native land T'* Touching allusiOD fo the memory Which hauuted bis greatsoul. * "La tour de la patrie." Patrie can scarce be rendered by ft riogle W0l4 ''native land " perhaps best •xprvsses the ancient patria.— I* £. ]» - - 176 CORINNB; OK, ITAIiY. Marius found ft refuge In yon mnrflh,* Kear to the Scipios' borne. Thus in all tim«. Have nations persecuted their great men. But they enskied them after death ; t and heaven, Wtici-R still the RoinauB deomM tliey could commaa^ Received ainid her planets Romuluw, NuinH, and Caesar ; new and dazzliug stArs 1 Mingling together in our erring ^aze The rays of glory and celestial light And not enough alone of misery. The trace of crime is here. In yonder gulf behoUl Tlie isle of Capri, where nt length old age Dism-m'd Tiberius ; violent yet worn; Cruel, voluptuous ; wearied e'en of criraci He sought yet viler pleasures ; tis he vrera Not low enough debased by tyranny. And AKrippina'fi tomb ie on these shqreflf Facing the iHte.t reared after Nero's death ; The murderer of his mother had proscribed Even her ashes. Long at Buiae he dwelt. Amid the memories of his many crimes. What wretches fate here brings before our eyefll ^ TiburJus, Nero, on each other gaze. The isles, volcano-born amid the sea, Served at their birth the crimes of tha old world. The sorrowing exiles on these lonely rocks, , Watched 'mid the waves their native land afar, Seeking to catch its perfumes in the air: And often, a lone exile worn away, Sentence of sudden dcatli arrived to show They were remomber'd by their euemies. O Earth 1 all bathed with blood and tears, yet never Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and fl9^'ers ; And bast thou then no pity for mankind ? Can thy maternal breast receive again Their dast, and yet not throb ? L. E. L. Here Oorinne paused for some moments. All her assembled hearert threw laurels and myrtle at her feet. The soft pure moonlight fell on her brow, and the breeze wantoned with her ringlets as if nature delighted to adorn her: she was so overpowered as she locked on the enchanting scene, and on Oswald, who shared this delicious eve with her, yet might not be thus near forever, that tears flowed from her eyes. Even the crowd, who had just applauded her so tumultu- ously, respected her emotion, cmd mutely awaited her words, which • Miutaroo. t '"^Is Bont con9ol6s par Papothfeose." This Is the only Instance Id which I have not given, as nearly as poestble, the English word that annwered most exactly ; but I confess one so long as ** apottieoi^is " fiiirly baffled my efforts to get it into rhythm,* It Is curious to observe how many Pagan obaervauces were ^afted on the ■ Roman Catholic worship. Canonization is but a Qirifitifio apotheosie, only the d> ceased tamed into saiots instead of gods.— U £. L, Y Gaprea. VESUVIUS. 177 they trusted would make them participators in her feelinga. She ereluded for some time on her lyre, then, no longer dividing her song ito Btanzaa, abandoned herself to the uninteiTupted stream of verse. JSome memories of the heart, pome womeu'H muLei Yetaek your teai-s. 'Twiu* at ihls very place, Hflsseiia,* that Cornelia kept till death Her noble mourning;; Agrippina loo Long wept Germaoicu^ bepiae these Ghorea. At lenglh the eaiiie apeaeBiti who deprived Her of her husband found she was at last Worthy to follow him. And yonder iele + Saw Brutua and bis Portia bid farewell. Thus women loved of heroes have beheid -— The object perish which they fio adored- Loug time in vain they follow'd in tlieir path ; There came the hour when they were forced to part. Portia destroy'd herself; Cornelia ctaep'd The »cred urn which answer'd not her cricc; And Agrippinn, for how many years I Vainly her husband's murderer defied. And wander'd here the wretched ones, like ghoeta On wasted shores of the etevnal stream, Sighing to reach the other far-off land. Did they not ask in their long solitude Of silence, of all nature, of the tky, Slar-eliiuiug?— and from the deep sea, one sound. One only tone of the beloved voice They never more might hear. Mysterions enthusiasm, Love I The heart's supremest power; — which doth combine Within itself relifion, poetry, And heroism. liove. what may befall When d<that this fear of quitting her country had broken her heart. My good aunt herself was persuaded, too, that a Catholic would be condemned to perdition for settling in a Protest- ant country; and though I was not infected by this fear, the thought of going to England alarmed me much. I set forth with an inexpli- cable sense of sadness. The woman sent for me did not understand a word of Italian. I spoke it now and than to console my poor Thferfesina, who had consented to follow me, though die wept in- cessaotly at leaving her country; but I knew that I must unlearn the b^bit of breathing the sweet sounds so welcome even to foreigners, and, for me,"associated with all the recollections of my childhood. I approached the north unable to comprehend the cause of my own changed and sombre sensations. It was five years since I had seen my father. I hardly recognized him when I reached his house. Me- tbought his countenance .was very grav«; yet be received oie with tenderness, and told me I was extremely like my mother. My HISTORY OF CORIiraE. 183 half-sister, then three years of age, was brought to me : her skin was fairer, her silken curls more golden than I had ever seen before; yre have hardly any such faceain Italy; she astonished and interested me from the first ; that same day I cut off some of her ringlets for a bracelet, which I have preserved ever since. At last my step-mother appeared, and the impression made on me by her first look grew and deepened during the years I passed with her. Lady Edgarmond was exclusively attached to her native country; and my father, whom she overruled, sacrificed a residence in London or Edinburgh to her wishes. She was a cold, dig- nified, silent person, whose eyes could turn affectionately on her child, but who usually wore so positive an air, that it appeared impossible to make her understand a new idea, or even one phrase to which she had not been accustomed. She met mc po- litely, but I soon p«rceived that my whole manner amazed her, and that she proposed to change it, if she could. Not a word was said during dinner, though some neighbors had been invited. I was so tired of this silence, that, in the midst of our meal, I strove to con- verse a little with an old gentleman who sat beside me. I spoke English tolerably, as my father had taught me in childhood ; but happening to cite some Italian poetry, purely delicate, in which there was some mention of love, my mother-in-law, who knew the language slightly, stared at me, blushed, and signed for the ladies, earlier than usual, to withdraw, prepare tea, and leave the men to themselves during the dessert.* I knew nothing of this custom, which 'would not be believed in Venice' — Society agreeable without women ! — ^For a moment I thought her ladyship so displeased that she could not remain in the saine room with me; but I was reassured by her motioning me to follow, and never revert- ing to my fault during tlie three hours we passed in the drawing- room, waiting for the gentlemen. At supper, however, she told me, gently enough, that it was not usual in England for young ladies to talk ; above all, they must never think of quoting poetry in which the name of love occurred. 'Miss Edgarmond,' she added, 'you must endeaver to forget all that belongs to Italy: it is to be wished that you had never known such a country.' I passed the night in tears, my heart was oppressed. In the morning, I attempted to walk; there was so tremendous a fog that I could not see the sun, which at least would have reminded me of my own land ; butlmetmy father, who said to me : 'My dear child, it is not here as in Italy; our women have no occupation save their domestic duties. Your talents may beguile your solitude, and you may win a husband who will pride in them; but in a country town like this, all that attracts atten- tion excites envy, and you will never marry at all if it is thought * If this was Cotiune'B Srat £ogU*li disner, how did she know the usual time far ntirlufi?— Tb. 184 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. that yonhave foreign manners. Here, every one must submit to th* old prejudices of an obscure county. I passed twelve years in Italy with your mother: tlieir memory is very clear to me. I was young then, and novelty delightful. I have now returned to my original situation, and am quite comfortable; a regular, perhaps rather a monotonous life, makes lime pass unpercei ved ; one must not combat the habits of a place in which one is established; we should be the sufferers if we did, for, in a scene lilie this, everything is known, everything repeated ; there is no room for emulation, but sufficient for jealousy ; and it is better to bear a little ennui than to be beset by wondering faces that every instant demand reasons for what you do.' — ^My dear Oswald, you can form no idea of my anguish while my father spoke thus. I remembered him all grace and vivacity, and I saw him stooping beneath the leaden mantle which Dante invented for hell, and which mediocrity throws over all who submit to her yoke. Enthusiasm for nature and the arts seemed vanishing from my sight ; and my soul, like a useless flame, consumed myself, hav- ing no longer any food from without. As I was naturally mild, my step-mother had nothing to complain of in my behavior towards her; andformy father, I loved him tenderly. A conversation with him was my only reipaining pleasure; he was resigned, but he knew that he was so; while the generality of our country gentlemen drank, hunted, and slept, fancying such life the wisest and best in the world. Their content so perplexed me, that I asked myself if my own way of thinking was not a folly, and if tliis solid existence, which^escaped grief, in avoiding thought and sentiment, was not far more enviable than mine. What would such a conviction have done for me? it must have taught me to deplore as a misfortune that genius which in Italy wasi regarded as a blessing from Heaven. " Towards the close of autumn the pleasures of the chase frequently kept my father from home till midnight. During his absence I re- mained mostly in my own room, endeavoring to improve myself; this displeased Lady Edgarmond. 'What good will it do?' she said; 'will you be any the happier for it?' The words struck me with despair. Wliat then is happiness, I thought, if it consists not in- the development of our faculties. Might we not as well kill ourselves physically as morally? If I must stifle my mind, my soul, ^why preserve the miserable remains of life that would but agitate me in vain? But I was careful not to speak thus before my mother-in-law. I had essa5'ed it once or twice, and her reply was, tliat women were made to manage their husbands' houses, and watch over the health of their children; all other acpom- plishtncnts were dangerous, and the best advice she could,' give me was to hide those I possessed. This discourse, though so commonplace, was unanswerable; for enthusiasm is peculiarly dependent on encouragement, and withers like a flower be- neath a dark or freezing sky. There is nothing easier than to as* HISTORY OF CORINHE. 186 4ame a high moral air, while condemning all the attributes of an elevated spirit. Duty, the noblest destination of man, may be distorted, like all other ideas, into an ofEensive weapon by which narrow minds silence their superiors as their foes. One would think, if believing them, that duty enjoined the sacrifice of all the qualities that confer distinction: that wit were a fault, requiring the expiation of our leading precisely the same lives with those who have none ; but does duty prescribe like rules to all characters! Are not great thoughts and generous feelings debts due to the world, from all who Bre capable of paying tliem? Ought not every woman, like every man, to follow the bent of her own talents 1 Must we imitate the in- stinct of the bees, whose every succeeding swarm copies the last, without improvement or variety? No, Oswald; pardon the pride of four Corinne, I believed riiyself intended for a dijfferent career. Yet feel myself submissive to those I love as the females then around me, who had neither judgment nor wishes of their own. If it pleased you to pass your days inlhe heart of Scotland, I should be happy to live and die with you; but far from abjuring imagination, it would teach me the better to enjoy nature, and the further the empire of my mind extended, the more glory should I feel in declaring you its lord. "Lady Edgarmond was almost as importunate respecting my thoughts as my actions. It sufficed not that I led th^ same life as herself, it must be from the same motives; for she wished all the fac- ulties she did not share to be looked on as diseases. We lived pretty near the sea; at night, the north wind whistled through the loujg cor- ridors of our old castle ; by day, even when we re-united, it was wondrously favorable to our silence. The weather was cold and damp; I could scarce ever leave the house with pleasure. Nature, now, treated me with hostility, and deepened my regrets of her sweet ness and benevolence in Italy. "With the winter, we removed into the city, if so I may call a place without public buUdings, theatre, ■lusic, or pictures. ~ . _ " In the smallest Italian towns we have spectacles, improvisatore^ eeal for the fine arts, and a glorious sun; we feel that we live— but I almost forgot it in this assembly of gossips, this depository of disgusts, at once monotonous and varied. Births, deaths, and marriages, com- posed the history of our society; and these three events here difiered not the least from "what they are elsewhere. Figure to yourself what it must have been for me to be seated at a tea-table, many hours each day after dinner, with my step-mother's guestSi These were the seven gravest women in Northumberland — two were old maids of fifty, timid as fifteen. One la^ly would say: 'My dear, do you think the water hot enough to pour on the tea?' — 'My dear,' re- plied the other, ' I think it is too soon; the gentlemen are not ready yet' — 'Do you think they will sit late to-day, my dear?' says a third.—' I don't know,' answers a fourth; 'I believe the election 186 CORiNl^B; OR, ITALY. takes place next week, so perhaps they are staying to talk over it.'— 'No,' rejoins a fifth, ' I rather think they are occupied by the fox- hunt which occurred last week; there toU he another on Monday; but for all that, I suppose they will come soon.' — 'Ah! I hardly expect it,' sighs the sixth; and all again is silence.* Theconventj I had seen in Italy appeared all life to this; and I knew not what would become of me. Every quarter of an hour some voice was raised to ask an insipid question, which received a lukewarm reply; and ennui fell back with redoubled weight on these poor women who must have thought themselves most miserable, had not habit from infancy instructed them to endure it. At last the gentlemen came up; yet this long hoped for moment brought no great change. They continued their conversation round the fire ; the ladies sat m the cen- ter of the room distributing cups of tea; and, when the hour of departure arrived, each went home with her husband, ready for another day, differing from the last merely by its date on the almanac. I cannot yet conceive how my talent escapevi a mortal chill. There is no denying that every case has two sides; every subject maybe attacked or defended; we may plead the cause o) life, yet much is to be said for death, or a state thus resembling it. Such was my situation. My voice was a sound either useless oi troublesolne to its hearers. I could not, as in London or Edin- burgh, enjoy the society of learned men, who, with a taste for intellectual conversation, would have appreciated that of a foreigner, even if she did not quite conform with the strict etiquettes of their country. I sometimes passed whole days with Lady Edgar- moml and her mends, without hearing one word that echoed eithef thought or feeling, or beholding one expressive gesture. I looked on the faces of young girls, fair, fresh, and beautiful, but perfectly Immovable. Strange union of contrasts! All ages partook of the same amusements; they drank tea, and played whist ;f women grew old in this routine here. Time was sure not to miss them; he well knew were they where to be found. " An automaton might have filled my place, and could have dono ail-that was expected of me. In England, as elsewhere, the divers interests that do honor to humanity worthily occupy the leisure of men, whatever thfeir retirement; biit what remained for women in this isolated corner of the earth? Among the ladies who visited us there were some not deficient in mind, though they concealed it as a superfluity; and.towards forty this slight impulse of the brain was benumbed like all the rest. Some of them I suspected, must, by reflection, have matured their natural abilities; sometimes a look or murmured accent told of thoughts that strayed from the beaten track; but the petty opinions, all-powerful in their own little sphere, * Wbat a flatterlDg plctnre of female society, at the conotry honse of ao iotelli- (ent EDglish pe«r, not fifty years aiuce 1— Ts. t Spelt witi la the oiiglaalr<-mi HISTORY OF CORINNE. 187 repressed these Inclinations. A woman was considered insane, or of doubtful virtue, if she ventured in any way to assert herself; and, what was worse than all these inconveniences, she could gain not one advantage by the attempt. At first, I endeavored to rouse this sleeping world. I proposed poetic readings and music, and a day was appointed for this purpose; but suddenly, one woman remem- bered that she had been three weeks invited to sup with her'aunt; another, that she was in mourning for an old cousin she had never seen, and who had been dead for months; a third, that she had some domestic arrangements to make at home ; all very reasonable ; yet thus forever were intellectual pleasures rejected; arid^I so often heard them say, 'that cannot be done,' that, amid so many nega- tions, not to live would have been to me the best of all. After some debates with myself I gave up my vain schemes, not that my father forbade them, he even enjoined his wife to cease tormenting me on my studies; but her insinuations, her^stolen glances while I spoke, a thousand trivial hindrances, "like the chains the Lilliputians wove round Gulliver, rendered it impossible for me to follow my own will ; so I ended by doing as I saw others do, though dying of impa- tience and disgust. By the time I had passed four weary years thus, I really found, to my severe distress, that my mind grew dull, and, in spite of me, was filled by trifles. "Where no interest is taken ia science, literature, and liberal pursuits, mere facts and insignificant criticisms necessarily become the themes of discourse; and minds, strangers alike to activity and mediiation, become so limited as to rendrr all intercourse with them at once tasteless and oppressive. There was no enjoyment near me save in a certain methodical regu- larity, whose desire was that of reducing all things to its own level; a constant ^ef to characters called by heaven to destinies of their own. The lU-will I innocently excited., joined with my sense of the void all around me, seemed to check even my breath. Envy is only to be borne where it is excited. by admiration; but oh the misery of living where jealousy itself awakens no enthusiasm!. where we are hated as if powerful, though in fact allowed less influence than the obscurest of our rivals. It is impossible simply to despise the opin- ions of the herd: they sink, in spite of us, into the-heart, and lie waiting the moments when our own superiority has involved us in distress; then, then, even an apparently temperate ' WeUf may prove tiie most insupportable word we can. hear In vain we tell ourselves, ' Such a man is unworthy to judge me, such a woman is incapable of comprehending me :' the human face has great power over the human heart; and when we read there a secret disapproba- tion, it haunts us in defiance of our reason. The circle which sur- . rounds you always hides the rest of the world: the.. smallest object close before your eyes intercepts their view of the sun. So is it with the set among whom we dwell: nor Europe nor posterity can Tender us inseusibte to the intri^es of our next door neighbor; an4 188 rCORINNE; OR, ITALY •vrhoever would live happily in the cultivation of genius ought to be, above all things, cautious in the choice of his immediate mental atmosphere. CHAPTER II. "My only amusement was the education of my half-sister : her mother did not wish her to learn music, but permitted mo to teach her drawing an Italian. I am persuaded that she must still remem- ber both ; for I owe her the justice to say that she, even then, evinced great intelligence. Oswald, if it was for your happiness I toiled, I shall bless my efforts even from the grave. I was now nearly twenty : my father wished me to marry, and here the sad fatality of my life began. Lord Nevil was his intimate friend, and it was yourself of whom he thought as my husband. Had we then met and loved our fate would have been cloudless. I had heard such praises of you, that, whether from presentiment or pride, I was extremely flattered with the hope of being your wife. You were too young, for I was eighteen months your elder; but your love of study, they said, outstripped your age; and I formed so sweet an. idea of passing my days with such a cliaracter as yours was de- scribed, that 1 forgot all my prejudices against the way of life usual to women in England. I knew, besides, that you would settle in Edinburgh or London; in either place I was secure of finding con- genial friends. I said then, as I think now, that all my wretched- ness sprung from my being tied to a little town in the centre of a northern county. Great cities alone can suit those who deviate from hackneyed rules, if they design to live in society; as life is varied there, novelties are welcome; but where persons are content with a monotonous routine, they love not to be disturbed by the occasional diversion, which only shows them the tediousness of their everyday life. I am pleased to tell you, Oswald, though I had never seen you, that I looked forward with real anxiety to the arrival of your father, who was coming to pass a week with mine The sentiment had then too little motive to have been aught less than a foreboding of my fu- ture. When I was presented to Lord Nevil, I desired, perhaps but too ardently, to please him ; and did infinitely more than was re- quired for success; displaying all my talents, dancing, singing, and extemporizing before him: my long imprisoned soul felt but too blest in breaking from its chain. Seven years of experience have calmed me. I am more accustomed to myself. I know how to wait. I hare, perchance, less confidence in the kindness of otliers, less eager- ness for tliejr applause; indeed, it is possible that there was then some- thing strange about me I We have so much fire and imprudence in. early youth, one faces life with such vivacity I Mind, however di»- HISTORY OF CORINKE. 189 ttngui&hed, cannot supply the work of time; and though we may ti>eak of the world as if we knew it, we never act up to our own views; there is a fever in our ideas that will not let our conduct con- form with our reasonings. I believe, though not with certainty, that I appeared to Lord Nevil somewhat too wild; for though he treated me very amiably, yet, when he left my father, he said that, after duo reflection, he thought his son too young for the marriage in question. Oswald, what importance do you attach to this confession ? I might suppress' it, but I will not. Is it possible, however, that it will prove my condemnation? I am, I know, tamed now; and could your parent have witnessed my love for you, Oswald — you were dear to him — we should have been heard. My step-mother now formed a project for marrying me to the son of her eldest brother, r Mr. Maclinson, who had an estate in our neighborhood. He was a man of thirty, rich, handsome, highly born, and of honorable char- acter; but so thoroughly convinced of a husband's right to govern, and a wife's duty to obey, that a doubt, on this subject would as much have shocked him as a question of his own integrity. The rumors of my eccentricity did not alarm him. His house was so ordered, the same things were every day performed there so punctu- ally to the minute, that any change was impossible. The two old aunts who directed his establishment, the servants, tlie very horses, could not to-morrow have acted dififerently from yesterday ; nay, the furniture which had served three generations, would have started of its own accord, had anything new approached it. The effects of my arrival, therefore, might well be defined. Habit there reigned so securely, that any little hberltes I might have taken would liave beguiled a quarter of an hour once a week, without being of any futher consequence. Mr. Maclinson was a good man, incapable of giving pain: yet had I spoken to him of, the innumerable annoy- ances which may torment an active or a feelmg mind, he would have merely thought that I had the vapors, and bade me mount my horse to take an airing. He desired to marry me, because he knew nothing about the wishes of imaginative beings, and admired with- out understanding me : had he jbut guessed that I was a woman of genius, he might have feared that he could not please me ; but no such anxiety ever entered his head. Judge'my repugnance against such an union. I decidedly refused. Mj' father supported me: his wife from this moment cherished the det-pest resentment: she was a despot at heart, though timidity often prevented her explaining her will when it was not anticipated, she lost her temper; but if 1 re- sisted, after she had made the effort of expressing it she was the mori' unforgiving, for having been thus fruitlessly drawn from her wonted reserve. 'The whole town wa.s loud in my blame. ' So proper a match, such a fortune, so estimable a man, of such a good family!' was the general cry. I strove to show them why this very proper match could not suit me, and sometimes made myself intelligible 190 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. while speaking, but when I was gone, my words left no impression; former ideas returned ; and these old acquaintance were the more welcome from having been a moment banished. One woman, much more "mental than the rest, though she bowed to all their external forms, took me aside, when I had spoken with more than usual vivacity, and said a few words to me which I can never forget: ' You give yourself a great deal of trouble to no purpose, my dear: you cannot change the nature of things : a little northern town, un- connected with the world, uncivilized by arts or letters, must remain what it is. If you are doomed to live here, submit cheerfully; but leave it if you can: these are your only alternatives.' This wa« evidently so rational, that I felt a greater respect for her than for my- ielf : with tastes like enough to my own, she knew how to resign herself beneath the lot which I found insupportable: with a love of poetry, she could judge better the stubbornness of man. I sought to know more of her, but in vain: her thoughts wandered beyond her home, but her life was devoted to it. I i-ven believe that she dreaded lest her intercourse with me should revive her natural superiority; for what could she have done with it there? CHAPTER III. " I might have passed ray life in this deplorable situation had I not lost my father. A sudden accident deprived me of my protector my friend — the only being who had understood me in that peopled desert. My despair was uncontrollable. 'I found myself without one support. I had no relation save my step-mother, with whom I was no more intimate now than on the day I met her first. She soon renewed the suit of Mr. Maciinson: and though she had no authority to command my marrying him, received no one else at her house, and plainly told me that she should countenance no other match. Kot that she much loved her kinsman; but she thought me presump- ' tuous in refusing him, and made his case her own, rather for the de- fense of mediocrity than from family pride. Every day my state grew more odious. I felt myself attacked by that home-sick yearn- ing which renders exile more terrible than death. Imagination is displeased by each surrounding object — the country, climate, lan- guage, and ctistoms: life as a whole, life in detail, each moment, each circumstance, has its sting; for one's own land inspires a thousand [tleftsures that we guess not till they are lost. V*i — : Ifl favella, i costnml, L'aria, i trouchi, il terren, le xouru, it eaasl. igae, niAoners, sir, trees, earth, walls, erer^ stwM, 6IST0RY OP COHINNE. 181 Mys Metastasio. It is, indeed, a grief no more to look upon the scenes of childiiood: the charm of their memory renews our youth, yet sweetens the thought of death. The tomb and cradle there repose in the same shade ; while the years spent beneath stranger skies seem like branches without roots. The generation which preceded yours remembers not your birth; it is not the generation of your sireB: a host of mutual interests exist between you and your countrymen, which cannot be understood by foreigners, to whom you must explain everything, instead of finding the initiated ease that bids your thoughts flow forth secure the moment you meet a compatriot. I could not remember witliout emotion, such amiable expressions as 'Cora, Carissima.' I repeated them ag I walked alone, in imitation of the kindly welcomes so contrasted with the greetings I now received. Every day I wandered into the fields. Of an evening, in Italy, I had been wont to hear rich music ; but now the cawing of rooks alone resounded beneath the clouds. The fruits could scarcely ripen. I saw no vines: the languid flowers succeeded each other slowly; black pines covered the hills: an antique edifice, or even one fine picture, would have been a relief for which I should have sought thirty miles round in vain.* All was dull and sullen: the houses and their inhabitants served but to rob solitude of its poetic horrors. There was enough of commerce and of agriculture near for them to say: 'You ought to be content, you want for nothing.' Stupid, superficial judgment! The hearth of happiness or suffering is in our own breast's secret sanctuary. At twenty-one, I had a right • to iny mother's fortune, and whatever my father had left me. Then did I first dream of returning to Italy, and devoting my life to the arts. This project so inebriated me with joy, that, at first, I could anticipate no objections; yet, as my feverish hope subsided, I feared to take an irreparable resolve, and thought on what my acquaintance might say, to a plan which, from appearing perfectly easy, now seemed utterly impracticable; yet the image of a life in the midst of antiquities and arts was detailed before my mind's eye with so many charms, that I felt a fresh disgust at my tiresome existence. My talent, which I had feared to lose, had increased by my constant study of English literature. The depth of thought and feeling which characterizes your poets had strengthened my mind without impair- ing my fancy. I therefore possessed the advantages of a double education and twofold nationalities. I remembered the approbation - paid by a few good critics in Florence to my first poetical essays, and prided in the added success I might obtam; in sooth, I had great topes of myself. And is not sucli the first, the noblest illusion of youth? Methought that I should be mistress of the universe, the noment I escaped the withering breath of vulgar malice ; but when * Corlnoe should have rather lamented that she was not permitted to explore the had relapsed into silence on their future prospects, but spoke of their affection more confidingly than ever : both avoided all topics th^J could disturb their present mutual peace. A day passed with h,':m was to her such enjoyment! he seemed so to revel in her conversa- tion; he followed her very impulse ; studied her slightest wish, with so sustained an interest, that it.appeared impossible he could bestow so much felicity without himself being happy. Corinne drew assur- ances of safety from the bliss she tasted. After some mouths of such habits we believe them inseparable from our existence. Her agita- tion was calmed again, and her natural heedlessness of the future re- turned. Yet, on the eve of quitting Rome, she became extremely melancholy: this time she both hoped and feared that it was forever. The night before her departure, unable to sleep, she heard a troop of Romans singing in the moonlight. She could not resist her desire to follow them, and once more wander through that beloved scene She dressed; and bidding lier servants keep the carriage within sielit, of her, put on a veil, to avoid recognition, and at some distance, pur sued the musicians. They paused on the bridge of St. Angel), ic front of Adrian's toml): in such a spot music seems to express the vanities and splendors of the world. One might fancy one b< held in the air the imperial shade wondering to find no other trace left of his power on earth except a tomb. The band continued their walk, singing as they went, to the silent night, when the happy ought to sleep: their pure and gentle melodies seem designed to solace wake- ful suffering. Dirawn onward by this resistless spell, Corinne, insen- sible to fatigue, seemed winging her way along. They also sang before Antoninus's pillar, and then at Trajan's column they saluted the obelisk of St, John Lateran. The ideal language of mu?'" THE ADIEtr TO ROME. 207 worthUy mates the ideal expression of works like these: enthusiasm reigns alone, while vulgar interests slumber. At last the singers de- parted, and left Corinne near the Coliseum: she wished to enter its inclosure and bid adieu to ancient Rome. Those who have seen this place hut by day cannot judge of the im- pression it may make. The sun of Italy should shine on festivals; but the moon is the light for ruins. Sometimes, tlirough the open Ings of the amphitheater, which seems towering to the clouds, a por- tion of heaven's vault appears like a dark blue curtain. The plants that cling to the broken walls all wear the hues of night. The soul at once shudders and melts on finding itself alone with nature. One side of this edifice is much more fallen than the other; the two con- temporaries make an unequal struggle against time. He fella the weakest; the other still resists, but soon must yi'ld. ",Ye solemn scenes!" cried Corinne, "where, at this hour, no being breathes beside me — where but the ecboes of my own voice answer me — how are the storms of passion calmed by nature, who thus peacefully permits so many generations to glide by! Has not the universe some better end than man ? or are iis marvels scattered here, merely to be reflected in his mind? Oswald! why do I love with such idolatry? why live but for the feelings of a day compared to the infinite hopes that unite us with divinity? My God! if it be true, as I believe, that we admire thee the more capable we are of reflection, make my own mind my refuge against my heart! The noble being whose gentle looks I can never forget is but a perishable mortal like myself. Among the stars there is eternal love, alone sufllcing to a boundless heart." Corinne remained long in these ideas, and, at last, turned slowly- towards her own abode ; but, ere she re-entered it, she wished to await the dawn at St. Peter's, and from its doine take her last leave of all beneath. Her imagination represented this edi- fice as it must be, when, in its turn, a wreck — the theme of won- der for yet unborn ages. The columns, now erect, half beddecj In earth; the porch dilapidated, with the Egyptian obelisk exult ing over the decay of novelties, wrought for an earthly immortality. • From the summit of St. Peter's Corinne beheld day rise over Rome, which, in its uncultivated Campagna, looks like the oasis of a ■ Libyan desert Devastation is around it; but a multitude of spires ■ and cupolas, over which St. Peter's rises, pive a strange beauty to its aspect. This city may boast one peculiar charm: we love it as an ani- mated being: its very ruins are as friends, from -whom we cannot part without farewell. Corinne addressed the Pantheon, St. Angelo's and all the sites that once renewed the pleasures of her fancy. " Adieu!" she said, " land of remembrances! scenes where life depends not on events, nor -on society; where enthusiasm refreshes itself through the eyes, and links " tie soul to each external object. I leave you, to follow Ogwald, 208 CORDnSTE; OR, ITALY. not knowing to wloat fate he may consign me. I prefer him to tlie independence which here afforded me such happy days. I may re- turn to more ; but for a broken heart and blighted mind, ye arts and monuments so oft invoked, while I was exileabeneath his stormy sky, ye could do nothing to console!" She wept;' yet thought not, for an instant, of letting Oswald depart without her. Resolutions springing from the heart we often justly blame, yet hesitate not to adopt. When passion masters a superior mind, it separates our judgment from our conduct, and need not cloud the one in order to overrule the other. Corinne's black curls and veil floating on the breeze gave her so picturesque an air, that, as she left the church, the common people recognized and followed her to her carriage with the warmest testi- monials of respect. She sighed again, at parting from a race so ardent and so graceful in their expressions of esteem. Nor was this all. She had to endure the regrets of her friends. They devised f§tes in order to delay her departure: their poetical tributes strove in a thousand ways to convince her that she ought to stay; and finally they accompanied her on horseback for twenty miles. She was extremely affected. Oswald cast down his eyes in confusion, reproaching lumself for tearing her from so much delight, though he knew that an offer of remaining there would be more barbarous still. He appeared selfish in removing Corinnefrom Rome; yet he was not so; for the fear of afflicting her, by setting forth alone, had more weight with him than even the hope of retaining her presence. He knew not what he was about to do — saw nothing beyond Venice. He had written to inquire how soon his regiment would be actively employed in the war. and awaited a reply. Sometimes he thought of taking Corinne with him to England; yet instantly remembered that he should forever ruin her reputaiion by so doing, unless she were his wife; then he wished to soften the pangs of separation by a private marriage; but a moment afterwards gave up that plan also. "We can keep no secrets from the dead," he cried: "and what should I gain by making a mystery -of a union prohibited by nothing but my worship of a tomb?" His mind, so weak in aU that con- cerned his affections, was sadly agitated by contending sentiments. Corinne resigned herself to him, like a victim, exulting, amid her Borrows, in the sacrifices she made; while Oswald, responsible for the welfare of another, bound himself to her daily by new ties, without the power of yielding to them ; and unhappy in his love as in his conscience, felt the presence of both but in their combats with each other. When the friends of Corinne took leave, they commended her earne^ly to his care; congratulated him on the love of so eminejit a woman; their every word sounding like, mockery and raiding. She felt this, and hastily concluded the trying scene; and when, after turning from time to time to salute her, they were at last lost THE ADIEU TO ROJEE. 209 to her sight, she only said to her lover: "Oswald! I have now no one but you in the world !" How did he long to swear he would be hers! But frequent disapointments teach us to mistrust our own in- clinations, and shrink even from the vows our hearts may prompt. Corinne read his thoughts, and delicately strove to fix his attention on the country through which they traveled. CHAPTER V. It was the beginning of September, and the weather supert) till they neared the Apennines, where they felt the approach of winter. A soft air is seldom united with the pleasure of looking on pictu- resque mountains. One evening, a terrible hurricane arose: the thickest darkness closed around them; and the horses, so wild there that they are even harnessed by stratagem, set off with inconceivable rapidity. Our lovers felt much excited by being thus hurried on together. "Ah!" cried Oswald, "if they could bear us from all I know on earth — if they could climb these hills, and dash into another life, where we should regain my father, who would receive and bless us, w^-Jd you not go with me, beloved ?" He pressed her vehemently to ills bosom. Corinne, enamored as himself, rejilied: "Dispose of me as you will; chain me like a slave toyourfate : had not the slaves of other days talents that soothed their masters? Such would I be to thee. But, Oswald, yet respect her who thus trusts thee: con- demned by aU the world, she must not blush to meet thine eye. " — "No," he exclaimed, "I will lose all, or all obtain. Tought, Imust either live thy husband, or die in stifling the transports of my pas- sion: but I will hope to be thine before the world, and glory in thy tenderness. Yet tell me, I conjure thee, have I not sunk m thine esteem by all these struggles? Canst thou believe thyself less dear than ever?" His accents were so sincere, that, for awhile, they gave her back her confidence, Jtnd the purest, sweetest raptm'e animated them both. Meanwhile the horses stopped. Oswald alighted first. The cold sharp wind almost made him fancy himself landing in England: this freezing air was not like that of Italy, which bids young breasts forget all things save love. Oswald sank bank into his gloom. Corinne, who knew the unsettled nature of his fancy, but too well guessed the cause. On the morrow they anived at our Lady of Loretto, which stands upon an eminence, from whence is seen the Adriatic. While Oswald gave some orders for their journey, Corinne entered the church, where the image of t!je Virgin is en- closed in the choir of a small chapel, adorned with bas-reliefs; The marble pavement that surrounds the sanctuary is worn by pilgrim knees, Corinne, moved by these marks of prayer, knelt oa Uie stoiiea 210 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. so often pressed by the unfortunate, and addressed the type of heav- enly truth and sensibility. Oswald here found her bathed in tears. He did not understand how a woman of her mind could bow to the practices of the ignorant. Slie guessed this by his looks, and said : " Dear Oswald, are there not many moments when we dare notraiso our hopes to the Supreme Being, or breathe to him the sorrows of our hearts? Is it not pleasing, then, to behold a woman as inter- cessor for our human weal?ness? She suffered on this earth, for she lived on it; to her I blush not to pray for you, when a petition to God himself would overawe me." — " I cannot always directly suppli- cate my Maker," replied Oswald. "I, too, have my intercessor: the guardian angel of children Is their father: and since mine has been in heaven, I have oft received an unexpected solace, aid, and composure, which I can but attribute to the miraculous pro- tection whence I still hope to escape from my perplexities." — "I tomprehend you," said Corinne, " and believe there is no one who has not some mysterious idea of his own destiny — one event which he has always dreaded, and which, though improbable, is Bure to happen. The punishment of some fault, though it be, im- possible to trace the connection our misfortunes have with it, often strikes the imagination. From my cliildhood I trembled at the idea of living in England. Well; my inability to do so may be my worst • regret; and on that point I feel there is something unconquerable in my fate, agiiinst which I struggle in vain. Everyone conceives his life interiorly a contrast to what it seems; we have a confused sense of some supernatural power, disguised in the form of external circum- stance, while itself alone is the source of all our actions. Dear friend, minds capable of reasoning forever plunge into their own abyss, but always fail to fathom it." Oswald, as he heard her speak thus, wondered to find that, while she was capable of such glowing sentiments, her judgment still could hover over them, like l£eir presiding genius. " No," he frequently said to himself, " no other society on earth can satisfy the man who has possessed such a companion as this." They entered Ancona at night, as he wished not to be recognized: in spite of his precautions, however, he was so; and the next morn- ing all the inhabitants crowded about the house in which he stayed, awaking Corinne by shouts of " Long live Lord Nevil, our benefac- tor !'•' She started, rose hastily, and mingled witli the crowd, to hear their praises of the man she loved. Oswald, informed that the people were impatiently calling for him, was at last obliged to ap- pear. He believed Corinne still slept: what was his astonishment at finding her already known and cherished by the grateful multitude, wh<* entreated her to be their interpretress! Corinne's imagination — by turns her charm and her defect — delighted in extraordinary adventures. She thanked Lord Nevil, in the name of the people, with a grace so noble th>t the natives were i n ecst ac ies. S peafang THE ADlEtr TO ROME. 211 tor them, she said: "You preserved us — we owe you our lives!" But when she offered him the oak and laurel crown they had en- twined, an indefinite timidity beset her: the enthusiastic populace prostrated themselves before him, and Corinue involuntarily bent her knee in tendering him the garland. Oswald was so overwhelmed at the sight, that he could no longer support this scene, nor the pub- lic homage of his beloved ; but drew her away with him. She wept, and thanked the good inhabitants of Ancona, who followed them with blessings, as Oswald, hiding himself in his carriage, murmured: "Corinneat my feet! Corinne, in whose path I ought to kneel! Have I deserved this ? Do you suspect me of such unworthy pride 1" — "No, no," she said ; " but I was suddenly seized with the respect a woman always feels for liim she loves. To us, indeed, is external deference most directed; but in truth, in nature, it is the woman who reveres the being capable of defending her." "Yes, I will be thy defender, to the last hour of my life!" he answered. " Heaven be my witness such a genius shall not in vain seek a refuge in the harbor of my love!" — "Alas!" she sighed, " that love is all I need; and what promise can secure it to me? No matter. 1 f eel that you love me now better than ever: let us not trouble this return of afEection." — " Return!" interrupted Oswald. — "I cannot retract the expression; but let us not seek to e2[plaiu it;" and she made a gentle sign for Nevil to be silent. CHAPTER VI. For two days they proceeded on the shore of the Adriatic; but - this sea, on the Romagnan side, has not the effect of the ocean, nor even of the Mediterranean. The highroad winds close to its wavex, and grass grows on its banks: it is not thus that we would represent the mighty realm of tempests. At Rimini and Cesena, you quit the classic scenes of history: their latest remembrancer is the Rubicon, which Caesar passed to become the lord of Rome. Not far from hence is the republic of St. Marino, the last weak vestige of liberty, besides the spot on which was resolved the destruction of the world's chief republic. By degrees, you now advance towards a country very opposite in aspect to the Papal Slate. Bologna, Lombardy, the environs of Ferrara and Rovigo, are remarkable for beauty and cul- tivation — ^how unlike the poetic barrenness and decay that announce an approach to Rome, and teU of the terrible events that have oc- curred there! You then quit what Sabran calls "black pines, the summer's mourning, but the winter's bravery," and the conical cypresses that remind one of obelisks, mountains, and the sea. Nature, like the traveller, now parts from the southern rays. At first, the oranges vtS fOiititin!:: OR. italy. are touaa nrf lOnger In the open air — they are succeeded by olive*, whosie pale and vei.der foliage might suit the bowers of the Elysian fields. Further on, even the olive disappears. On entering Bologna's smiling plain, the vines garland the elms together, and the whole land is decked as for a festival. Corinne was sensible of the contrast between her present state of mind and the resplendent scene she now beheld. — "' Ah, Oswald!" she sighed, " ought nature to spread such images of happiness before two friends perhaps about to lose each other?" — "No, Corinne — never! each day I feel less able to resign thee : that untiring gentleness unites the charm of habit with the love I bear thee. One lives as contentedly with you as if you were not the finest genius in the world, or, rather, because you are so; f'lr real superiority confers a perfect goodness, that makes one's peace with one's self and all the world. What angry thoughts can live in such a presence?' They arrived at Fer- rara, one of the saddest towns in Italy, vast and deserted. The few Inhabitants found there, at distant intervals, loiter on slowly, as if secure of time for all they have to do. It is hard to conceive this the scene of that gay court sung both by Tasso and Ariosto; yet stil] are shown thei' -nanuscripts, with that also of the Pastor Fido. Ariosto knew how to live at ease here, amid courtiers; but the hou=c is yet to be seen wherein they dared confine Tasso as a maniac. It is sad to read the various letters which he wrote, asking the death it was so long ere he obtained. Tasso was so peculiarly organised, that his talent became its owner's formidable foe. His genius dissected hife own heart. He could not so have ri'ad the secrets of the soul if he had felt less sorrow. T/ie man wlu) has not suffered, says a pro- phet, what does he know? In some respects, Corinne resembled him. She was more cheerful and more versatile, but her imagination re- quired extreme government: far from assuaging any grief, it lent each pang fresh might. Nevil deceived himself if he believed her brilliant faculties could give her means of happiness apart from her aSections. When eenius is united with true feeling, our talents mul- tiply our woes. We analyze, we make discoveries, and, the heart's jirn of tears being exhaustless, the more we think the more we feel it flow. CHAPTER VII. « They embarked for Venice on the Brcnta. At each side they be- lield its palaces, grand but dilapidated, like all Italian magnificence. They are too wildly ornamented to remind us of the antique: Vene- tian architecture betrays a comnverce with the East: there is a blend ure of the Gothic and Moresco that takes the eye, though it ofleuds the taste. The poplai; regular almost as architecture itself, borden THE ADIEU To EOME. S13 the canals. The sky's bright blue sets ofE the splendid verdure of the country, which owes its green to the abundant waters. Natut seems to wear these two colors in mere coquetry; and the vague beauty of the South is found no more. Venice asionishes more than it pleases at first sight: it looks a city under water; and one can scarce admire the ambition which disputed this space with the sea. The amphitheater of Naples is built as if to welcome it; but on the flats of Venice, steeples appear, like masts, immovable in the midst of waves. In entering the city, one takes leave of vegetation; one sees not even a fly there: all animals are banished; man alone re- mains to battle with the waves. In a city whose streets are all canals, the silence is profound — the dash of oars its only interrup- tion. You cannot fancy yourself in tlie country, for you see no trees; nor in a town, for you hear no bustle; or even on board ship, for you make no way ; but in a place which storms would convert into a prison — for there are times when you cannot leave the city, nor even your own house. Many men in Venice never went from one quarter to another — never beheld St. Mark's — a horse or a tree were actual miracles to them. The black gondolas glide along like biers «r cradles, the last and the first beds of human kind. At night, their dark color renders them invisible, and they are only traced by the reflection . of the lights they carry — one might call them phantoms, guided by faint stars. In this abode all is mysterious — the government, the habits, love itself. Doubtless the heart and reason find much food when they can penetrate this secrecy, but strangers always feel the first impression singularly sad. Corinne, who was a believer in presentiments, and now made pres- ages of everything, said toNevil: "Is not the melancholy that 1 feel on entering this place a proof that some great misfortune will befall me here?" As she said 'this, she heard three reports of cannon, from one of the Isles of the Lagune — she started, and inquired the cause of a gondolier — "It is a woman taking the veil," he said, "at one of those convents in the midst of the sea. The custom here is, that the moment such vow is uttered, the female throws the flowers she wore during the ceremony behind her, as a sign of her resigning the world, and the firing you have just heard announces this event." Corinne shuddered. Oswald felt her hand grow cold in his, and saw a death-like pallor overspread her face. — ' ' My life I" he cried, " why give this importance to so simple a chance?" — "It is not simple," she replied. "I, too, have thrown the flowers of youth behind me." — " Howl when I love thee more than ever? when my whole soul is thine?" — " The thunders of war," she continued, " elsewhere devoted to victory or death, here celebrate the obscure sacrifice of a maiden — an innocent employment for the arms that • shake the world with terror: a solemn message from a resigned woman to those of her sis- ters ■who still coiitend with fate." S14 COEINNE; OR, ITALY. CHAPTER VIII. The power of the Venetian government, d-aring its latter years, has almost entirely consisted in the empire of habit and association of ideas. It once was formidably daring, — ^it has become lenient and timorous: hate of its past potency is easily revived, and easUy sult- dued, by the thoughts that its might is over. The aristocracy woo the favor of the people, and yet by-a kind of despotism, since they rather amuse than enlighten them; an agreeable state enough, while the common herd are afforded no pleasures that can beautify their minds, while the government watches over its subjects like a sultan over his harem, forbidding them to meddle with politics, or presume to form any judgment of existing authorities, but allowing them suf- ficient diversion, and not a little glory. The spoils of Constantinople enrich the churches; the standards of Cyprus and Candia float over the Piazza; the Corinthian horses delight the eye; and the winged lion of St. Mark's appears the type of fame. The situation of the city rendering agriculture and the chase impossible, nothing is left for the Venetians but dissipation. Their dialect is soft and light as a zephyr. One can hardly conceive how the people who resisted the league of Cambray should speak so flexible a tongue: it is charming while expressive of graceful pleasantry, but suits not graver themes; verses on death, for instance, breathed in these delicate and almost infantine accents, sound more like the descriptions of poetic fable. The Venetians are the most intelligent men in Italy; they think more deeply, though with less ardent fancies tlian their southern country- men; yet, for the most part, the' women, though very agreeable, have acquired a sentimentality of language, which, without restrain- ing their morals, merely lends their gallantry an air of affectation. There is more vanity, as there is more society, here, than in the rest of Italy. Where applause is quick and frequent, conceit calculates all debts instantaneously; knows what success is owed, and claims its due, without giving a minute's credit. Its bills must be paid at sight. Still, much originality may be found in Venice. Ladies of the highest rank receive visits in the cafes, and this strange confusion prevents their salons becoming the arenas of serious self-love. There yet remain here some ancient usages that evince a respect for their foremthers, and a certain youth of heart which tires not of the past, nor shrinks from melting recollections. The sight of the city itseU is always sufficient to awaken a host of memories. The Piazza is crowded by blue tents, beneath which rest Turks, Greeks and Ar- menians, who sometimes also loll carelessly in open boats, with etands of flowers at their feet St Mark's, too, looks rather like a THE ADIEU TO EOMB. 215 mosque than a Christian temple; and its vicinity gives a true idea ol the oriental indolence with which life is spent here, in drinking sher. bet, and smoking perfumed pipes. Men and women of quality never leave their houses, except in black mantles ; while the gondolas are often winged along by rowers olad in white, with rose-colored sashes, as if holiday array were abandoned to the vulgar, while the nobility kept up a vow of per- petual mourning. In most European towns, authors are obliged carefully to avoid depicting the daily routine ; for our customs, even In lu-xury, are rarely poetic; but in Venice nothing appears coarse; the canals, the boats, make pictures of the commonest events in life. On the quay of the galleys you constantly encounter puppet shows, mountebanks, and story-tellers; the last are worthy of re- mark. It is usually some episode from Tasso or Ariosto which they relate in prose, to the great admiration of their hearers, who sit round the speaker half clad, and motionless with curiosity; from time to time they purchase glasses of water, iis wine is bought else- where, and this refreshment is all they take for hours, so strongly are their minds interested. The narrator uses the most animating gestures; his voice is raised; he irritates himself; he grows pathetic; and yet one sees, all the while, that at heart he is perfectly unmoved. One might say to him, as did Sappho to the Circean nymph, who, in perfect sobriety, was assuming fury: "Bacchante — who art not drunk — what wouldst thou with me?" Tet the lively pantomime of the south does not appear quite artificial : it is a singular habit handed down from the Romans, and springing from quickness of disposition. A people so enslaved by pleasure may soon be alarmed by the dream of power in which the Venetian government is veiled. Never are 8ol jived as many others do, who have been long menaced by the. same misfortune, and think it- will never happen, merely because it has aot done so yet. Sid CORllWte; OR, ITALY. The air of Venice, and the life led there, is singularly calculated for lulling the mind into security: the very boats, peacefully rocking to and fro, induce a languid reverie; now and then a gondolier on the Rialto sings a stanza from Tasso; one of his fellows answers him,' by the next verse, from the extremity of the canal. The very antique music they employ is like church psalmody, and monotonous enough when near; but, on the evening breeze, it floats over the waters like the last beams of the sun; and, aided by the sentiment it expresses, in such a scene, it cannot be heard without a gehtle pensiveness. Oswald and Corinne remained on the canals, side by side, for hours; often without a word ; holding each other's hands, and yielding to thp. formless dreams inspired by love and natur* PARTING AND ABSENCE, 819 BOOK XVI. PJLRTTNG Airo ABSEIfOB. CHAPTER I. As soon as Corinne's arrival was known in Venice, it excited the preatest curiosity. When she went to a cafe in a piazza of St. Mark, its galleries were crowded, for a moment's glimpse at her; and the best society sought her with eager haste. She had once loved to pro- duce this effect wherever she appeared, and naturally confessed that admiration had many charms for her. Genius inspires this thirst for fame: there is no blessing undesired by those to whom Heaven gave ■ the means of winning it. Yet in her present situation she dreaded everything in opposition with the domestic habits so dear to Nevil. Corinne was blind to her own welfare, in attachina; herself to a man likely rather to repress than to excite her talents ; but it is easy to con- ceive why a woman, occupied by literature and the arts, should love the tastes that differed from her own. One is so often weary of one's self, that a resemblance of that self would never tempt "affection, which requires a harmony of sentiment, but a contrast of character; many sympathies, but not unvaried congeniality. Nevil was su- premely blessed with this double charm. His gentle ease and gracious manner could never sate, because his liability to clouds and storms kept up a constant interest. Although the depth and extent of his acquirements fitted him for any life, his political opinions and mili- tary bias inclined him rather to a career of arms> than one of letters — the thought'that action might be more poetical than even verse itself. He was superior to the success of his own mind, and spoke of it with much indifference. Corinne strove to please him by imitating this carelessness of litera^ glory; in order to grow more like the retiring females from whom English womanhood offers the best model. Tet the homage she received at Venice gave Oswald none but agreeable sensations. , There was so much cordial good-breeding in the recep- tion she met — the Venetians expressed the pleasure her conversation afforded them with such vivacity, that Oswald felt proud of being 49ar U) one so universally admired. He was no longer jealous of h^r 220 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. celebrity, certain that she prized him far above it; and hia own love increased by every tribute she elicited. He forgot England, and revelled in the Italian heedlessoess of days to come. Corinne per- ceived this change; and her imprudent heart welcomed it, as if to last forever. Italian is the only t»ngue whose dialects are almost languages of themselves. In that of each state books might be written distinct from the standard Italian ; though only the Neapolitan, Sicilian, and Venetian dialects have yet the honor of being ac- knowledged; and that of Venice as the most original, most grace- ful of all. Corinne pronoxmced it charmingly; and the manner in which she sung some lively barcaroles proved that she could act comedy as well as tragedy. She was pressed to take a part in an opera which some of her new friends intended playing the neKt week. Since she had loved Oswald, she concealed tlus talent from him, not feeling sufficient peace of mind for its exercise, or, at other times, fearing that any outbreak of high spirits might be followed by misfortune; but now, with unwonted confidence, she consented, as he, too, joined in the request; and it was agreed that she should perform in a piece, like most of Gozzi's, composed of the most diverting fairy extravagances. (32) Truflfaldin and Pantaloon, in these burlesques, often jostle the greatest monarchs of the earth. The marvellous furnishes them with jests, which, from their very order, cannot approach to low vulgarity. The Child of the Air, or Semiramis in her Youth, is a coquette, endowed by the celestials and internals to subjugate the world; bred- in a desert, like a savage, cunning as a sorceress, and imperious as a queen, she unites natural wildness with premeditated grace, and a warrior's courage with the frivolity of a woman. The character demands a fund of fanciful drollery, which but the inspiration of the moment can bring to light. CHAPTER IJ. Fate sometimes has its own strange, cruel sport, repulsing our presuming familiarity. Oft, when we yield to hope, calculate on success, and trifle with our destiny, the sable thread is blending with its tissue, and the weird sisters dash down the airy fabrics we have reared. It was now November; yet Corinne arose enchanted with her prospects. For the first act she chose a very picturesque costume : her hair, though dishevelled, was arranged with an evident design of pleasing; her light, fantastic garb gave her noble form a most mischievously attractive air. She reached the palace where she was to play. Every one but Oswald had arrived. She deferred the per- formance as long as possible, and began to be uneasy at his abaenc«} PARTING AND ABSENCE. 221 ■wnen she came on the stage, however, she perceived him, though he sat in a remote part of the hall, and the pain of having waited redoubled her joy. She was inspired by gayety as she had been at the Capitol by enthusiasm. This drama blends song with speech, and even gives opportunities for extempore dialogue, of which Corinne availed herself to render the scene more animated. She Bung the bufEa airs with peculiar elegance. Her gestures were at once comic and dignified. She extorted laughter, without ceasing to be imposing. Her talents, like her part, qiieeued it over actors and spectators, pleasantly bantering both parties. Ahl who would not have wept over such a sight, could they have known that this bright armor but drew down the lightning, that this triumphant mirth would soon give place to bitter desolation ? The applause was so continual, so judicious, that the rapture of the audience infected Corinne with that kind of delirium which pours a lethe over the past, and bids the future seem unclouded. Oswald had seen her represent the deepest woe, at a time when he still hoped to make her happy; he now beheld her breathing stainless joy, just as he had received tidings that might prove fatal to them both. Oft did he' wish to take her away from this scene of daring happiness, yet felt a sad pleasure in once more beholding that lovely countenance be- decked in smiles. At the conclusion, she appeared arrayed as an Amazonian queen, commanding men, almost the elements, by that reliance on her charms which beauty may preserve, unless she loves; then, then, no gift of nature or of fortune can reassure her spirit; but this crowned flirt, this fairy queen, miraculously blending rage with wit, carelessness with ambition, and conceit with despotism, seemed to rule over fate as over hearts; and when she ascended her throne she exacted the submission of her subjects with a smile, arch as it was arrogant. This was, perhaps, the moment of her life, from which both grief and fear seemed furthest banished; when suddenly he saw her lover bow his face on his hands to hide his tears. She trembled, and the curtain had not quite fallen, when, leaving her already hated throne, she rushed into the next apart- ment. Tbither he "followed her; and when she marked his pale- ness, she was seized with such alarm that she Was forced to lean against the wall for support. "Oswald," she said, "my God I wliat has happened?" — "I must start for England to-night," ha said, forgetting that he ought not thus to have exposed her feel- ings. — "No, no!" she cried, clinging to him distractedly; "youcan- not plunge me into such despair. How have I merited it? or — or — you meaa,rthat you will take me with you?" "Let us leave this cruel crowd," he said: "come with me, Corinne." She followed him, not understanding aught addressed to her, answering at ran- dom ; her gait and look so changed, that every one believed hei struck with sudden illness. / / COEENNE, OR, ITALY CHAPTER II. When they were in the gondola, she raved: "What you hare made me feel is worse than death: be generous: throw me into these waves, that I may lose the sense which maddens me. Oswald, be brave: I have seen you do things that required more courage." — " Hold, holdl" he cried, " if you would not drive me to suicide. Hear me, when we have reached your house, and then pronounce our fate. In the name of Heaven be calm !" There was such misery in his ac- cents that she was silent; but trembled so violently, that she could hardly walk up the stairs to her apartment. There she tore off her ornaments in dismay, and, as Lord Nevil saw Tier in this state, a few moments since so brilliant, he sank upon a seat in tears. — "Am I a barbarian?" he cried. "Corinne! Just Heaven! Corinne! do you not think me so?" — "No," she said, "no I cannot. — Have you not still that look which every day gives me fresh comfort? Oswald, " your presence is a ray from heaven — can I then fear you? — not dare to read your eyes? but fall before you as before my murderer? Oh, Oswaldl Oswald!" and she threw herself at his feet in suplication. "What do I see," he exclaimed, raising her vehemently, "would you dishonor me? Well, be it so. My regiment embarks in a month. I ■will remain, if you betray this all-commanding grief, but I sliall not survive my shame." — " I ask you not to stay," she said; " but what harm can I do by following you!" — "We go to the West Indies, and no officer is allowed to take his wife." — " WeU, well, at least let me go to England with you." — " My letters also tell me," answered he, f'thaX reports concerning us are already in the papers there; that /your identity is suspected; and your family, excited by Lady Edgar- / mond, refuses to meet or own you. Give me but time to reconcile V them, to enforce your rights with your step-mother; for if I take you thither, and leave you, ere your name be cleared, you will endure all the severe opinions which I shall not be by to answer." — " Then you refuse me everything!" she said, and sank insensible to the earth, her forehead receiving a wound in the fall. Oswald shrieked at the sight. Theresina entered in extreme alarm, and restored her mistress to animation: but when Corinne perceived, in an opposite mirror, her own pale and disfigured face — "Oswald," she sighed, "it was not thus 1 looked the day you met me first. I wore the crown of hope and fame, now Mood, and dust are on my brow; yet it is not for you tq despise the state to which you have reduced me. Others may — but yon cannot — you ouirht to pity me for loving thus — ^you must I" — "Stay," he cried, "that is too much;" and "signing for Th^rgeina to retire, be took Corinne in his arms, saying: ''Do what thou wUt PAKTING AND ABSENCE. 223 with me. I must submit to tlie decrees of Heaven. I cannot abandon thee in this distress, nor lead thee to England, before I have secured thee against the insults of that haughty vfoman. I will stay with thee. 1 cannot depart." These words recalled Cormne to herself, yet overwhelmed her with despair. She felt the necessity tliat weighed upon her. and with her head reclined, remained long silent. — "Dearest!" said Oswald, "let me hear thy voice. I have no other support — no other guide now." — "No," replied Corinne, "you must leave me," and a flood of tears evinced her comparative resig- nation. — "My love, "said Nevil,"I call to witness this portrait of my father, and you best know whether his n&me is sacred to me— Ir swear to it that my life is in thy power, if needful to thy hap- piness. At my return from the islands I will gee if I cannot re- store thee to thy due- rank in thy fathers country. If I fail, I will return to Italy, and live or die at thy feet." — "But the dan- gers you are about to brave," she rejoined. — "Fear not, I shall es- cape ; or, if I perish, imknown as I am, my memory will survive in thy heart ; and when thou heaiest my name, thou mayest say, per- haps with tearful eyes, 'I knew him once — he loved me!'" — "Ah, leave me !"she cried: "you are deceived by my apparent calm ; to- morrow, when the sun rises, and I tell myself, ' 1 shall see him no more,' the thought may kill me ; happy if it does." — "Why, Corinne, do you fear ! is my solemn promise nothing ? Can your heart doubt it?" — " No, I respect — too much not to believe you ; it would cost me more to abjure mine admiration than my love. I look on you as an angelic being — the purest, noblest, that ever shone on earth. It is not alone your grace that captivates me, but the idea that so many virtues never before united in one object, and that your heav- enly look was only given to express them all. Far be it from me, then, to doubS your word. I should fly from the human face for- , ever if Lord Nevil could deceive ; but absence has so many perils, and that dreaded word adieu " — " Have I not said, never — save from my death-bed ?" demanded Oswald, with such emotion that Corinne, terrified for his health, strove to restrain her feelings, and became more pitiable than before. They then began to concert means of writing, and to speak on the "certainty of rejoining each other. A. year was the term fixed. Oswald securely believed that the expedition would not be longer away. Some time was left them Btill, and Corinne trusted to regain her str 230 OORINNE; OR, ITALY. Nevil, but timidly whispered, " Pray, my Lord, -walk slowly!" He Btarted at this first private intelligence with her: those pityingtones ■were just such as he might have expected from a being above aU earthly passions. He did not -think his sense of such a moment any treason to Corinne. They returned for evening prayer, at whichher Ladyship always assembled her household in the great hall. Most of them were very infirm, having served the fathers of Lord and Lady Edgarmond. Oswald was thus reminded of his paternal home. Every one knelt, except the matron, who, prevented by her lame- ness, listened with folded hands and downcast eyes in reverent silence. - Lucy was on her knees beside her parent : it was her duty to read the service; a chapter of the Gospel, followed by a prayer adapted to domestic country life, composed by the mistress of the house : its somewhat austere expressions were contrasted by the soft voice that breathed them. After blessing the king and country, the servants and the kindred of this family, Lucy tremblingly added, "Grant also, O God! that the young daughter of this house may live and die with soul unsullied by a single thought or feeling that conforms not with her duty; and that her mother, who must soon return to thee for judgment, may have some claim or pardon for her faults, in the virtues of her only child." Lucy said 'this prayer daily; but now Oswald's presence so affected her, that tears, which she strove to conceal, flowed down her clieeks. He was touched with respectful tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infantine face, that looked as if it still re- membered having dwelt in heaven. Its beauty, thus surrounded by age and decrepitude, was an image of divine commiseration. He reflected on her lonely life, deprived of all the pleasures, all the flatteries, due to her youth and charms: his soul melted towards her. The mother of Lucy, too, he found a person more severe to hers«lf than to others. The limits of her mind might rather be'attributed to the strength of her principles than to any natural deficiencies : the asperity of her character was acquired from re- pressed impulses; and, as Corinne had said, her Mfectign for her child gained force from this extreme control of all others. , By ten in the evening all was silent throughout the castle, and Os- wald left to muse over Ms last few hours: fie owned not to himself that Lucy had made an impression on his neart ; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case ; but in spite of the thousand attractions Cor- inne offered to his fancy, there was one class of ideas, wherein Lucy might have reigned more supremely than her sister. The image of domestic felicity suited better with a retreat in Northumberland than , with a coronation at the Capitol : besides, he remembered which of these sisters his father had selected for him: but he loved Corinne, was beloved by her, had given her his faith, and therefore persisted in bis intention of confiding this to Lady Ed^rmond oo tke morro-^. PABTING AND ABSENCE. 231 He fell asleep thinking of Italy, but still the form of Lucy flitted lightly bof ore him. He awoke : when he slept again, the same dream re- turned ; at last this ethereal shape seemed flying from him; he strove to detain her, and started up, as she disappeared, fearing her lost to him. The day had broken, and he left his room to enjoy a morning 'walk. CHAPTER VI. The Bun was just risen. Oswald supposed that no one was yet Btirring, till he perceived Lucy already drawing, in a balcony. Her hair, not yet fastened, was waving in the gale : she looked so like his dream, that for a moment he started, as if he had beheld a spirit; and though soon ashamed at having been so affected by such a na- tural circumstance, he remained for some time beneath her station, but she did not perceive him. As he pursued his walk, he wished more than ever for the presence that would have dissipated these half-formed impressions. Lucy was an enigma, which Corinne'a genius could have solved; withoutheraid, it took a thousand change- ful forms In his mind's eye. He re-entered the drawing-room, and found Lucy placing her morning's work in a little brown frame, fac- ing her mother's tea-table. It was a white rose, on a leafy stalk, finished to perfection. "You draw, then?" he said. — "No, my Lord," she answered ; " I merely copy the easiest flowers lean find: there is no master near us; the little I ever learned I owe to a sister who used to give meiessons." She sighed. — " And what is become of her ?" asked Oswald. — "She is dead; but I shall always regret her." He found that she, too, had been deceived;* but her confes- sion of regret evinced so amiable a disposition, that he felt more pleased, more affected, than before. Lucy was about to retire, re- membering that she was alone with Lord Nevil, when Lady Edgar- mond joined them. She looked on her daughter with surprise and displeasure, and motioned her to withdraw. This first informed Os- wald that Lucy had done something very extraordinary, in remain- ing a few minutes with a man out of her mother's presence ; and ho was as much gratified as he would have been by a decided mark of preference under other auspices. Lady Edgarmond took her seat, and dismissed the servant who had supported her to the sofa. She was palerand her lips trembled as she offered a cup of tea to Lord Nevil. These sjTnptoms increased his own embarrassment, yet, an- imated by zeal for her he loved, he began: " Lady Edgarmond, I *A religiode, moral, Eoglish gentluwomaii propose a roraantlc faleehood, so' likely to wreck its tbeme od the dangers againet wliich Lady Edgarmond warned Connuel This aDti-aational iucousieteDCy oeatrallzeB all the test (^ Uadanie de Stavl's Intended aatiie.— Ts. 1632 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. have often in Italy seen a female particularly interesting to you." — "I cannot believe it," she answered dryly: " no one there interests me." — " I should think that the daughter of your husband had some claim on your affection." — "If the daughter of my husband be indif- ferent to her duties and reputation, though I surely cannot wish her any ill, I shall be very glad to hear no more of her." — " But," said Oswald, quickly, "if the woman your Ladyship deserts is celebrated by the world for her great and varied talents, will you forever thus disdain her?" — " Kot the less, sir, for the abilities that weanherfrom her rightful occupations. There are plenty of actresses, artists, and musicians, to amuse society : in our rank, a woman's only becoming station is that which devotes her to her husband and children." — " Madam," returned Oswald, "such talents cannot exist without an elevated character and a generous heart: do you censure them for extending the mind, and giving a more vast, more general Influence to virtue itself ?" — "Virtuel"' she repeated, with a bitter smile; "I know not what you mean by the word, so applied. The virtue of a young woman, who flies from her father's home, establishes herself m Italy, leads Qia freest life, receives all kinds of homage, to say no worse, sets an example pernicious to others as to herself, abandoning her rank, her family, her name " — "Madam," interruptdtl Os- wald, "she Facriflced her name to you, and to your daughter, whom she feared to injure." — "She knew that she dishonored it, then," replied the step-mother. — "This Is too much," said Oswald, vio- lently: "Corinne Edgarmond will soon be Lady Nevil, and we shall then see if you blush to acknowledge the daughter of your Lord. Tou confound with the vulgar herd a being gifted like no other woman — an angel of goodness, tender and diffident at heart, as she is sublime of soul. She may have had her faults, if that innate su- periority that could not conform with common rules be one, but a single deed or word of hers might well efface them aU. She will more honor the man she chooses to protect her than could the em- press Of the world." — " Be that man, then, my Lord!" said Lady Ed- garmond, making an effort to restrain her feelings: " satirize me as narrow-minded: nothing you say can change me. I understand by morality, an exact observance of established rules; beyond which, fine qualities misapplied deserve at best but pity." — "The world would have been very sterile, my Lady," said Oswald, "had it always thought as you do of genius and enthusiasm: human nature would have become a thing of mere formalities. But, not to continue this fruitless discussion, I will only ask, if you mean to ac- knowledge your daughter-in law, when she is my wife?" — " Still less on that account," answered her Ladyship: "I owe your father's memory my exertions to prevent so fatal a union if I can." — " My fatherl repeated Nevil, always agitated by that name. — " Are you ignorant," she continued, "that he refused her, ere she had com- mitted any actual fault? foreseeing, with the perfect sagacity that PARTING AND ABSENCE. 233 «o characterized him, what she would one day hecome?" — "How, madam! what more know you of this?" — "Your father's letter to Lord Edgarmond on the subject," interrupted the lady, "Is in the hands of his old friend, Mr. Dicltson. I sent it to him, when I heard of your connection witli tliis Corinne, that you might read it on- your return : it would not have become me to retain it." Oswald, after a few moments' silence, resumed: " I aslc your Ladyship but for anact of justice, due to yourself, tliat is, to receive your husband's daugliter as she deserves." — " I 6liall not, in any way, my Lord, con- tribute to your misery. If her present nameless and unmatronized existence be an obstacle to your marrying her, God, and your father, forbid that I should remove it?" — "Madam," he exclaimed, "her misfortunes are but added chains that bind me to her." — "Well," replied Lady Edgarmond, with an impetuosity to which she would not have given way had not her own child been thus deprived of a suit- able husband, "well, render yourself wretched, then I she will be so too: she hates this country, and never vfill comply with its manners: this is no theater for the versatile talents you so prize.and which render her so fastidious. She wiU carry you back to Italy : y ou will forswear your friends and native land, for a lovely foreigner, 1 confess, but for one who could forget you, if you wished it. Tliose flighty brains are ever changeful: deep griefs were made for the women you deem so common-place, those who live but for their homes and fami- lies." This was, perhaps, the first time. in her life that Lady Edgarmond had spoken on impulse: it shook her weakened nerves ; and, as she ceased, she sank back, half fainting. Os- wald rang loudly for help. Lucy ran in, alarmed, hastened to revive her parent, and cast on Nevil an uneasy look, that seemed to say: " Is it you who have made mamma so ill?" He felt this deeply, and strove to atone by attetitions to Lady Edgarmond ; but she repulsed him coldly, blushing to think that she had seemed to pride but little in her girl, by betraying this anxiety to secure her a reluctant bridegroom. She bade Lucy leave them, and said calmly: " My Lord, at all events, I beg that you will consider yourself free. My daughter is so young, that she is no way concerned in the pro- ject formed by your father and myself; but that being changed, it would be an indecorum for me to receive you until she is mairied." Nevil bowed. — "I will content myself, then," he said, "with' writing to you on the fate of a person whom I can never desert." — " You are the master of that fate," concluded Lady Edgarmond, in a smothered voice;' and Oswald departed. In riding down the avenue, he perceived, at a distance, the elegant figure of young Lucy. He checked his horse to look on her once more, and it ap- peared that she took the same direction with him'^elf. The high road passed before a summer-house, at the end of the park ; he saw her enter it, and went by with some reluctance, unable to discern her: he frequently turned his head, and, at a point from which the 234 CORINNE; OR, IT ALT. road was best commanded, observed a slight movement among the trees. He stopped; it ceased: uncertain whether he had guessed correctly, he proceeded, then abruptly rode back with the speed of lightning, as if he had dropped something by the way; there, indeed, he saw her, on the edge of the bank, and bowed respectfully: she drew down her veil, and hastily concealed herself in the thicket, forgetting that she thus tacitly avowed the motive which had brought her there. The poor child had never felt so guilty in her life; and far from thinking of simply returning his salute, she feared that she must have lost his good opinion by having been so forward. Oswald felt flattered by this bl imeless and timorous sincerity. "No one," thought he, " could be more candid than Corinue; but then, no one better knew herself or others. Lucy had all to learn. Yet this charm of the day, could it suffice for a life 1 this pretty ignorance cannot endure ; and since we must penetrate the secrets of our own hearts at last, is not the candor which survives such examination worth more than that which preceies it ?" This comparison, he believed, was but an amusement to his mind, which could ne7e«r occupy it more gravely. CHAPTER VII. Oswald proceeded to Scotland. , The effect of Lucy's presence the sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alike gave place to tlie emo- tions that awakened at the sight of scenes where he had dwelt witl his father. He upbraided himself with the dissipations in which ht had spent the last year; fearing that he was no longer worthy to re- enter the abode he now wished he had never quitted. Alas! aftei the loss of life's dearest object, how can we be content with our- selves, unless in perfect retirement? We cannot mix in society, without in some way neglecting our worship of the dead. In vain thoir memory reigns in the heart's core; we lend ourselves to the activity of the living, which banishes the thought of death as pain- ful and unavailing. If solitude jjrolongs not our regrets, life, as it is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews their interests, theif passions. This imperious necessity is one of the sad conditions of human nature; and although decreed by Providence, that man may support the idea of death, both for himself and others, yet often, in the midst of our enjoyments, we feel remorse at being still capable of them, and seem to hear a resigned, affecting voice asking us: " Have you, whom I so loved, forgotten me?" Oswald felt not now tie despair lie had suffered on his first return home after his father's death, but a melancholy, deepened by his perceiving that time had accustomed every one else to the loss he still deplored. The ser- rants no longer thought it their duty to speak of the late lord ; his place in the rank of lue was fiUed; children grow up as substitutes I PAtlTlHG AND A13SBNCE. 23S for their sires. Oswald sliut himself in his father's room, for lonely meditation. "Oh, human destiny I" he sighed, "what wouldsf thou have? so much of life perish? so many thoughts expire? No, no, my only friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is present — our immortal spirits still communed Oh, God! be thou my guide. Those iron souls, that seem immovable as nature's rocks, pity not the vacillations and repentance of the sensitive, the conscientious, who cannot take one step without th fear of straying from the right. They may bid duty lead'them, but duty's self would vanish from their eyes, if Thou revealedst not the truth to their hearts." In the evening Oswald roved through the favorite walks of . his father. "Who has not hoped, in the ardor of his prayers, that the oiie dear shade would reappear, and miracles be wrought by the force of love? ' Vain trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These endless uncertainties occupjr not the vulgar, but the nobler the mind the more incontrollably is it involved in speculations. While Oswald wandered thus absorbed, he did, indeed, behold a venerable man slowly advancing towards him. Such a sight at such a time and place, took a strong effect; but he soon recognized his father's friend, Mr. Dickson, and with au affection which he never felt for him before. CHAPTER IV. This gentleman in no way equalled the parent of Oswald, but he was with him at his death; and having been born in the same year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry Lord Nevil some tidings of his son. Oswald offered him his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in paying attention to age, however little resembling that of his father. Mr. Dickson remembered Oswald's birth, arid hesitated not to speak his mind on all that concerned his young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection with Corinne: but his ■ weak arguments would have gained less ascendency over Oswald's mind than those of Lady Edgarmond, had he not handed him the letter to which she aUuaed. With consideia,ble tremor he read as follows: — " "Will you forgive ine, my dear friend, if I propose a change of plannn the union of our families? My son is more than a year younger than your eldest duughter; will it not be better, therefore, that he should wait for the little Lucy? I might confine myself to the subject of age ; but, as I knew Miss Edgarmond's w hen first I named my wishes, I should deem myself wanting in confidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for desiring that this marriage may not take place. "We have known each other for twenty years, and may speak frankly of our children, especially while they are young enough 336 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. to be improved by our opinions. Your daughter is a charaiins girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of those Grecian beauties, who, of old, enchanted and subdued the world. Do not be offended by this comparison. She can have received from you none but the purest principles: yet she certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensation : she has more genius than self-love ; such talents as hers necessari^ engender a taste for display; and I know no theater that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings break through each word she utters. She would in- evitably wean my son from England: for such a woman could not be happy here: only Italy can content her. She must have that free life which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic courtry habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this happy land ought to be in all things English, and fulfill the duties to which he is so for- tunately called. Jn countries whose political institutions give men «uch honorable opportunities for public action, the women should bloom in the shade; can you expect so distinguised a person as your flauajhter to be satisfied with such a lot? Take my advice. Marry her m Italy; her religion and manners soit that country. If my son should wed her, I am sure it would be from love, for no one can be more engagimr: to please her, he would endeavor to introduce foreign cus- toms into his establishment, and would soon lose his national charac- ter, those prejudices, if you please to call them so, which unite us with each other, ^nd render us a body free but indissoluble, or which uan only be broken up by the death of its last associate. My son could not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy; he is sensitive, even to weakness; and his expatriation, if I lived to see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as deprived of my son, but as knowing him lost to the glory of serving his native land. Is it worthy a mountaineer to drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of Italy ? A Scot become the cicisbeo of his own wife, if n'lt of some other man's? Neither the gujde nor the prop of his famUyl I even rejoice that Oswald is now in France, and still im- known to a lady whose empire over him would be too great. I dare conjure you, my dear friend, should I die before his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daughter until Lucy be of an age to fix his affections. Let him learn my wishes, if re'quisite. I know he will respect them — the more if I should then be removed from this life. Give all your attention, I entreat you, to his union with Lucy. Child as she is, her features, look, and voice, all express the most en- dearingjnodesty. She will be a true Englishwoman, and may con- stitute the happiness of my boy. If I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall exult over it in heaven; and when we reunite there, my dear friend, ovir prayers and benedictions will protect our chil dreu stilL "Ever yours, "NfivHi." PARTING AND ABSENCE. 237 Aftev reading this, Oswald remained silent, and left Mr. Dickson time to continue his long discourse without interruption. He ad- mired the judgment of his friend, who, nevertheless, he said, was far from anticipating the reprehensible life Miss Edgarmond had since led : a marriage between Oswald and herself now, he added, would be an eternal insult to Lord Nevil's memory; who, it appeared, dur- ing his son's fatal residence in France, had passed a whole summer at Lady Bdgarmond's, sol'"^ing himself by superintending the educa- tion of his favorite Lucy, in fact, without either artifice or forbear- ance, Mr. Dickson attacked the heart of Oswald through all the avenues of sensibility. Thus everything conspired against the absent Corinne, who had no means, save letters, for reviving from time *o time, the tenderness of Oswald. She had to contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the exhortation of his friends in favor of resolutions so easy to adopt, as they led him towards a budding beauty, whose every charm seemed to harmonize with the calm, •haste hopes of a domestic let' COMNNE; OR, ITALY. BOOK XVII. •ORDTNE IN eCOTLAlTD. CHAPTER I. Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the Brenta; she conid lot quit the scenes in which she had last met Oswald — and also loped that she should here receive her letters earlier than at Rome. Mnce Castel Forte had written; begging leiive to visit her; but she efused. The friendship existing between them commanded mumal ionfidence ; and had he striven to detach her from her love — had he old her what she so often told herself — that absence must decrease Tevil's attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a daggei 3 her heart. She wished to see no one; yet it is not easy to live lone, while the soul is ardent, and its situation unfortunate. The mployments of solitude require peace of mind; if that be lost, forced ayety, however troublesome, is more serviceable than meditntion. t we could trace madness to its source, we should sup ly find that it riginated in the power of one single thought, which excluded all lental variety. Corinne's imagination consumed herself, unless iverted by external excitement. What a life now succeeded that rhich she had led for nearly a year, with the man of her heart's toice forever with her, as her most appreciating companion, hei inderest friend, and fondest lover! Now, all was barren around and loomy within her. The only interestins event was the arrival of a itter from 7um/ and the irregularity of the post, during winter, rery day tormented her with expectations, often disappointed, lach morning she walked on the banks of the canal, now covered y Jarge-leaved water-lilies, watching for the black gondola, which 18 had learned to distinguish afar off. How did her heart beat, as le perceived it I Sometimes the messenger would answer : " No itters for you, madame;" and carelessly proceeded to other matters, s if nothing were so simple as to have no letters; another time he wild say: " Yes, madame, here are some." She ran over them all OOEINNE IN SCOTLAND. 239 ■with a tremblm^. Itead : if the well-known characters of Oswald met not her eye, the «J»y was terrible, the night sleepless, the morrow re- doubled her anxi-^iy and suspense. "Surely," she thought, "he might write more frequently ;" and her next letter reproached his silence. He justified himself ; but his stj'le had already lost some of its tenderness : instead of expressing his own solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers. This change did not escape her 4 day and night would she reperuse a particular phrase, seeliing some new interpretation on which to build a few days' composure. This state shattered her nerves : she became superstitious. Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw presages from everything. One day in every week she went to Venice, for the purpose of re- ceiving her letters some hours earlier : this merely varied the tor- tures of waiting ; and in a short time she conceived as great a hor- ror for every object she encountered on her way, as if they had been the spectres of her own thoughts, reappearing clothed in the most dreadful aspects. Once, on entering the church of St. Mark, she remembered how, on hei arrival in Venice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere she departed, Oswald would lead her thither to call her his in sight of Heaven. She gave way once more to this illusion ; saw him approach the altar ; heard him vow before his T5od to love her forever ; they knelt together and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then playing, and the lights that shone throuirh the aisle, .gave life to her vision : and for a moment she felt not the cruel void of absence : but suddenly a dreary murmur suc- ceeded — she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the church She staggered ; her sight almost failed ; aniJ from that moment she felt convinced that her love for Oswald would lead her but to the grave. j CHAETEK TT. Lord Nevil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of men. He must either break the heart of Corinne, or outrage the memory of his father. Cruel alternative! to escape ■which he callediin death •a thousand times a day. At last, he once more resorted to his habitual procrastination, telling himself that he would go to Venice, since he could not resolve to write Corinne the (ruth, and make her his judge ; but then he daily expected his regiment would embark. He was free from all engagement with Lucy. He believed it his duty not to marry Corinne ; but in what other way could he pass his life with her? Could he desert his country? or bring her to It, and ruin her fair name forever? He resolved to hide from her the obstacles which he had encountered from her step-mother, because he still hoped ultimately to surmount them. Manifold causes ren- dered his letters brief, or filled them with subjects remote from bis 240 CORINNE; OR, ITALY future prospects. Any one, save Corinne, -would have guessed all; but passion rendered her at once quick-siglited and •redulous. In such a state, we sec nothing in a natural manner : but discover what is concealed, while blind to that which should seem clearest. We cannot brook tlie idea of suffering so much without some extraordi- nary cause; we will not confess to ourselves that such despair may be produced by the simplest circumstances in life. Though Oswald pitied her, and blamed himself, his correspondence betrayed an irri- tation which it did not explain ; wildly reproaching her for what he endured, as if she had not been far the most unfortunate. This tone deprived her of all mastery over herself. Her mind was disor- dered by the most fatal images ; she could not believe that the being capable of writing with such abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same Oswald she had known so generous, so tender. She felt a re- sistless desire to see and speak with him once more. "Let me hear Mm tell me," she raved, " that it is he who thus mercilessly stabs her whose least pain once so strongly afflicted him ; let him say so, and I submit : but some infernal power seems to Inspire this language; it is not Oswald who writes thus to me. They have slan- dered me to him: some treachery must be exerted, or I could not be used thus. " She adopted the resolution of going to Scotland, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious grief, which would fain alter its present situation at all hazards. She dared riot write nor speak to any one on this subject, still flattering herself that some fortunate change would prevent her acting on a plan, which, nevertheless, soothed her imagination, and forced her to look forward. To read was now impossible : music thrilled her to agony : and the charms of nature induced a reverie that redoubled her distress. This creature, once so animated, now passed wljole days in motionless silence. Her internal pangs were but betrayed by a mortal paleness : her eyes were frequently fixed upon her watch, though she knew not why she should wish one hour to succeed another, since rot one of them could bring her aught, save restless nights and despairing days. One evening, she was informed that a female was earnestly re- questing to see her: she consented; and the woman entered her presence dressed in black, and veiled, to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed by the most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor; demand- ing them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success. Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in return. The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was astonished to behold a person BO lovely, young, rich, and celebrated, a prey to sorrow. " My God, madam," she cried, " I would you were as calm as 11" What an ad- dress from such an object to the most brilliant woman in Italy! Alas 1 the power of love is too vast in souls like hers. Happy are they who consecrate to Heaven the sentiments no earthly ties can COEINNE IN SCOTLAND. 241 merit. That time was not yet come for poor Coriune; she still de- ceived herself, still sought for bliss; she pjayed, indeed, but not submissively. Her peerless talents, the glory they had won, gave her too great an interest in herself. It is only by detaching our hearts from all the world tliat we can renounce the thing we love. Every other sacrifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere the fire that made it so is quenched. At last, in the midst of this sad indecisioa, Coriune received a letter from Oswald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six weeks, and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by tliis delay to visit Venice without injuring his reputation. Tliere was but just time for Corinne to reach England, ere he must leave it, perhaps forever. This thought decided her; she was not ignorant of her own rashness; she judged herself more severely than anyone else could. Pity her, then! What woman has a right to "cast the first stone " at the unfortunate sister, who justifies not her fault, hopes for no pleasure, but flies from one mis- fortune to another, as if driven on by persecuting spirits? Her letter to Castel Forte thus concludes: "Adieu, my faithful protector I Adieu, my friends in Eomel with whom I passed such joyous, easy days. It is done — all is over. Fate has stricken me. I feel the wound is mortal. I struggle still, but soon shall fall. I must see him again. I am not answerable for myself. A storm is in my breast sue has I cannot govern; but I draw near the term at which all will cease. This is the last act of my history : it will end in penitence and death. Oh, wild confusion of the human heart! Eveii now, while I am obeying the will of passion, I see the shades of evening in the distance, I hear a voice divine that whispers me: ' Still these fond agitations, hapless wretch! the abode of endless rest awaits thee.' O God! grant me the presence of mine Oswald once more, but one last moment! The very memory of his feattires now ij darkened by despair; but is there not something heavenly in his look? Did not the air become more pure, more brilliant, as ho approached? You, my friend, have seen him with me, have witnessed his kind care?, and the respect with which he inspired others for the woman of his choice. How can I live without him? Pardon my ingratitude : ought I thus to requite tljy disinterested constancy? But I a6\ no longer worthy any blessing; and might pass for insane, had I not still the miserable consciousness of mme own madness. Farewell, then— yes, farewell!" CHAPTER III. How pitiable Is the feeling, delicate woman, who commits a great imprudence for a man whose love she knows inferior to her ownl She has but herself to be her support. If she has risked repose and 242 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. character to do some signal service for her idol, she may be envied. Sweet is the self-devotion that braves all danger to save a life that is deartous, or solace the distress which rends a heart responsive to our own. But thus to travel unknown lands, to arrive without being expected, to blush before the one beloved, for the unasked proof thus given of his power — painful degradation ! What would it be if we thus involved the happiness of others, and outraged our duty to more sacred bonds? Corinne was free. She sacrificed but her own peace and glory. Her conduct was irrational, indeed, but it could over- cloud no destiny save hers.* On landing in England, Corinne learned from the papers that Lord Kevil's departure was still delayed. She saw no society in London except the family of a banker, to whom she had been recommended under a false name. He was interested in her at first sight, and en- joined his wife and daughter to pay her all the attentions in their power. She fell dangerously ill, and, for a fortnight, her new friends watched over her with the most tender care. She heard that Lord Nevil was in Scotland, but must shortly rejoin his regiment in Lon- don. She knew not how to announce herself, as she had not written to him respecting her intentions — indeed, Oswald had not received a letter from her for three months. He mentally accused her of infi- delity, as if he had any right to complain. On his return to town, he went first to his agents, where he hoped to find letters from Italy, there were none; and, as he was musin" over this silence, he encoun- tered Mr. Edgarmond, who asked him for news of Corinne. "I hear nothing of her," he replied, irritably. — "That I can easily under- stand," added Edgarmond: "these Italians always forget a foreigner, once out of sight; one ought never to heed it; they would be too de- lightful if they united constancy with genius: it is but fair that our own women should have some advantage !" He squeezed Oswald's hand as he said this, and took leave, as he was just starting for Wales; but his few words had pierced their hearer's heart. — "I am wrong," he said, " to wish she should regret me, since I cannot con- stitute her happiness; but so soon to forget! This blights the past as well as the future." s Despite his father's will, he had resolved not to see Lucy more; and even scorned himself for the impression she had made on him. Condemned as he was to defeat the hopes of Corinne, he felt that, at least, he ouglit to preserve his heart's faith inviolately hers: no duty urged him to forfeit that. He renewed his solicitations in her cause, by letters to Lady Edgarmond, who did not even deign to answer them: meanwhile, Mr. -Dickson assured him that the only way of mejfing her to his wishes would be — marrying her daughter; whose * The CorinneB of this world care little how they pain the Castel Fortes. The mere esteem of Bach a mua would have beeu worth ereu the lov« Q{ twenty 0»i wilds.— Tb. * ■ CORINNE IN SCOTLANB. 243 establishment, she feared Corinne mi^lit frustrate, if she resumed her name, and was received by her family. Fate had hitherto spared her the pang of suspecting Oswald's interest in her sister. Never was she herself more worthy of him than now. During her illness, the candid, simple beings by whom she was surrounded, had given her a sincere taste for English habits and manners. The few persona she saw were anything but distinguished, yet possessed an estimable strength, and justice of mind. Tlieir affection for her was less pro- fessing than that to which she had beea accustomed, but evinced ■with every opportunity by fresh good offices. The austerity of Lady Edgarmond, the tedium of a small country town, had cruelly misled her as to the kindness, the true nobility to be found in the country she had abandoned : unluckily, she now became attached to it under such circumstances, that it would have been better for her own peace had she never been untaught her dislike. CHAPTER IT. The banker's family, who were forever studying how to prove their friendship, pressed Corinne to see Mrs. Siddons perform Isabella, in the Fatal Marriage, one of tlic characters in which that great actress best displayed her admirable genius. Corinne refused for some time: at last, she remembered that Lord Nevil had often compared her manner of recitation with that of Mrs. Biddons: she was therefore "anxious to see her, and thickly veiled, went to a small box, whence she could see all, herself unseen. Slie knew not if Oswald was in London, but feared to be recognized by any one who might have met her in Italy. The commanding beauty and deep sensibility of the heroine so riveted her attention, that, during the earliest acts, her eyes were never turned from the stage. "" English declamation is better calculated than any other to Umch the soul, especially when such fine talents igive- it all its power and originality. It is less artificial, less conventional than that of Frsince. The impressions produced are more immediate — for thus would true despair express itself; the plots and versification of English dramas too are less remote from real life, and their effect more heart-rending. It requires far higher genius to become a great actor in France, so little liberty being left to individual manner, so much influence at- tached to general rules; (33) but in England you may risk anything, if inspired by nature. The long groans that appear ridiculous if described, make those shudder who hear them. Mrs. Siddons, the most nobly -mannered woman who ever adorned a theater, lost none of her -dignity by prostrating herself on the earth. There is no action but may become graceful, if prompted by an impulse which lises from the depths of the breast, and lords it over the mind which jj44 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. conceives it still more than over its witnesses. Various nations Eaye their different styles of tragic acting, but the expression of grief is understood from one end of the world to the other; and, from the sav- age to the king, there is some similarity between all men while they are really suffering. Between the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed that all eyes were turned towards a box, in which she beheld Lady Edgarmond and her daughter; she could not doubt that it was Lucy, much as the last seven years had embellished her form. The death of a rich rela- tion had obliged Lady Edgarmond to visit London, and settle the succession of his fortune. Lucy was more dressed than usual;* and it was long since so beauteous a girl had been seen, even in England, where the women are so lovely. Corinne felt a melancholy surprise: she thought it impossible for Oswald to resist that countenance. On comparing herself with her sister, she was so conscious of her own inferiority, that she exaggerated (if such exaggeration be possible) the chkrm of that fair complexion, those golden curls, and innocent blue eyes — that image of life's spring! She felt almost degraded in setting her own mental acquirements in competition with gifts thus lavished by Heaven itself. Suddenly, in an opposite box, she perceived Lord Nevil, whose gaze was fixed on Lucy. What a moment for Corinnel She once more beheld that face, for which she had so long searched her memory every instant, as if the image could be effaced — she be- held it again — absorbed by the beauty of another. Oswald could not guess the -presence of Corinne; but if his eye had even wandered to- wards her, she might, from such a chance, have drawn a happy omen, Mrs. Siddons reappeared, and Lord Nevil looked but on her. Corinne breathed again, trusting that mere curiosity had drawn his glace towards Lucy. The tragedy became every moment more affecting; and the fair girl was bathed in tears, which she strove to conceal, by retiring to the back of her box. Nevil noticed this with increased interest. At last the dreadful instant came when Isabella, laughing at the fruitless efforts, of those who^ would restrain her, stabs herself to the heart. That despairing laugh is the most diteciil't and powerful effect which tragic acting can produce ; its bitter irony moves one to more than tears. How terrible must be the suffering that Inspires so barbarous a joy, and in the sight of our own blood, feels the ferocious pleasure tliat one might experience when taking full revenue upon some savage foe. It was evident that Lucy's agitation had alarmed her mother, whe turned anxiously towards her. Oswald rose, as if he would hav&> flown to them; but he soon reseated himself, and Corinne felt some • If Englishwomen ever do go Into pnblic immediately after the dettli of a near relation, it must be in deep monruiii^. Coriime saw these wonders very plainly, consideiine that Lady Edgarmond and Lncy sat ou the same side of the hoase witU hormlf : wBlch most liave beau the ca8e,by her calling Oswald's an of^iosite boB<— CORINNB IN SCOTLAND. 34S relief ; yet she sighed: " My sister Lucy, once so dear to me, lias a feeling heart ; why should I then wish to deprive her of a blessing she may enjoy without impediment, without any sacrifice^on Os- wald's part?" When the play concluded, Corinne stayed until the parties who were leaving the house had gone, that she might avoid recognition ; she concealed herself near the door of her box, where she could see what passed near her. As soon as Lucy came out, a crowd assem- bled to look on her; and exclamations in praise of her beauty were heard from all sides, which greatly embarrassed her ; the infirm Lady Edgarmond was ill able to brave the throng, despite the cares of her child, and the politeness shown them both ; but they knew no one, therefore no gentleman dared accost them. Lord Nevil, seeing/their situation, hastened to offer each an arm.' Lucy, blushing and down- cast, availed herself of this attention. They passed close by Co- rinne, whom Oswald little suspected of witnessing a sight so painful: he was proud of thus escorting one of the handsomest girls in Eng- land through the numerous admirers who followed her steps.f CHAPTER V. Corinne returned to her dwijlling in cruel disquiet; not knowing what steps to take, how to apprise Nevil of her arrival, nor what to say in defense of her motives ; for every instant lessened her confi- dence in his.love : sometimes it seemed as if the man she sought to see again were some passionately beloved stranger, who, could not even recognize her. She sent to his house the next evening, and was infomjed that he had gone to Lady Edgannond's ; the same answei was brought her on the following day, with tidings that her lady- ship was ill, and would return to Northumberland on her recovery. Corinne waited for her removal ere she let Oswald know she was in England. Every evening she walked by her step-mother's residence, and saw bis carriage at its door. An inexpressible oppression seized on her heart ; yet she daily persevered, and daily received the same shock. She erred, however, in supposing that Oswald was there as the suitor of Lucy. As he I'-d Lady Edgarmond to her carriage, after the play, she told him that Corinne was concerned in the wUl of their late kins- man ; and begged that he would write to Italy on the arrangements made in the affair. As-Oswald promised to call, he fancied he felt * If po scrnpnions a person as Lady Edgannond would take lier dangbter to a theater without maleprutectioii, she could not, fortunately, have beeu exposed to all these anuoyances. Our private boxes are few. Each side has its own passage and sbilrcaee. Oewald might make bis way from one to the other ; but if all the individuals on oue side left the house as soon^as the tragedy concluded, they could 'taot, after quitting their boxes, be thus seen by' the parties opposite, I UAve vainlT sndeavorad to clear this obscority .— Ts. S46 COftlltNE; OR, ITALY. - the hand of Lucy tremble. Corinne's silence persuaded him that h-> ■was no longer dear to her ; and the emotion of this young giil gave him the idea tliat she was interested in him. Yet he thought not of breaking his promise to Corinne : the ring she held was a pledge that he would never marry another, without her consent. He sought her step-mother next day, merely on her account ; but Lady Edgarmond was so ill, and her daughter so uneasy at finding herself in London without another relative near her, without even knowing to what physician she should apply, that, in duty to the friends of his father, Oswald felt he ought to devote his time to their service. The cold, proud Lady Edgarmoud had never softened so much as she did now ; letting him visit her every day ■without his having said a ■word that could be construed Into a proposal for her daughter, whose beauty, rank, and f ortuna rendered her one of the first matches in England. Since her appearance in public, her address had been eagerly inquired, and her door be- sieged by the nobility; yet her mother went nowhere — received no one but Lord Nevil. Could he avoid feeling flattered by this silent and delicate generosity, which trusted him without conditions, with- out complaint? yet every time he went did he fear that his presence would be interpreted into nn engagement. He would have ceased to go thither as soon as Corinne's business was settled, but that Lady Edgarmond underwent a relapse, more dangerous than her first attack; and had she died, Lucy would have had no friend beside her but himself. She had never breathed a word that could assure him of her preference; yet he fancied he detected it in the light but sudden changes of her cheek, the abrupt fall of her lashes, and the rapidity of her breathing. He studied her young heart with tender interest; and her reserve left him always uncertain as to the ^nature ^ of her sentiments. The highest eloquence of passion cannot en- tirely satisfy the fancy; we desire something beyond it; and not finding that, must either cool or sate; while the faint light which we perceive -through clouds, long keeps our curiosity in suspense, and- seems to promise a whole future of new discoveries ; this expectation is never gratified; for when we know what all this mystery hid, its charm is gone, and we awake to regret the candid impulses of a more animated character. How then can we prolong the heart's enchantment, since doubt and confidence, rapture and , misery, alike destroy it in the end? These heavenly joys belong not to our fate; they never cross our path, save to remind us of our immortal origin and hopes. Lady Edgarmond' was better; and talked of departing, in two days, for her estate in Scotland, near that of Lord Nevil, whither he -had purposed going before the embarkation of his regimeni: she anticipated his proposing to accompany her, but he said nothing. Lucy gazed on him in silence for a moment, then hastily rose, and ■went to the window: on some pretext Nevil shortly followed het, CORINNE IN SCOTLAITO. U7 and fancied that her lids were wet with tears: he eighed, and the, forgetfulness of which he had accused Corinne returning to his memory, he asked himself whether this young creature might not prove more capable of constant love? Bfe wished to atone for the paiu. he had inflicted. It is delightful to rekindle smiles on a coun- tenance so nearly infantine. Grief is out of place, where even reflection has yet left no trace. There was to be a review in Hyde Park on the morrow , he therefore entreated Lady Edgarmond to drive there with her daughter, and afterwards permit his taking a ride with Lucy beside her carriage. Miss Edgarmond had once said that she greatly wished to mount a horse, and looked at her mother with appealing submission: after a little deliberation, the invalid held out her wasting hand to Oswald, saying: "If you request it, my Lord, I consent." These wOrds so alarmed him, that he would have abandoned his own proposal; but that Lucy, with a vivacity she hia,d never before betrayed, took her mother's hand, and kissed It gratefully. He had not the courage to deprive an innocent being, who led so lonely a life, of an amusement she so much desired. CHAPTER VI For a fortnight, Corinne had endured the severest anxiety; every morning she hesitated whether she should write to Oswald; every evening she had the inexpressible grief of knowing that he was with Lucy. Her sufferings made her . daily more timid : she blushed to think that he might not approve the step she had taken. "Perhaps," she often said, "all thoughf of Italy is banished from liis breast: he no longer needs in woman a gifted mind or an impassioned heart; all that can please him now Is the angelic beauty of sixteen, the fresh and diffident soul that conse- crates to him its first emotions." Her imagination was so struck with the advantages of her young sister, that "she was abashed, disarmed, depreciatingly disgusted with herself. Though not yet eight-and-twenty, she had already reached that era when women sadly distrust their power to please. Her pride and jealousy con- tending, made her defer from day to day the dreaded yet desired moment of her meeting with Oswald. She learned that his regiment would be reviewed, and resolved on being present. She thought it probable that Lucy would be there : if so, she would trust her own eyes to judge the state of Nevil's heart. A.t first, she thought of dress- ing herself with care, and suddenly appearing before him; but at her toilet, her black hair, her skin slightly embrowned by the Italian sun, her prominent features, all discouraged her. She remembered the ethereal aspect of her sister; and, throwing aside her rich array, Assumed a black Yenetiaa garb, covered her head and figure with the 248 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. mantle ■worn in that country, and threw herself into a coach. In Hyde Park, she found groaps of gentlemen, attired with simplo elegance, escorting their fair and modest ladies. The virtues proper to each sex seemed thus to meet. Scarcely was she there ere she beheld Oswald at tlie head of his corps: its men looked up to him with confidence and devotion. The uniform lent him a more impos- ing air than usual, and he reined his charger with perfectly graceful dexterity. The band played pieces of music at once proud and sweet, which seemed nobly enjoying the sacrifice of life: among them, " God save the King." so dear to English hearts; and Corinne exclaimed: "Respected land ! which ought to be my own! why did I ever leave thee ? What matters more or less of personal fame, amid so much true merit? and what glory could equal that of being called Lord Nevil's worthy wife?" The martial instruments recalled to her mind the perils he must brave so soon. Unseen by him she gazed through her tears, sighing: " Oh, may he live, though it be not for me! My God! it is Oswald only I implore thee to preserve !" At this moment Lady Edgarmond's carriage drove up. Nevil bowed respectfully, and lowered the point of his sword. No one who looked on Lucy but admired her: Oswald's glances pierced the heart of Corinne: she knew their mean- jig well, for such had once been bent on her. The horses he had .ent to Lady Edgarmond passed to and fro with exquisite speed, while the equipage of Corinne was drawn after these flying coursers almost as slowly as a hearse. " It was not thus," she thought, "that I approached the Capitol : no ; he has dashed me from my car of triumph into an abyss of misery. I love him and the joys of life are lost. I love him and the gifts of nature fade. Pardon him, O, my God! when I am gone." Oswald was now close to her vehicle. The Italian dress caught his eye, and he rode round, in hopes of beliolding the face of this unknown. Her heart beat violently/ and all her fear was that she should faint and be discov- ered; but she restrained her feelings; and Lord Nevil relinquished the idea which be^t him. When the review was over, to avoid again attracting his attention, she alighted, and retired behind the trees, so as not to be observed. Oswald then went up to Lady Edgar- mond, and showed her a very gentle horse, which his servants had brought hither for Lucy; lier mother bade him be very careful of her. He dismounted, and, hat in hand, converaed through the car- riage door with so feeling an expression, that Corinne could attribute this regard for the mother to nothing less than an attachment for the daughter. Lucy left the carriage: a riding habit charmingly defined th«r elegant outline of her figure: she wore a black hat with white plumes — her fair silken lo6ks floating airily about her smiling face. Oswald placed bis hand as her step: she had expected this service from a domestic, and blushed at receiving it from him ; but he insisted, and at last, she set her little foot in hia hand, then sprung so lightly OORINNE m SCOTLAND. 249 to her saddle, that she seemed one of those .sylphid shapes which fancy paints in colors so delicate. She set off at a gallop. Oswald followed, never losing sight of her: once the horse made a false step: he instantly checked it, examining the bit and bridle with the most kind solicitude. Shortly afterwards the animal ran away. Oswald turned pale as death, spurring his own steed to an incredible fleetness; in a second he overtook that of Lucy, leaped from his seat, and threw Mmself before her. She shuddered in her turn lest she should harm him ; but with one hand he seized her rein, supporting her with the other, as she gently leaned against him. What more needed Oorinne to convince her of Oswald's love for Lucy ? Did she not see all the signs of interest which for- merly he lavished on herself? Nay, to her eternal despair, did she not read in his eyes a more revering deference than he had ever shown to her? Twice she drew the ring from her finger, and was ready to break through the crowd, that she might throw it at his feet: the hope of dying in this effort encouraged her resolution; but where is the woman, even born beneath a southern ^ky, who does not tremble at attracting the attention of a crowd? She was returning to her coach; and as she crossed a somewhat deserted walk, OswsUl again noticed the black figure he before had seen; and it now made a stronger impression on him then at first: he attributed his emotion to remorse, at liaving, for the first time, felt his heart faithless to the image of Corinne; yet he resolved on starting for Scotland, as his regiment was not to embark for some time. CHAPTER VII. Prom this moment Corinne's reason was affected, and her strength decayed! She began a letter to Lord Nevil, full of bitter upbraid- ings, and then tore it up. "What avail reproaches?" she thought: " could love be the most pure, most generous of our sentiments, if it were not involuntary? Another face, another voice, command iho secret of his heart: all is said fJiat can be said." She began a new letter, depicting the monotony he would find in a union with Lucy; essayed to prove that, without a perfect harmony of soul and mind, no happiness could last; but she destroyed this paper more hastily than the other. "If he already knows not my opinions, I cannot teach him now," she said; "besides, ought I to speak thus of my sister? is she so greatly my inferior as I think? and, if she be, is it for me, who, like a mother, pressed her in childhood to my heart, to. -point out her deficiencies? no, nol we must not thus value our own mclinations above all price. This life, full as it is of wishes, must have an end; ia,nd, even before death, meditation may wean us from' its selfishness." . Once more she resumed her pen, to teU but of her CORINNE; OR, ITALY. '; yet, in expressing it, she felt sucli pity for lierself that her lowed over every word. " No," she said again, " I cannot liis: if he resisted it, I should hate him; if he yielded, how I hut it would be by a sacrifice? even after which he would be ;d by the memory of another. I had better see him, speak lim, and return his ring. " She folded it in paper, on which ily wrote, "You are free;" and, putting it in her bosom, ;d the evening ere slie could approach. In open day, she have blushed before all she met; and yet she sought to antici le moment of his visit to Lady Edgarmond. At six o'clock, jre, she set forth, trembling like a condemned criminal — we so fear those we love, when once our confidence is lost. The of a passionate affection is, in the eyes of woman, either her protector or most dreaded master. Corinne stopped her equip- Lord Nevil's door, and in a hesitating voice asked the portei ras lit home; but the man replied: "My Lord set out for Scot- alf an hour ago, madam." This intelligence pressed heavily ' heart: she had shrunk from the thought of meeting Oswald, r soul had surmounted that inexpressible emotion. The effort lade: she believed herself about to hear his voice, and now ake some new resolution ere she could regain it; wait some onger, and sloop to one step more. Yet, at all hazards, she lee him again; and the next day she departed for Scotland. CHAPTER VIII. quitting London, Nevil again called on his agents; and, on s; no letter from Corinne, bitterly asked himself if he to give up the certainty of permanent domestic peace for rho, perhaps, no longer remembered him. Yet he decided iting once more to inquire the cause of this silence, and her that, till she sent back his ring, he would never be the Qd of another. He completed his journey in a very gloomy loving Lucy almost unconsciously ; for he had, as yet, ly heard her speak twenty words — yet regretting Corinne, and rcumstances which separated him from her ; by fits yielding innocent beauty of the one, and retracing the brilliant grace ilime eloquence of the other. Had he but known that Corinne him better than ever, that she had quitted everything to fol- im, he would never have seen Lucy more ; but he believed If forgotten, and told his heart that a cool manner might oft al deep f «elings. He was deceived. Impassioned spirits must ' themselves a thousand ways : tliat whidli can alvcayt be con- i must needs be weak. >ther eveat added to his Interest in Lucy. In returning to bis CORHWE IN SCOTLAND. 261 •states, he passed so near her mother's, that curiosity urged him to visit it. He asked to be shown the room in which Miss Edgaimond usually studied: It was filled by remembrances of the time his father had passed there during his own absence in France. On the spot where, a few months before his death, the late Lord Nevil had given her lessons, Lucy had erected a marble pedestal, on which was graven, "To the memory of my second father." A book lay on the table. Oswald opened it, and found a collection of his father's thoughts, who in the first page had written : " To her who has solaced me in zr.j sorrows ; the maid whose angelic soul will constitute the glory and happiness of her husband." With what emotion Oswald read these lines! in which the opinion of the re- vered dead was so warmly expressed. He interpreted Lucy's silence on this subject into a delicacy which feared to extort his vows by an idea of duty. "It was she, thee." he cried, "who softened the pangs I dealt him ; and shall I desert her while her motherls dying, and she has no comforter but myself? Ah, Corinne I brilliant and admired as thou art, thou dost not, like Lucy, stand in need of one devoted friend !" Alas I she was no longer brilliant, no longer ad- mired, wandering from town to town, without overtaking the being for whom she had lost all, and whom she could not forget. She was taken ill at an inn, half-way between London and Edinburgh, and, in spite of all her efforts, unable to continue her journey. She often thought, during her long nights of suffering, that if she died there, none but Thferfesina would know the name to inscribe upon her tomb. What a changed fate for the woman who could not leave her house in Italy without being followed by a host of worshipers? Why should one single feeling thus despoil a whole life? After a week of intense agony, she resumed her route : so many painful fears mingled with the hope of seeing Oswald, that her expectation was but a sad anxif ty. She designed to rest a few hours on her father's land, where his tomb had been erected, never having been there since; indeed, she only spent one month on this estate with Lord Edgarmond, the happiest portion of her stay in England. These recollections inspired her with a wish to revisit their scene. She knew not that her step-mother was there already. Some miles ifrom the house, perceiving that a carriage had been overturned, sh« stopped her own, and saw an old gentleman extricated from that which had broken down, much alanned by the shock. Corinne hur- ried to his assistance, and offered him a share of her conveyance .to the neighboring town: he accepted it gratefully, announcing himself as Mr. Dickson : she remembered that Nevil had often mentioned that name, and directed the conversation to the only subject which interested her in life. Mr. Dickson was the most willing gossip in the world; and ignorant who his companion was, believed her an English lady, with no private interest in the questions she asked, therefore told her all he kne-vt most minutely; her atteotions h|i4 iSli CORINNEj OR. ITALY. conciliated him; and, in return, he trusted that his confidence might entertain hw. He doscribed how he had informed Lord Nevil of his parent's wishes, and repeated an extract from the late Lord's letter, often exclaiming: "He expressly forbade Oswald's marriage with this Italian — and they cannot brave his will without insulting his memory." Mr. Bickson added, that Oswald loved Lucy, was beloved by her; that her mother strongly desired their union, hut that this foreign engage- ment prevented it. "How!" said Corinne, striving to disguise her agitation ; " do you think that the sole barrier to his happi ness with Miss Edgarmond?" — "I am sure of it," he answered, delighted with her inquiries. " It is but three days since Lord Nevil said to me: -If I were free, I would marry Lucy.' — "If he were free!" sighed Corinne. At that moment, the carriage stopped at tlie hotel to which she had promised Mr. Dickson her escort. He thanked her, and begged to know where he might see her again. She wrung his hand, without power to speak, and left him. Late as it was, she resolved that evening to visit the grave of her father. The disorder of her mind rendered this sacred pilgrimage more necessary than ever. CHAPTER IX. Lady Edgarinond had been two days on her estate, where, that night, she had invited all her neighbors and tenants; and there was Oswald with Lucy, when Corinne arrived. She saw many carriages in the avenue; and alighted on the spot where her father had once treated her witli such tenderness. What a contrast between those days, when she had thought herself so unfortunate, and her present situation! Thus are we punished for our fancied woes, by real calamities, which but too well teach us what true sorrow means. Corinne bade lier servant ask the cause of all this light and bustle. ■ A doniestic replied: "La(hr Edgarmfftid gives a ball to-night; which my master. Lord Hevil, has opened with the heiress." Corinne shuddered; but a painful curiosity prompted her to ap- proach the place where so miich misery threatened her: and motion- ing for her people to withdraw, she entered tUe open gates alone; the obscurity permitted her to walk the park unseen. It was ten o'clock; , Oswald had been Lucy's partner in those English country dances, which they recommence five or six times in the evening — the same gentleman always dancing with the same lady, and the greatest grlvity sometimes reigning over this party of pleasure. Lucy danced nobly, but without vivacity. The feeling which absorbed her added to her natural seriousness. As the whole country was inquisitive to know whether she loved Oswald, the unusually ob- CORINNE IN SCOTLAND. 253 servant looks she met, prevented her ever raising her eyes to his; and her embarrassment was such, that she could scarcely hear or see anything. This deeply affected him at first; but as it never varied, he soon began to weary a little; and compared this long range of men and women, and their monotonous music, with the animated airs and graceful dances of Italy. These reflections plunged him into a reverie ; and Corinne might yet have tasted some moments of happiness could she have guessed his thoughts; but, like a stranger on her paternal soil, alone, though so near the man she had hoped to call her husband, she roved at hazard through the dark walks of grounds she once might have deemed her own. The earth seemed failing beneath her feet ; and the fever of despair alone supplied her with strength: perhaps she might meet Oswald in the garden, she thought, though scarce knowing what she now desired. The mansion was built on an eminence; a river ran at its base; there were many trees on one bank ; the other was formed of rocks, covered with briers. Corinne drew near the water, whose murmur blended with the distant music: the gay lamps were re- flected on its surface ; while the pale light of the moon alone irradiated the wilds on the opposite side. She thought of Hamlet, in which a specter wanders round the festal palace. One step, and this forsaken woman might have found eternal oblivion. "To-morrow," she cried, "when he strays here with a band of joyous friends, if his triumphant steps encountered the remains of her who was once so dear to him, would he not suffer something like what I bear now? would not his grief avenge me? yet, no, no 1 it is not vengeance I would seek in death, only repose." Silently she contemplated this stream, flowing in rapid regularity; fair nature! better ordered than ttiSTmman soul. SUE remembered the day on which Nevil had saved the drowning man. " How good he was then !" she wept forth, " and may be still ; why blame him for my woe's ? he may not guess them — perhaps if he could see me She determined, in the midst of this f@te, to demand a moment's interview with Lord Nevil; and walked to- wards the house, under the impulse of a newly adopted decision, which succeeds to long uncertainty; but as she approached it, such a tremor seized her, that sbe was obliged to sit down on a stone bench which faced the windows. The throng of rustics, assembled to look in upon the dancers, prevented her being seen. Oswald, at this moment, came to a balcony, to breathe the fresh evening air. Some roses that grew there reminded him of Corinne's favorite perf umei,"' and he started. This long entertainment tired him, accustomed as he had been to her good taste and intelligence : and he felt that it was only in domestic life he could find pleasure with such a companion as Lucy. All that in the least degree belonged to the world of poetry and the fine arts bade him regret Corinne. While he was in this 25 1 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. mood, a fellow-guest joined him, and his adorer once more heard him speak. Wha* inexplicable sensations are awakened by the voice we love! What a confusion of softness and of dread! They are impres- sions of such force, tliat our poor feeble nature is terrified at itself, while we experience them. "Don't you think this a charming ball?" asked the gentleman. — " Yes," returned Oswald, abstractedly, " yes, indeed!" and he sighed. That sigh, that melancholy tone, thrilled Coriune's heart with joy. She thought herself secure of regaining his, of again being under- stood by him, and rose, precipitately, to bid a servant call Lord Nevil; had she obeyed her inclination, how different had been the destiny of both! But at that instant Lucy came to the window; and seeing through the darkness of the garden a female simply drest in white, her curiosity was kindled. She leaned forward, and gazed attentively, believing that she recognized the features of her sister who, she thought, had been for seven years dead. The terror this sight caused her was so great that she fainted. Every one hastened ,to her aid; Corinue could find no servant to bear her message, and withdrew into deeper shade, to avoid remark. Lucy dared not disclose what had alarmed her; but as her mother had, from infancy, instilled into her mind the strongest sense of de votion, she was persuaded that the image of her sister had appeared, gliding before her to their father's tomb, as if to reproach Ler for holding a fSte in that scene ere she had f ulfiUeii her sacred duty to his honored dust : as soon as she was secure from observation, she left the ball. Corinne, astonished at seeing lier alone in the garden, imagined that Oswald would soon follow her, and that pirhaps he had besought a private meeting to obtain her leave for naming his suit to her mother. This thought kept her motionless; but she saw that Lucy bent her steps towards a small grove, which she well knew most lead to Lord Edgarmond's grave ; and, accusing herself of not having earlier borne thither her own regrets, followed her sister at some distance, unseen. She soon perceived the black sarcophagus raised over the remains of their parent. Filial tenderness overpow- ered her; she supported herself against a tree. Lucy also paused, and bent her head respectfully. Corinne was ready to discover her- self, and, in their father's name, demand her rank and her betrothed; but the fair girl made a few hurried steps towards the tomb, and the victim's courage failed. There is such timidity, even in the most impetuous female heart, that a trifle will restrain as a trifle can excite it. Lucy knelt, removed the garland which had bound her hair, and raised her eyes to Heaven with an angelic appeal: her face was softly illumined by the moon- bgamfe, and Corinne's heart melted withthe purest generosity. She contemplated the chaste and pious expression of that almost childish risage, and remembered how she had watched over it in infancy: her «wn youth was waning, while Lucy had before her a lon« f utuiity. THE ADIEU TO EOTtfE. 253 that ought not to be troubled by any recollections ■which she might shame at confessing, either before the ■world or to her o.wn conscience. "If I accost her," thought Corinne, "that soul, so peaceful now, ■will be disturbed, perhaps, forever. I have already borne so much, that I can suffer on ; but the innocent Lucy ■would pass, in a momeni from perfect calm to the most cruel agitation. Can I, -who have lulled her to sleep on my bosom, hurl her into the ocean of grief?" Love still combated this disinterested elevation of mind, ■when Lucy said aloud;' "Pray for me, oh, my father!" Corinne sunk on her knees, and mutely besouglit a paternal benediction on them both, •with tears more stainless than those of love. Lucy audibly continued: " Dear sister, intercede for me in heaven! Friend of my childhood, protect me now!" How Corinne's bosom yearned toward her, aa Lucy, with added fervor, resumed: "Pardon me father, a brief for- getf ulness, caused by the sentiment yourself commanded ! 1 am not, sure, to blame for loving him you chose to be my husband. Achieve your work! Inspire him to select me as the partner of his hfe! I shall never be happy, save with him; but my fluttering heart sliall not betray its secret. Oh, my Godl My father console your child! ren- der her worthy the esteem of Oswald/" — " Tes," whispered Corinne, " kind father, grant her prayer, and give your other child a peaceful grave!" Thus solemnly concluding the greatest effort of which her soul was capable, she took from her breast the paper which contained. Oswald's ring, and rapidly withdrew. She felt that in sending this, without letting him know where she was, she should break all their ties, and yield him to her sister. In the presence of that tomb, she had been more conscious than ever of the obstacles which separated them: her own father, as well as Oswald's, seemed to condemn their love. Lucy appeared deserving of him ; and Corinne, at least for the moment, was proud to sacrifice herself, that _he might live at peace ■with his country, his family, and his own heart. The music which she heard from the house sustained her firmness: she saw an old blind man, seated at the foot of a tree to listen, and begged he would present her letter to one of the servants; thus she escaped the risk of Oswald's discovering who had brought it; for no one could have seen her give the paper, without being assured that it contained the fate of her whole life. Her looks, her shaking hand, her hollow voice, bespoke one of those awful moments, when destiny overrules us, and we act but as the slaves of that fatality which so long pursued us. Corinne watched the old man, led by his faithful dog, give her letter to a servant of Nevil's, who, by chance, was carrying others . into the house. All things conspired to banish her last hope: she made a few steps towards the gaie, turning her head to mark the servant's entrance. When she no longer saw him — when she was on the high road, the lights and music lost, a deathlike damp rose to her brow, a chill ran through her frame; she tottered on, but nature refused the task, and she fell senseless by the way. CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. BOOK XVIII. THE SOJOTTEN AT FLOREM* CHAPTER I. t- Count d'Erfeuil having passed some time in Switzerland, we»ri«d at nature 'mid the Alps, as he had tired of the arts at Rome, and suddenly resolved to visit England. He had heard that he should find much depth of thought there, and woke one morning to the convic- tion of that being the very tiling he wished to meet. This third search after pleasure had succeeded no better than its predecessors, but his regard for Nevil spurred him on; and he assured himself, another morning, that friendship was the greatest bliss on earth; therefore he went to Scotland. Not seeing Oswald at his home, but learning that he was gone to Lady Bdgarmoud's, the Count leaped on his horse to follow ; so much did he believe that he longed to meet him. As he rode quickly on he saw a female extended motionless upon the road, and instantly dismounted to assist her. What was his horror at recognizing, through their mortal paleness, the features of Corinne! With tte liveliest sympathy he helped his servant to ar- range some branches as a litter, intending to convey her to Lady Ed- garmond's, when Thferfesina, who till now had remained in her mistress's carriage, alarmed at her absence, came to the spot, and, certain that no one but Lord Nevil could have reduced her lady to this state, begged that she might be borne to the neighbor- ing town. The Count followed her ; and for eight days, during which she suffered all the delirium of fever, he never left her. Thus it was the frivolous man who pioved faithful, while the man of sen- timent was breaking her heart. Tliis contrast struck Corinne, when sh^ recovered her senses, and she tUanked d'Erfeuil with great feel- ing: he replied by striving to console her, more capable of noble ac- tions than of serious conversation. Corinne found him useful, but could not make him her friend. She strove to recall her reason, and thiok over what had passed; but it was long ere she could ismemt- THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE. 2^ feer sll she had done, and from what motive. Then, perhaps, she Kioaghther sacrifice too great; and hoped, at least, to bid Lord Neril a last adieu, ere she left England; but the day after she regained her faculties chance threw a newspaper in her way. which contained the following paragraph: " Lady Edgaruiond has lately learned that her step-daughter, who she believed had died in Italy, is still enjoying great literary celebrity at Rome, under the name of Corinne. Her ladyship, much to her own honor, acknowledges, the fair poet, and is desirous of sharing with her the fortune left by Lord Edgarmoud's brotlier, who died in India. The marriage contract was yesterday signed, between his Lordship's youngest daughter (the only child of his widow) and Lord Nevil, who, on Sunday next, leads Miss Lucy Edgarmond to the altar." Unfortunately, Corinne lost not her consciousness after reading this announcement; a sudden change took place within her; all the interests of life were lost; she felt like one condemned to death, who had not known, till now, when her sentence would be executed ; and from this moment the resignation of despair was the only sen- sation of her breast. D'Erfeuil entered her room; and, finding her even paler than while in her swoon, anxiously asked her the news. She replied gravely: "I am no longer ill; to-morrow is the Sabbath; I will go to Plymouth, and embark for Italy." — " I shall accompany you," he ardently returned. "I've nothing to detain me here, and shall be charmed at traveling with you." — " How truly' good you are 1" she said : "we ought not to judge from appearances." Then, after checking herself, added: "I accept your guidance to the sea- port, because 1 am not sure of my own ; but, once on board, the ship will bear me on, no matter in what state I may be." She signed for him to leave her, and wept long before her God, begging him to sup-- port her beneath this sorrow. Nothing was left of the irnpetuous Corinne. The active powers of her life were all exhausted; and this annihilation, for which she could scarcely account, restored her composure. Grief had subdued hei^ Sooner or later all rebellious" heaas must bow to the samfl yoke. •"It is to-day !" sighed Corinne, as she woke: "it is to-day r| and entered her carriage witli d'Erfeuil. He questioned her, but she pould not reply. "They passed a church: she asked his leave to enter for a moment; then, kneeling before the altar, prayed for Os- wald and for. Lucy: but when she would have risen she staggered, . and could not take one step without the support of Theresma and the Count, who had followed her. All present made way for her, with every demonstration of pity. " I look very miserable, then?" she said; "the young and lovely, at this hour, are leaving such a scene in triumph." The Count scarcely understood these words. Kind as he was, and much as he loved Corinne, he soon wearied of ter sadness, and strove to draw her from it, as if we had only to aaj CoBniHx.— 9. 258 OORINNE; OR, ITALY. wa imK forget all woes of life, and do so. Sometimes he cried: "1 told you how it would be." Strange mode of comforting; but such is the satisfaction which vanity tastes at the e3cpen«e of misfortune. Corinne fruitlessly strove to conceal her sufferings; for we are ashamed of strong affections in the presence of the light-minded, and bashful in all feelings that must be explained ere comprehended — those secrets of the heart that can only be consoled by those who guess them. Corinne was displeased with herself, as not suflSciently grateful for the Count's devotion to her service; but in his looks, is words, his accents, there were so much which wandered in search of amusement, that she was often on the point of forgetting his gen- erous actions, as he did himself. It is doubtless very magnanimous to set small price on our own good deeds, but that indifference, so admirable in itself, may be carried to an extreme which approaches an unfeeling levity. Corinne, duriu"; her delirium, hat', betrayed nearly all her secrets— the papers had since apprised d'Erf guil of the rest. He often wished to talk of what he called her affairs, but that word alone sufficed to freeze her confidence; and she entreated him to spare her the pain of breathing Lord Nevil's name. In parting with the Count, Corinne knew not how to express herself; for she was at once glad to antici- pate being alone, and grieved to lose a man who had behaved so well towards her. She strove to thank him, but he begged her so natur- ally not to speak of it, that she obeyed: charging him to inform Lady Edgarmond that she refused the legacy of her uncle; and to do so, as if she had sent this message from Itily; for she did not wish het step-mother to know she had been in England. " NorNevil?" asked the Count. " You may tell him soon, yes, very soon; my friends in Rome will let you know when." — " Take care of your health, at least," he added : ' ' don't you know that Jam uneasy about you?" — " Really I" she exclaimed, smiling, "not without cause, I believe." He offered her his arm to the vessel: at that moment she turned towards Eng- land, the country she must never more behold, where dwelt the sole object of her love and grief, and her eyes filled with the first s-td tears she had ever shed in d'Brfeuil's presence. " Lovely Corinne!" he said, "forget that iugrate! think of the friends so tenderly attached to you, and recollect your own advantages with pleasure. She withdrew her hand from him, and stepped back some paces; then blaming herself for this reproof, gently returned to bid him adieu: but he, having perceived nothing of what passed in her mind, got into the boat with her; recommended her earnestly to the cap- tain's care; busied himself most endearingly on all the details that could render her passage agreeable: and, when rowed ashore, waved liis handkerchief to the ship as long as he could be seen. Corinne returned his salute. Alas I was this the friend on whose attentions •he ought to have been thrown? Light loves last long; they are not tied so tight that they can break. "They are obscured or brought to THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE. 259 light by circumstances, while deep affections fly, never to return; and in tiieir places leave but cureless wounds. CHAPTER II, K lavoraole breeze bore Corinne to Leghorn m less than a mouth; she suffered from fever the whole time; and her debility was such that grief of mind was confused with the pain of illness; nothing seemed now distinct. She hesitated, on landing, whether she should proceed to Rome, or no; but though her best friends awaited her, she felt an insurmountable repugnance to living in the scenes where she had known Oswald. She thought of that door through which he '3ame to her twice every day; and the prospect of being there without him was too dreary. She decided on going to Florence; and believ- ing that her life could not long resist her sorrows, thus intended to detach herself by degrees from the world, by living alone, far from those who loved her, from.the city that witnessed her success, whose inhabitants would strive to reanimate her mind, expect her to appear what she had been, while her discouraged heart found every effort odious. In crossing fertile Tuscany, approaching flower-breathed Florence, Corinne felt but an added sadness.- How dreadful the despair which such skies fail to calm! One must feel either love or religion, in order to appreciate nature; and she had lost the first of earthly blessings, without having yet recovered the peace which piety alone can afford the unfortunate. Tuscany, a well- cultivated, smiling land, strikes not the imagination as do the environs of Rome and Naples. The primitive institutions of its early inhabitants liave been so effaced, that there scarcely remains one vestige of them; but another species of historic beauty exists in their stead — cities that bear the impress of the Middle Ages. At gienna, the public square wherein the people assembled, the balcony from which their magistrate harangued them, must catch the least reflecting eye, as proofs that there once flourished a demo- cratic government. It is a real pleasure to hear the Tuscans, even, of the lowest classes, speak: their fanciful phrases give one an idea of that Athenian Greek, which soundecT like a perpetual melody. It is a strange sensation to believe one's self amid a people all equally educated, all elegant ; such is the illusion rohich, for a moment, the purity of their language creates. The sight of Florence recalls its history, previous to the Medicean sway. The palaces of its best families are built like fortresses : with- out, are still seen the iron rings, to which the standards of each party were attached. All things seem to have been more arranged for the support of individual powers, than for their union in a com- mon caus«. The city appears forioed for civil war. There are j9oO CORINNE; OR, ITALY. towers attached to the Hall of Justice, whence the approach of the enemy could be discerned. Such were the feuds between certain houses, that you find dwellings inconveniently constructed, because their lords would not let them extend to the ground on whiih tbat qf some foe had been pulled down. Here the Pazzi . conspired against the Medici; there the Guelfs assassinated the Ghibellines. The marks of struggling rivalry are everywhere visible, though but in senseless stones. Nothing is now left for any pretenders but an inglorious state, not wortli disputing. The life led in Florence has become singularly monotonous: its natives walk every afternoon on the banks of the Arno, and every evening ask one another if they fume been there. Corinne settled at a little distance from the town; and let Prince Castel Forte know this, in the only letter she had strength to write: such was her horror of all habitual actions, that even the fatigue of giving the slightest order redoubled her distress. She sometimes passed her day in complete inactivity, retired to her pillow, rose again, .opened a book without the power to comprehend a line of it. Oft did she remain whole hours at her window; then would walk rapidly in her garden, cull its flowers, and seek to deaden her senses in their perfume; but the consciousness of life pursued her like an unrelenting ghost : she strove in vain to calm the devouring faculty of thought, which no longer presented hei with varied images; but one lone idea, armed with a thousand stings, that pierced her heart. ' - CHAPTER III. An hour passed in St. Peter's had been wont to compose her; and Corinne hoped to find the same efiect from visiting the churches of fair Florence. She walked beneath the fine trees of the river's bank, in a lovely eve of June. Roses embalmed the air, and every face expressed Uie general felicity from which she felt herself ex- cluded; yet she unenvyingly blessed her God for his kind care of nian. . " I am an exception to universal order," she said; " there is happiness for everyone but me: this power of suffering, beneath which I die, is then peculiar to myself. My GodI wherefore was I ■elected for such a doom 1 May I not say, like the Divine Son, 'Father, let this cup be taken Irom me?'" The active air of the inhabitants astonished her: since she had lost all interest in life, she knew not why others seemed occupied; and, slowly pacing the large stone pavement of Florence, she forgot where she had designed to go. At last, she found herself before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti, for the front of St. John's, which stands beside the cathedral. For some time she examined tiiis stupendous ■work ; where, wrought in bronze, the divers nations, though ot THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE. 261 minnte propartions, are distinctly marked by their varied phydog- nomies; all of which express some thought of their artist, "what patience!" cried Corinne; " what respect for posterity! yet how few scrutinize these doors, througli which so many daily pass, in heed- lessness, ignorance, or disdain ! How difficult it is to escape oblivioul how vast the power of death!" In this cathedral was Julian de Medicis assassinated. Not far thence, in the church of St. Lorenzo, is shown the marble chapel' enriched with precious stones, where rise the tombs of that high family, and Michael Angelo's statues of Julian and Lorenzo: the latter, meditating vengeance on the murder of his brother, deserves the houor of having been called "la pensee de Michel Angelo!"' At the feet of these figures are Aurora and Night. The awaking of the one is admirable; still more so is the other's sleep. A poet chose it for his theme, and concluded by saying: " Sound as is her slumber, she lives: if you believe not, wake her, she will speak." Angelo, who cultivated letters (without which imagination of all kinds must soon decay) replied: Grftto in'6 il eouo, e pifi I'esscr dl sasao, Montre dlie il daiino a la vergogna dnra, Noll Tcder, non eentiv ni'i gran ventpra, PerO uou ml destar, deh paila basso 1 " It is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone ; while shame and injustice last; not to see, not to hear, is a great blessing; therefore disturb me not! speak low!" This great man was the only comparatively modern sculptor who neither gave the human figure the beauty of the antique nor the affected air of our own day. You sec the grave energy of the Middle Ages— its perseverance, its passions, but no ideal beauty. He was the genius of his own school; and imitated no one, not even the ancients. This tomb is in the church of Santa Croce. At his desire, it faces a window whence may be seen the dome built by Filippo Brunelleschi: as if his ashes would stir, even beneath the marble, at the sight of a cupola copied from that of St. Peter's. Santa Croce contams some of the most illustrious dead in Europe. Galileo, per- secuted by man, for having discovered the secrets of the sky — Machiavel, who revealed the arts of crime rather as an observer than an actor; yet whose lessons are more available to the oppressors than the oppressed-rAretino, who consecrated his days to mirth, and found nothing serious in life except its end — Boccaccio, whose laughing fancy resisted the tmited scourges of civil war and plague — a picture in honor of Dante, showing that the Florentines, who permitted him to perish in exile, were not the less vain of his ^lory, (34) with many other worthy names, and some celebrated in their own day, but echo- ing less forcibly f rpm age to age, so that their sound is now almost BSieard/(ij^ This church, adorned with noble recollections, !»• aoa' CORINNE; OR, ITALY. kindled the enthusiasm of Corinne, which the living had repressed The silent presence of the great revived, for a moment, that emuls' tion which once she felt for fame. She stepped more steadfastly, and the high thoughts of other days arose within her breast. Soma young priests came slowly down the aisle, chanting in subdued tones: she asked the meaning of this ceremony. " We are praying for our dead," said one of them. "Right," thought Corinne; "your deadl well may you boast them ; they are the only noble relics left ye. Aht why then, Oswald, have you stifled all the gifts Heaven granted me,' with which I ought to excite the sympathy of kindred minds? O God!'.' she added, sinking on her knees, "it is not in vanity I dare entreat thee to give me back my talents: doubtless the lowly saints who lived and died for thee alone are greatest in thy sight; but there are differeat careers for mortals: genius, which illustrates our noblest virtues, devotes itself to generous humanity and truth, may trust to he received in some outer heaven." She cast her eyes' to earth, and on the stone where she had knelt, read this inscription: Alone I rose, alone I Bank, I am aloue e'en kere. "Ah!" cried Corinne, "that is mine answer. What should em- bolden me to toil? what pride can I ever feel? who would participate in my success, or interest himself in my defeats? Oh, I should need his look for my reward." Another epitaph fixed her attention, that of a youth, who says: ■ Pity me not, if yon can gnesa how many pangs the grave hath spared me. How did those words wean her from life I amid the tumult of a city, this church opened to teach mankind the best of secrets, if fliey would learn': but no; they passed it by, and the miraculous forget- f ulness of death kept all the world alive. CHAPTER IV- The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a few m*. ments, led her next morning to the Gallery; she hoped to recover her taste, and draw some pleasure from her former pursuits. Even the fine arts are republican in Florence. Pictures and statues are shown at all hours, with the greatest ease. Well-informed men, paidty the government, like public functionaries, explain all these chefs-d'cEuvre. This lingering respect for talent has ever pervaded Italy: particularly Florence, where the' Medicii extorted pardon for their power over human actions, by the free scope they left for hu- tOMi minds. The common people love the arts, and blend this TfllJ SOJOURN At tLuRENCE. 263 taste -with their devotion, which is more regular in Tuscany than in any other Italian state; but they frequently confound mythologic figures with Scripture history. One of the guides used to show a Minerva as Judith, and an Apollo as David ; adding, when he ex- plained a bas-relief, which represented the fall of Troy, that "Cas «andra was a good Christian." Many days may be passed in the gallery ere half its beauties are known. Corinne went from one to the other, mortified at her own indifference and abstraction. The calm dignity which shines through the deep grief of Niobe, however, recalled her attention. In such a case, the countenance of a living mother would doubtless be mora agitated; but the ideal arts preserve beauty even in despair: and what affects us most in works of genius, is not grief's self, but the soul's power o'er grief. Not far from this is a head of the dying Alexander. These two countenances afford rich material for thought. The conqueror looks astonished and indig- nant at not having achieved a victory even over nature. The anguish of maternal love is depicted on all the traits of Niobe : she presses her daughter to her hear* with the most "touching eagerness; her fine face bearing the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients no resource, even in religion. Niobe lifts her eyes to heaven, but with- out hope ; for the gods themselves are her enemies. On hej return lK>me, Corinne strove to reflect on what she had seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had formerly done; but her mental distraction was uncontrollable. How far was she now from the power of improvisation 1 In vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning ones, that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of delinum. Incapable of turning her thoughts from her own situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer could she command those universal sentiments that find echoes in all hearts. Hers were now but long unvaried wailings, lite the cry of the night bird^ her expressions were too impetuous, too unveiled — they were those of misery, not of talent. "To write well, we require to feel truly, but not heart-breakiugly. The best melancholy poetry is that inspired by a kind of rajjture, which still tells of mental strength and enjoyment. Real grief is a foe to inlellectual fertility: it pro- duces a gloomy agitation, that incessantly returns to the same point, like the knight wlio, pursued by an evil genius, sought a thousand roads for escape, yet always found himself at the spot from whence te started. The stateTof Corinne 's health completed the confusion of her mind. The following are a few of the reflections she wrote, while making a fruitless effort to become capable of a connected work. i6i CORINNE; OR, ITALY. CHAPTER V. PRAGITBKTB OV CfkQINHE'B TnOTTGnTS. My genlas lives no longer ; I regret Its death : I own I Bbould have loved -that yet My lays had waked hie symputhy; my name Might still have reach'd hiiu, heralded by tame, I err'd by hoping that in his own land The thoaghte, the feelings — thut our fate unltett— ■ The influence of habit could withstand — Amid such scenes love's flower must soon be b'l^M*^ There is so much to eay 'gainst maid like met How futile must the only auswer be I *' Sncli was her heart — her mind ;" a poor replr For hoats who know not what I was, nor wb/. Tet are they wrong to fear superior mind. The more it towers, more morally refined : The more we know, the Ijctter we forgive ; Whoe'er fe^,l3 deeply, feels for all who live. How can two beings who confided all. Whose converse was the spirit's griefs, its dangers. And immortality, bear this swift fall, Thus to each other become onco more strangers? What a mysterious sentiment is love I toothing, if not all other ties above — Vying iu faith with all that martyrs feel — Or — colder than the simplest friendship's zeaL -- This most Involuntary sense on earth. Doth heaven or mortal passion give it "birth? What storms it raises deep withm the breast I Must we obey, or combat such wild guest? Talent should be a refuge : as when ono * — Imprisoned to a cloister, art's truo^on. \ X Bcqneatb'd Us walls snch traces Of hisdoonif • That genins glorified mouastidgloom I fiat he, though captive, snffer'd from without ; His bosom was not torn b^ dread or doubt ; When grief is there, all efiorta lose their force, The spring of .comfort's poisou'd from its sooioa. Sometimes I vleyr myself as one apart, Impartially, and pity my own heart; Was I not mental, kind to others' pain, ** Generous, and frank ? Then why all this in Talo T la the world really so vile, Uiat charms Like these but rob as of our needful arms 7 * DozneuIohlaOt THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE. JWfi Ti» plHfal ! Spite all mv yoath has shown, Dfisplte my glory, I shall die nnknovni ; Kor leave one proof of what I might bare been Had I learned happlueae, or coald defy This all-devouiing fever — men had seen Me contemplate them from a station high, Q**nicking the hidden links hetween yon heaven And human natare ; but the clue is riven. How, how think freely, while each painful breath But bids me feel the woe that weigbs me down to deaUiff Oh I why would he forbear to render blest A heart whose secret he alone possees'd? To him — him only epoke my inmost soul I *Ti8 easy to leave those chance may control. The common herd— but she who mast admire^ Yet judge ere fancy kindles love's chaste flr«, Bxponsire as it is, to soul like hers, There's but one object in tho universe I 1 learned life from the poets ; tis not thus ; Vainly they strive to chauge the truth, for ns y/ho live to wake from their soft dreams, and me The barrenness of life's reality 1 Hemem1>ering what I was bat chafes my pride. Why tell mc I could charm, if not for love? Why inspire confidence, to make me prove But the more fearful anguish when It died 7 Will he, in any other, meet more mind Than was my own ? a heart more true and kind? No I but — congenial with heartlessness — He will be more content iu lludiug leas. In presence of the san, or starry spheres, To deserve love we need but to desire — For love ennobles all that it endears ; Conscious of matual worth, we look no higher. Bat ah, society I where eacli mast owe His fate bat to factitious joy or woe— Where what is said of him becomes the test — How soon it hardens e'en the trifler'g breast. Conld men once meet, free from this false control. How pure an air were breathed into tho sonl I How would the mind, refresh'd by feelings trae. Teem with ideas naturnl and new I -* B'en Nature's cmel ; this praised face Is fading: what avails it now That BtlU I pour affection's vow, Without one look my prayer to grace T These tear-dimmed eyes no more ezprew, Ajs once Ihey might, my tenderness. Within my bosom is a pain ," No langnage ever can explain — '(;■ I have no strength for task like this : . . .-v.- ?, 26tf CORINKB; OH, ITALY. OiT torture in to bear, Stlrlees and mnte, a Ions life long. The preeence of Despair. Sometimes* when liBtiug mnslc's tone^ It telle of powers bo Ifitti mine own, Son^, dance, and poesie— I start, As I coald fly from thie ead heart, To joy ttgHin ; a sudden chill Reminds me that the world woald saj, ** Back, liugerin^ ghost I it fits thee ill To brave the living, aud the day I" I wish I DOW coald find a spell 'Gainst misery in the crowd : 'twas well To mix there once, lest solitude Should bear my thoughts too far through fate My mind grew flexible^ imbued With gay impressious ; 'tis too late ; Features and feelings fix for aye : Smiles, fancies, graces I where are th^ ? Ah 1 if 'twere in a momeut o'er, Faiu would I taste of hope cnco more* But all is done: life cau bat be - A burning desert now to me: The drop of water, like the river, Sullied with bitteruei^s forever, A single day's enjoyment is Impossible, as years of bliss. Guilty towards me as I must deem My love — compared with other men What mindlesB Ihinga of art they seem.! How does he rise an angel then I — E'eu though hit* sword of flame cousame My life, and devastale my doom; Heaven lends the one beloved his power Thus to avenge each misspent hour. Tis not flrst love that mupt endure ; It springs but from the dreams of yoatlt But if, with intellixt mature, We meet the mind long sought in vain. Fancy is then subdued by troth, Aud we have reason to complain. " What maniacs I" the many crj', " Are those for love who live or die I As if, when snch frnil boon is reft, A tboQsaud blessings were not left I" Eutbusiasm, though the feed Of every high heroic deed, Each pious sacrifice— its-lot Is scorn, from those who feel it not. All then Is folly, if thev will, Save their own selfiso care Of mortiil life; this nobler thrill Is nmdness everywhere. Aloal it Is my worst distress That he aloue my thoughts could gueae ; -^ '-> THE SOJOtTRN AT FLORENCE. !M7 Too late and vainly may he find That I alone could read his mind. Mine own sboQld thus be understood'; In friendship's varying degrees Bnsy, yet dimcnit to pfease : With cordial hoars for all the good, Bat with affection .deep and trne, Which bat for one, for him I knew. Feeling and fancy, wit and reason. Where now sach anion can I fi.na, Seek the world through — save his — whose treM«i 'Gainst love hath slain me? Oswald's mind Blends all these charms ; unless I dreamed He was the wonder he but seem'd. Bow. then, to others should I speak? In wnoin confide? what subjects seek? What end, aim, Interest.remalns? The sweetest joys, the bitterest pains, Already known, what should I fear? Or what expect? before me cast A future changelei»8, wan, and drear. As bat the specter of my past 1 Why, why is happiness so brief? Life's weeds so strong, its flowers so frail? Is nature's natural order erief ? Unwonted pain soon finds relief When its strange throes oar frames astaU-* Joy to the soul's less usual : there The habitual state is this despair. How mutable the world appears, ' ,' Where nothing lasts, but pain and tears I* <. Another life I another life I " That is my hope ! -but still such fore* Hath this we bear, that we demand In heaven the same rebellious band Of passions that here cansed our strife. The northern zealotn paint the shade Still banting, with his hound and horse, The phantom stag, through cloudy glade; Tet dare we call sncb shapes unreal? _ Nought here is sure save that Distress — • - Whose power all suffer who can feel — Keeps her unpitying promises I . --- IJdream of Immortality I ' No more of that which man can give; Once in the future did I live. The present seem'd too old for me.+ All I now ask of Him on high, ' Is, that my heart may never die I Father I the offering and the shrine ^ A mortal spurns ; with grace dlviuCj Deign to receive — *tip thme I^r-'tis thine I I know my days will be but few ; That thought restores a sense of rest: * Ahl I null' altro che pUnto al mondo dora.— Petrarob, t That ideals Dante's. CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 'Tis Bweet to feel, as now I do, Death draw Qriet'8 barb from ont my breast. Tib Superstition's sad retreat, More tliat) the home of piona trust ; Devotion to the blest is sweet — What gratitude to the All Just Ought Oswald's wife to feel ! O Qod, she moat And yet misfortune oft improves. Corrects us, teaches us to weigh Our errors with our sufferings : they Are wedded ; we repent the loves Of earth, when salutary time And solitude inspires love more sublime. Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfill A tranquil voyage to life more tranquil etill: — What innocence is Id the thoughts of tliose About to leave this life of pasmon's woes ! The secret which not genius' self can share. The enigma, may it be reveal'd to prayer? May not some stmnle thonsht, by reverie Full oft approach'd, disclose the mystery 7 Vast as the efforts which the soul may make They weary her in vain ; but cannot take This latest step ; lite must be still unknown Till its last hour on earth be well-nigli flown ! Tis time mine should repose ; and who will sigh— Tis still, at last, tbe heart that beat so high I CHAPTER VI. Prince Castel Forte quitted Rome, to settle near Corinne. She felt most grateful for this proof of friendship, and yet ashamed that she could not requite it, even by such conversation as of yore: now she was silent and abstracted; her failing health robbed her of all the strength required, even for a momentary triumph over her absorbing griefs. That interest, which the heart's courtesy iitepires, she could still at times evince; but her desire to please was lost forever. Un- happy love freezes all our affections; our own souls grow inexplica- ble to us. More than we gained while we were happy, we lose by {he reverse. That added life which made us enjoy nature, lent an enchantment to our intercourse witli society; but the heart's vast hope once lost, existence is impoverished, and all spontaneous im- pulses are paralyzed. Therefor*, a thousand duties command women, and men still more, to respect and fear the passion they awaken, sinc^ it may devastate the mind as well as the heart. Sometimes Castel Forte might speak for several minutes to Corinne without a reply, because she neither understood nor even heard him. When she did, her answers had none of that glowing animation once so remarkable; they merely dragged on the malogue for a few sec- THE. SOJOURN AT FLORENCE. 269 onds, and then she relapsed into silence. Sometimes, aa she had done at Naples, she would smile in pity over her own failures. The amiable prince humored her on all her favorite topics. She would thank him, by pressing his hand, and once, after a walk on the banks of the Arno, began to jest with her accustomed grace : he gazed, and listened in glad surprise; but she abruptly broke off, and rushed from the room in tears. On returning, she said, gently: " Pardon me, my fenerous friend ; I would fain make myself agreeable ; it will not be : ear with nie as I am." What most distressed him, was the shock her constitution had received: no immediate danger threatened her, ye' it was impossible that she could live long, unless she regained Bome vigor. If she endeavored to speak on aught that concerned the eoul, her wan tremor was painful to behold ; and he strove to divert her from this strain. He ventured to talk of Oswald, and found that ehe took a perverse pleasure in the subject; but it left her so shaken, that he was obliged to interdict it. Castel Forte was a susceptible being; but not even the most magnanimous of men knows how to console the woman he has loved under the pangs thus inflicted by another. Some little self-love on his side, must aid her timidity, in preventing perfect confidence. Besides, what would it avail? It can only be of service to those wounds which would cure themselves without it. At this time the prince received a letter from Lord Nevil, replete with professions,- which would have deeply afEected Corinne: he mused for hours together on the propriety of showing it to her; btit anticipating the violence of its effects on a creature so feeble, he forebore. Even while he was thus deliberating, another letter reached Jiim, announcing his Lordship's departure for America. Castel Forte then decided on saying nothing to Corinne. Perhaps he erred: one of her greatest griefs was Nevil's silence; she scarce dared own it to herself : but though forever separated from him, onerecollection, one regret, would have been very precious to her: as it was, he gave her, she thought, no opportunity of hearing hfs name, left her no excuse for breathing it. The sorrow, of which no oue^ speaks to us, which gains no change from Jime, cuts deeper than reiterated blows; the good prince followed the usual maxim, which bids us do our utmost towards teaching a mourner to forget; but there is no oblivion for the imaginative : it were better to keep alive their memories, weary them of their tears, exhaust their sighs, and force them back upon tiiemselves, that they may reconcentrate their own powera. aw OORIITOE; OR, ITALT. BOOK XIX. Oswald's bktuen to italt. CHAPTER I. Let VLB now return to the events which occurred in Scotland, after the sad fete at which Coilnn* made her self-sacrifice. Lord Nevil'a servant carried his letters to the ball-room. Oswald retired to read them. He opened several which his agent had sent from London, little guessing that among them was one which would decide his fate : but when he beheld the writing of Corinne, and saw the ring, the words — " You are free!" — he felt at once the most cruel grief and the most furious irritation. He had not heard from her for two months, and now her silence was broken by this laconic decision. He remembered what Lady Edgarmond had said of her Instability, and entered into all the step-daine's feeling agaiust her; for he still loved enough to be unjust; forgetting how long he had renounced the idea of marrying her, how much Lucy had pleased him, he looked on himself as the blameless victim of an inconstant woman ; perplexity unci despair beset him; but over them both towered his proud soul, prompting him to rise superior to his wronger. This boasted pride rarely exists urdess self-love predominates over affec- tion. Had Nevil now valued Corinne as in their days at Rome and Naples, not all his " wrongs supposed " could have torn lier from his heart. Lady Edgarmond detected his distress. The fatal malady beneath which" she labored increased her ardent interest in her daughter. Phe knew the poor child's heart, and feared that she had com- promised her happiness forever; therefore, she seldon?. lost sight of ITevil, but read his secrets with that discernment whicli is deemed peculiar to our sex, but which belongs solely to the continual obser- vance which a real interest teaches us. On the pretext of transfer- ring Corinne's inheritance, she besought Lord Nevil's company next morning, and shortly guessed OSWALD'S RETURN TO ITALT. 273 as ■well as in Italy? My beauteous benefactress trembled and turned pale at naming you." — "Just lieaven I" exclaimed >Nevil, " you said an Englishwoman?" — "Oh, yes: you know foreigners never pro- nounce our language without a certain intonation." — " And her face?" — " The most expressive I ever saw, though fear- fully pale and thin." This description suited not the bright Corinne; yet might she not have suffered much, if in England, and unable to find the being she sought? This dread fell sud- denly on Oswald, who continued his questions with extreme uneasi- ness. Mr. Dickson replied that the lady conversed with an elegancs ■which he had never before met, that the gentlest kindness spoke from her sad and languid eyes. "Did you notice their color?" asked, Oswald. — "Magnificently dark!" The catechist trembled. "From time to time," continued Mr. Dickson, "she interrogated, or answered, me, and what she did say was delightful." He would haye proceeded, but Lady Nevil, with her mother, rejoined them ; and Oswald hastily retired, hoping soon again to find Mr. Dickson alone. Struck by his sadness. Lady Edgarmond sent Lucy away, that she might inquire its cause: her guest simply repeated what had passed. Terrified at anticipating the despair of Oswald, if he were assured that- Corinne had followed him to Scotland; foreseeing, loo, that he would resume this topic, she instructed Mr. Dickson as to what she wished said to her son-in-law. Thus, the old gentleman only in- creased the anxiety it was too late to remove. Oswald now asked his servant if all the letters sent him within the last three weeks had come by post. ■* The man "believed they had," and was leaving the room; but, turning back, added, "I remember that, on the ball night, a blind man gave me one for your Lordship. I supposed it a petition for charity." — "I received none such: could you find this man?" — "Yes, my Lord, directly; he lives in the village." — "Go, ^ring him tome!" said Nevil; and, unable to wait patiently, walked out to meet him at the end of the avenue. ' ' So, my friend, he said, "you brought a letter here for me, on the evening of the ball: , who gave it to you?" — "My Lord, ye see I'm blind; how wad I ken?" — "Do you think it was a female?'' — "EchI fine that, my, Lord ! for I hard weel eneuch that she was vera soft voiced, though I jaloused the while that she was greeting." — " And what did she say to you?" — "Oh, sir, she said, 'Gude auld man, gide this to Oswald's servant,' and there stopped, but syne she added, ' I mean Lord Nevil's.'" — "Ah, Corinnel" exclaimed Oswald, and grew so faint that he was forced to support himself on the poor creature's arm, who continued; "I was sitting under a tree just, and wished 274 CX3RINNE: OR, ITALY. as your Lordship's does this minute."— "Enoughl" sighed Neril " Here, my good friend, as she gave you money, let me do so too; go and pray for us both!" He withdrew. From this moment a terrible agitation preyed on his mind: he made a thousand useless inquiries, unable to conceive the possibiUW of Corjnne's having been in Scotland without seeking him. He formed various conjectures as to her motives; and, in spite of all his endeavors to conceal it, this affliction was evident to Lady Bclgarmond, nay, even to Lucy. All was constraint and silence. At this time Oswald wrote first to Castel Forte. Had Corinne read that letter, it would much have softened her resentment. Count d'Brfeuil joined the Nevils ere the Prince's reply ar- rived. He said no more of Corinne than was necessary, ypt felt vexed at their not perceiving that he had an important secret iu his power, though too discreet to betray it. His insinuations at first took no effect upon Oswald ; but, when he detected that they "deferred to Corinne, he was all curiosity. The Count having brought him to this, defended his own trust pretty bravely; at last, however, his friend drew forth the whole truth. It was a pleasure for d'Erfeuil to relate how grateful Corinne had felt, and in what a wretched state he had found her; he ran on, without observing how he agonized Lord Nevil; his only object was that of being the hero of his own story; when he mid ceased, he was much footed at the mischief he had done. Oswald had com- manded himself till then, but suddenly became distracted with regret; accused himself as the most barbarous and ungrateful of men ; raved of Corinne's devoted tenderness : her generosity at the very moment when she believed him most culpable. He con- trasted this with the heartless fickleness by which he had re- quited her; incessantly repeating that no one ever loved him as she did; and that he should in some way be ultimately punished for his cruelty. He would have set forth to see her, if only for a day, an hour; but Rome and Florence were already occupied by the French: his regiment was about to embark; he could not forfeit his own honor, nor break the heart of his wife: indeed, no faults he might now commit could repair the past; they would but add to the misery he had occasioned. The only hope that calmed him was do- rived from the dangers he was about to brave. In this mood he wrote again to Castel Forte, whose replies represented Corinne as sad, but resigned; his pride in her softened rather than exaggerated the truth. Oswald believed that he ought not to torture her by his re- grets, after having so wronged her by his love — and left Britain vritil a sopse of remorse which nearly rendered life insupportable. OSWALD'S Rl;TURN TO ITALl. CHAPTER III. Lucy was afflicted by his departure; yet his recent gloom had increased her natural timidity, that she had never found courage confide in him her hopes of becoming a mother ; but left it for Ls £dgarmond to send these tidings after him. Nevil, unable to gu what passed in his wife's heart, had thought her farewell cold; cc pared her silent submission with the eloquence of Corinne, ana h tated not to believe that Lucy loved him but feebly; yet, during absence, scarcely could even the birth of their daughter divjrt : mind from his perils. Another grief was added to all this. D'Erft spent a year in Scotland, strongly persuaded that he had not revea the secret of Corinne's sojourn there; but he said so much that : plied it, and found such difficulty, when conversation flagged, avoiding the theme most interesting to Lady Nevil, that she at ] learned the whole truth. Innocent as she was, it required even 1 art than she possessed to draw d'Erfeuil out upon a favorite subj( Lady Edgarmond was too ill to be present at these conversatio but when she questioned her daughter on the melancholy she lected, Lucy told all. Her mother spoke very severely on Corim pursuit of Oswald. Lucy was allernately jealous of her sister, s indignant against. her husband, for deserting one to whom he 1 been so dear. She could not help trembling f o' her own peace, y a man who had thus wrecked that of another. She had ever cl ished a grateful recollection of her early instructress, which i blended with sympathy : far from feeling flattered by Oswald's sa fice, she was tormented by the idea that he had chosen her mei because her position in the world was more advantageous than t of Corinne. She remembered his hesitation before marriage, sadness so soon after, and everything confirmed the cruel belief 1 her husband loved her not. Lady Edgarmond might have been great service to her daughter, had she striven to calm her; but too intolerantly anathematized all sentiments that deviated from line of duty; nor dreamed of tenderly leading a wanderer bs thinking tliat the only way to awake conicience was by just res! ment. She was mortified that so lovely a woman should be so appreciated; and aggravated Lucy's fears, in order to excite pnde. Lady Nevil, more gentle and enlightened than her motl could not rigorously follow snch advice; yet her letters to Osw 276 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. lifted from his heart, and he couW breathe with ease. The popu- larity he enjoyed among his fellow-soldiers animated the existence it could not render happy, and almost blinded him both to ths pjkst and the future. He grew accustomed to the lukewarm cor- respondence of his wife, whom he did not suppose oSended with him. When he remembered her, it was as a being worthy of his pro- tection, and whose mind he ought to spare from all deeply serious thoughts. But in those splendid tropic nights, that give so grand an idea of nature and its Author, the image of Corinue was often with him; yet as both war and climate menaced his life each hour, he excused his lingering memory. At the approach of eternity, we forgive and hope to be forgiven. He thought but of the tears his death would cause her, not upon those his errors had extorted. It was natural he should think most of her; they had so often talked of immortality, and sounded every depth of solemn feeling: he fan- cied that he still conversed with her, while occupied by the great thoughts the spectacles of war invariably suggest. It was to Corinne he spoke in solitude, although he knew that she must sadly blame him. Despite absence, distance, time, and every change they seemed to understand each other still. At last his regiment was ordered home. The monotony of ship- board pleased him less than had the stir of arms. External excite- ment supplied some of the imaginative joys he owed to his intcr- coilrse with Corinne. He had not yet attempted to live calmly with- out her. The proofs of devotion his soldiers gave him somewhat beguiled the voyage; but even that interest failed on their landing in England. CHAPTER IV. Nevil had now to renew his acquaintance with his own family, after four years' separation. He arrived at Lady Edgarmond's cas- tle in Northumberland. Lucy presented her child with as much diffidence as if she had deemed herself guilty. Her imagination had been so occupied by her sister, during the period of her maternal expectations, that little Juliet displayed the dark eyes and hair of Corinne. Her father, in wild agitation, pressed her to his heart; and from that instant, Lucy could not take unqualified delight in his afEection for his daughter. The young wife was now nearly twenty. Her beauty had attained a dignity which inspired Nevil with respect. Lady Edgarmond was too infirm to leave her bed; yet,,though this tried her temper, she received her son-in-law with satisfaction; having feared that she should die in his ajbsence, and leave her daughter alone upon the world. Oswald, so lon^ accus- tomed to a military career, found it vevy difficult to remain nean^ all day in the chamber of an invalid, who received no one but OSWALD'S KETTJRN TO ITALY. 277 himself and wife. Lucy dearly loved her lord ; but, believing her affection unprized, concealed what she knew of his passion for Co- rinne, and became more silent than ever. Mild as she was, her mother had so influenced her, that when Oswald liinted at the added charm she would gain by a little animation, she received this but as a proof that he still preferred her sister and was too hurt to profit by it: he could not speak of the fine arts without occasioning her a sadness that repressed his enthusiasm. Had she been better taught, she would have treasured up his lightest word, that she might study how to please him. Lady Edgarmond evinced a growing distaste for all deviations from her habitual routine: her irritated nerves shrunk from every sound. She would have reduced life to a state of stag- nation, as if the less to regret its loss ; but, as few like to confess their personal motives for certain opinions, she supported hers on the gen- eral principles of exaggerated morality; and -disenchanted life, by making sins of its least amusements— by opposing some duty to every employment which would have made to-day differ from yesterday or to-morrow, Lucy, duteous as she was, had so much flexibility^ of mind that she would have joined her husband in gently reasoning with this exacting austerity, had she not been persuaded that it was "dopted merely to discountenance O"'""^"^'" T.niio,, „^o,nionhV„a ' You must struggle most perseverii ' against any return of that dangerc had a great reverence for duty; but he understood it in a wldef sense than that of Lady Edgarmond: tracing it to its source, he found that it might perfectly accord with natural inclination, in- stead of requiring perpetual combats and sacrifices. Virtue, he thought, far from rendering life a torture, contributes to the duration of its happiness, and may be considered as a sort of prescienca granted "to man alone beneath the heaven." Sometimes, in explaining these ideas, he yielded to the pleasure of quoting Co- rinne; but such language always offended his mother-in-law. New doctrines ever displease the old. They like to fancy that the world has been losing wisdom, instead of gaining it, since they were young. Lucy's heart instinctively detected the echoes of her sister's voice in the sentiments Oswalii breathed with so much ardor. She would cast-down her eyes to hide this consciousness : her husband, utterly unaware of it, attributed her apparent insensibility to want of com- prehension; and not knowing where to seek congeniality sank into despondence. He wrote to Castel Forte for news of Cormne; but the war prevented the letter's arrival. His health suffered from the cold of England ; and the physicians assured him that his chestwould i'!6 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. pends on it," ventured Lucy, "he could not do better." Oswald expressed much gratitude for her kindness. Alas! his thanks but assured her of his love for another. War ceased; and every time Oswald complained, Lucy's heart wa' divided between her dread of his departure for Italy, and her fond- ness, which overrated his indisposition. He attributed her doubt of the necessity for this voyage to selfishness: thus each wounded the other's feelings, because neither dared confess their own. All these interests were soon absorbed in the state of Lady Edgarmond, who was now speechless, and could only express herself by tears, or by the manner in which she pressed their hands. Lucy was in despair. Oswald sat up every night with lier. It was now December; and these cares were highly injurious to him, though they seemed much to gratify the sufferer, whose faults disappeared just as her agonies would have excused them. The approach of death stills all the tumults of soul from which most or our errors proceed. On her last night, she joined the hands of Oswald and Lucy, pressed them to her heart, and raised her eyes to heaven; no longer deploring the voice which could have added nothing to the impressiveness of that action — that look. In a few seconds she expired. Lord Nevil, who had supported himself by great effort, for her take, now becanie dangerously ill, and poor Lucy's distress was thug redoubled. In his delirium, he often named Corinne, and Italy, sighing: "Oh, for the southern sun! it is so cold in the north here: I shall never he warm again." When he recovered his senses, he was surprised at finding that Lucy had prepared everything for his voyage: she merely repeated the advice of his physicians, adding: " if you will permit it, 1 shall accompany you; and our child ought not to.be parted from her parent^." — " No, no, we will not part," he .answered- " but if this journey would pain you, I renounce it." — "That wfll not pain me," she replied. Oswald took her hand, and gazed inquiringly on her: she would have explained herself; but ihe memory of her mother's advice, never to betray a sign of jealousy, reproved her, and she added: " You must be sure, my Lord, that my first object is the re-establishment of your health." — "You have a sister in Italy," continued he. — "I know it: have you any tidin gs of her?" — " Never, since I left for America." — " Well, my CSrd we shall learn all in Italy." — "Are you then interested in her still?" — "Yes: I have not forgotten the tenderness she showed my child- hood." — " We ought not to forget," sighed Nevil, and both again were silent. Oswald had too much delicacy to desire a renewal of his former ties with Corinne; but he thought that it would be sweet to die iu Italj, after receiving her pardon and adieu. He little deemed that his delirium had betrayed him, and did injustice to the mind of his wife; because it had rather shown him thejopinion of o*lnr8 than what she felt herself, he believed she loved him as Biueh aa she coiJd love, but he knew nothing of her sensibility; at OSWALD'S BETUKN TO ITALY. 279 present, her pride disguised it; but, had she been perfecUy happy, she would have thought it improper to avow a passionate affection even for her own husband; capable as she was of it, education had convinced her that it would be immodest to profess this feeling; but nothing could teach her to take pleasure in speaking of anything else. CHAPTBK V. Oswald, disliking all recollections of France, crossed it veiy hastily. Lucy evinced neither wish nor will of any kind, but left it for him to decide everything. They reached the base of the mountaiifs that separate Dauphiny from Savoy, and ascended the Pas des Echelles on foot : this road is dug in the rocks ; its entrance resembles a deep cavern ; it is dark throughout, even in the brightest days of summer. As yet, they found no snow; but autumn, the season of decay, was herself fast fading. The road was covered with dead leaves, borne to this region on the gale, from the distant trees. Thus they saw the wreck of nature, without beholding any promise of her revival. The sight of the mountains charmed Lord Nevil: while we live among plains, the earth seems only made to bear and nourish man; but in picturesque countries we see the im- press of their Creator's power and genius; yet man is everywhere familiarized with nature, the roads he frames ascend the steep, or fathom the abyss; nothing is inaccessible to him, save the great mys- tery of his own being. In Morienne, the wintei- was more rigorously felt at every step; one might fancy one's self wending northward, in approaching Mont Cenis. Lucy, who had never traveled before,- was alarmed at finding the ice render the horses' pace unsteady : she hid her fears, but reproached herself for having brought her little one with her: often doubting whether the resolve to do so had been purely moral, or whether the hope of growing dearer to Oswald, by constantly associating her image with that of their beloved child, ' had not deadened her to the risks Juliet would thus incur. Lucy was apt to perplex her mind with secret scruples of conscience; the more virtuous we are. the more this kind of fastidiousness increases: she had no resource, save in her long and silent prayers, which some- what tranquilized her spirit. The landscape now took a more terrific character: the snow fell heavily ,on ground already cov- ered with it. They seemed entering the Hell of Ice described by . Dante. Prom the foot of the orecinices to the mountain-tot)3. all 280 CORIMTE; OR, ITALY. llgures canying a bier towards a churcji. These priests, the only i living beings who broke this desert solitude, preserved their wonted pace. The thought of death lent it a gravity which not even the blealcness of the air tempted them to forget. Here was the mourning of nature and of man for vegetable and for human ''.re. No color was left — that black, that white, thus united, struck the soul with awe. "Wliat a sad omen!" sighed Lady NeviL — "Lucy," interrupted Oswald, "trust me, it is not for you." — " Alas!" he thought, " it was not beneath such auspices I traveled with Coriane. where is she now? may not these gloomy objects be but warnings of what I am to suffer ?" Lucy's nerves were shaken by the terrors of her journey. This kind of fear is almost unkn )wn to an intrepid man ; and she mistook for care- lessness of her, Oswald's ignorance of such .alarm's possible ex- istence. The common people, who have no better exercise for fancy, love to exaggerate all hazards, and delight in the effect they thus produce on their superiors. The inn-keepers, every winter, tell their guests wild tales of "le Mont," as if it were an immovable monster, guarding the vales that lead to the land of promise. They watch the weather for formidable symptoms, and beg all foreigners to avoid crossing Mont Cenis dviring la tour- munte. This is a wind announced by a white cloud, spread like a sheet in the air, and by degrees covering the whole horizon. Lucy had gained all possible information, unknown to Nevil, who ■was too much occupied by the sensation of re-entering Italy to think on these reports. The possible end and aim of his dU- grimage agitated his wife still more than did the journey itself, and she judged everything unfavorably. In the morning of their ascent, several peasants beset her with forebodings; those hired to carry her up the mountain, however, assured her that there ,was nothing to apprehend : she looked at Nevil, and saw that he laughed at tlxese predictions ; therefore, piqued by his security, she professed herself ready to depart. He knew not how much this resolution cost her, but mounted a horse and followed the litter which bore his wife and child. The way was easy, till they were about thf centre of the flat which precedes the descent, when a violent hurri- cane arose. Drifts of snow blinded Lucy's bearers, and often hid Oswald from her view. The religious man who devote their lives to Euccor travelers on the Alps began to ring their alarm-bell; yet, though this sound proclaimed the neighborhood of benevolent pity, its rapid and heavy repetition seemed more expressive of dismay than assistance. Lucy hoped that Oswald would propose passing ' the nij^.i. at this monastery ; but, as she said nothing, he thought it best to hasten on, while daylight lasted. Lucy's bearers inquired, with some uneasiness, if she wished them to descend. " Yes," she said, "since my lord does not oppose it." She erred in thus sup- pceasing her fefcUngs : the presence of her child would have excused OSWALD'S RETURN TO ITALY 28L them; but, while we love one by whom we cannot deem ourselves beloved, each instant brings its own sense of humiliation. Oswald remained on horseback, though that was the least safe method of descent, but he believed himself thus secure against losing sight of his wife and child. From the summit, Lucy looked down on the abrupt road which she would have taken for a precipice, had not steeps still more perpendicular been close at hand. She pressed her darling to her heart with strong emotion. Oswald observed this, and, quitting his saddle, joined the men who carried her litter. The graceful zeal with which he did this filled her eyes with tears ; but, at that instant, the whirlwind rose so furiously that her bearers fell on their knees, exclaiming; " Oh God, protect us I" Lucy regained her courage ; and, raising herself, hfeld Juliet towards Lord Nevil. "Take your child, my love !" she said. Oswald received it, answer- ing: " And you too — come, I can carry ye both !" — " No," she said, "only save her!" — "Save I" he repeatel: ''is there any danger? Unhappy wretches — ^why did you not tell us?" — " They did," inter- rupted Lucy. " And you concealed it from me? How have I mer- ited this cruel reserve?" He wrapped his cloak around Juliet, and cast down his eyes in deep disquietude ; but heaven most mercifully appeased the storm, and lent a ray which showed tliem the fertile plains of Piedmont. In another hour .they arrived unharmed atNo- valaise, the first Italian town after crossing Mont Cenis. On enter- ing the inn, Lucy embraced her child, and returned her fervent thanks to God. Oswald leaned pensively near the fire, and, when she rose, held out his hand to her, saying : " You were alarmed then, love?" — "Yes, dear." — "Why would you go on?" — "You seemed impatient to proceed." — "Do you not know that, above all things, I dread exposing you to pain or danger?" — "It is for Juliet that they are to be dreaded, " she replied, taking the little one on her lap to warm it, and twisting round her fingers the beautiful black curls that the snow had matted on that fair brow. * The mother and child formed so charming a picture, that Oswald gazed on them with ten- der admiration ; but Lucy's silence discouraged the feeling which might else have led to a mutual understanding. They arrived at Turin, where the season was unusually severe. The vast apartments of Italy were' destined to receive the sun. Their freshness in simi- mer is most welcome ; but, in the depth of winter, they seem cheerless deserts ; and their possessors feel like pigmies in , the abode of giants. The death of Alfieri had just occasioned a general mourning among his proud countrymen. Nevil no longer recognized the gayety (brmerly so dear to him. The S8S dORlNNE; OR, It ALT. sought intelligence of her, and learned that for five years she hai published nothing, but lived in seclusion at Florence. He re solved on going thither ; not to remain, and thus violate tlit affection he owed to Lucy, but to tell Corinne how ignorant he had been of her residence in Scotland. In crossing Lombardy, h« sighed: "How beautiful this was, when all those elms were in full leaf, with vines linking them together!" — "How beautiful it was," thought Lucy, " while Corinne shared it with you!" A humid fog, such as oft arises in so well-watered a land, obscured their view of the country. During the night they heard the deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the roof, as if water was pursuing them with all the avidity of fire. Lucy sought in vain for the charm of Italy: it seemed mat everything conspired to TeU it in gloom for Oswald and herself CHAPTER VI. Since Lord Nevil had been in Italy, he had not spoken a word oj the language; it even made him ill to hear it. On the evening of hia arrival at Milan, he heard a tap at the door, which was followed by the entrance of a man, whose dark and prominent face would have been expressive, if animated by natural enthusiasm: it wore an un- varyingly gracious smile, and a look that strove to be poeticaL He stood at the door, improvising verses in praise of the group before him, but such as might have suited any other husband, wife, oi child, just as truly; and so exaggerated, that the speaker seemed to think poetry ougM to have no connection with truth. Oswald per- ceived that he was a Roman; yet, harmonious as were the sounds he uttered, the vehemence of his declamation served but to indicate more plainly the unmeaning insipidity of all he said. Nothing could be more painful for Oswald than to hear the Roman tongue thuj spoken, for the first time after so long an interval ; to see his dearegl memories travestied, and feel his melancholy renewed by an objecl so ridiculous. Lucy guessed all this, and would have dismissed the improvisatore; but it was impossible to make him hear her: he paced tlie chamber, all gesture and exclamation, heedless of the disgust he dealt his hearers, proceeding like a machine that could not stop till after a certain moment. At last that time arrived and Lucy paid him to depart. " Poetic language," said Oswald, " is so easUy par- odied here, that it ought to be forbidden all save those who are worthy to employ it." — " True," observed Lucy, perhaps a little too pointedly: "it is very disagreeable to be reminded of what you ad- mire, by such a burlesque as we have just endured." — "Not so," he answered; " the contrast only makes me more deeply feel Uie power of genius. This same language which may be so miserably degraded, OSWALD'S RETURN TO ITALY. 28 became celestial poetry from the lips of Cormue— your sister." Luc felt overwlielmed; he had not pronounced that name to her befori the addition of }/(mr sister sounded as if conveying a reproach. Sh was half suffocated; and had she given way to her tears, th moment might have proved the sweetest in her life; but she r( strained them, and the embarrassment between herself and husban became more painful than before. On the next day the sun broi forth, like an exile returning to his own land. The Nevils availe themselves of his brightness to visit Milan cathedral, the chef-d'ojuvi of Gothic architecture : it is built in the form of a cross — ^fair, me ancholy image in the midst of wealth. Lofty as it is, the ornamen are elaborate as those lavished on some minute object of admiratioi What time and patience must it have cost! This perseverance fc wards the same aim is transmitted from age to age, and the huma race, stable at least in thought, can leave us proofs of this, imperial able almost as thought itself. A Gothic building engenders true, r ligion: it has been said that the popes have consecrated more weall to the building of modern temples than devotion to the memory ( old churches. The light, falling through colored glass, the singuli forms of the architecture, unite to give a silent image of that inflnr mystery which the soul forever feels, and never comprehends. Lord and Lady Nevil left Milan when the earth was covere with snow. This is a sadder sight in Italy than elsewhere, becaui it is unusual:, the natives lament bad weather as a public calamit Oswald was vain of his favorite country, and angry that it woul not smile its best for Lucy. They passed through Placent Parma, and Modena. The churches and palaces of each are t< vast, in proportion to the number and fortune of the inhabitants ; a seems arranged for the reception of the great, who as yet have bi sent some of their retinue forward. On the morning of their read ing Taro, the floods were thundering from the Alps and Apenninei with such frightful rapidity, that their roar scarce announced thei ere they came. Bridges are hardly practicable over rivers that i often rise above the level of the plain. Oswald and Lucy four their course suddenly checked. All boats had been washed awa by the current ; and they were obliged to wait till the Italians, wl Tiever hurry themselves, chose to bring them back. The fog coj founded the water with the sky ; and the whole spectacle rather r sembled the description of Styx, than the bounteous streams lent ( refreshments to the burning south. Lucy, trembling lest the inteni cold should hurt her child, bore it into a fisher's hut, in the center < 884 CORINNB; OR, ITALY ing them, the northern-pointed roofs, so constructed to permit the snow to run off, create a very unpleasant sensation. Parma still preserves some fine pictures by Correggio. Oswald took Lucy to a church which boasts a fresco of his La Madonna della Scala ; while he drew the curtain from before it, Lucy raised Juliet in ber arms, that slie might better see the picture ; and by chance their attitude was nearly the same with that of the Virgin and Child. Lucy had so much of the modest grace which Corregjgio loved to paint, that Oswald looked from the ideal to the real with surprise. As she noticed this her lids declined, and the resemblance became still more strong. Correggio is, perhaps, the only painter who knew how to give down- cast eyes an expression affecting as that of those raised to heaven. The veil he throws over such looks, far from decreasing their th»ught- f ul tenderness, lends it the added charm of heavenly mystery. The Madonna is almost detached from the wall. A breath might blow its hues away; this fear gives it a melancholy interest: its adorers oft returii-to bid such fleeting beauty a fond farewelL As they left the church, Oswald said to Lucy, "A little while, and that picture will be no more! but its model is mine own forever." These soft words touched her heart: she pressed his hand, about to, ask him if he could not trust her tenderness^; but as when he spoke coldly her pride forbade complaint, so whetf his language made her blest, she dreaded to disturb that moment's peace, in an attempt to render it more durable. Thus always she found reasons for her silence, hoping that time, resignation, and gentleness, might bring at last the happy day which would disperse her apprehensions. CHAPTER VIL ^ Lord Nevil's health improved, yet cruel anxiety still agitated his heart. He constantly sought tidings of Corinne; but everywhere heard the same report: how different from the strain in which her name had once been breathed! Could the man who had destroyed her peace and fame forgive himself? Travelers drawing near Bo- logna are attracted by two very high towers ; the one, however, leans so obliquely as to create a sensation of alarm ; vainly is it said to have been built so, and to have lasted thus for centuries; its aspect is irre- sistibly oppressive. Bologna boasts a great number of highly- informed men; but the common people are disagreeable. Lucy listened for the melodious Italian, of which she had been told; but the Jolognese dialect painfully disappointed her. Nothing more harsh cim exiit in the north. They arrived at the height of the Carnival, and heard, both day and night, cries of joy that sounded like those of rage. A population like that of the Lazzaroni, eat and sleep beneath me numerous arcades that border the streets- during winter, they carry OSWALD'S RETURN TO ITALY 286 a little fire in an earthen vessel. In cold weather, no nightly music is heard in Italy: it is replaced in Bologna by a clamor truly alarming to foreigners. The manners of the populace are much more gross in some few southern states than can be found elsewhere. In-door life perfects social order: the heat that permits people to live thus in public engenders many savage habits. (36) Lord and Lady Nevil could not walk forth without being assailed by beggars, the scourge of Italy. As they passed the prisons, whose barred windows look upon the streets, the captives demanded alms with immoderate laughter. " It is not thus," said Lucy, "that our people show them- selves the fellow-citizens of their betters. O, Os^wald! can such a country please you?" — "Heaven forbid," he replied, "that I should ever forget my own! but when you have passed the Apennines you will hear the Tuscans — meet intellectual and animated beings, who, I hope, will render you less severe." Italians, indeed must be judged according to circumstances. Some- times the evil that has been spoken of them seems but true; at other.!, most unjust. All that has previously been described of their governments and religion proves that much may be asserted against them generally, yet that many private virtues are to be found amongst them. The individuals chance throws on the acquaintance of our travelers decide their notions of the whole race; such judg- .ment, of course, can find no basis in the public spirit of the country, Oswald and Lucy visited the collections of pictures that enrich Bologna. Among them was Domenichino's Sibyl; befcrre which Nevil unconsciously lingered so long, that his wife at last dared ask him, if this beauty said more to his heart than Con-eggio's Madonna had done. He understood, and was amazed at so significant an ap- peal: after gazing on her for some time, he replied, " The Sibyl utters oracles no more : her beauty, like her genius, is gone ; but the angelic features I admired in Correggio have lost none of their charms; and the unhappy wretch who so much wronged the one will never betray the other." He left the place, to conceal his agitation. 286 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. BOOK XX. CONCLTJSIOir. CHAPTER I. Oswald now, for the first time, pomprehended that Lucy was aware of his affection for her sister, and deemed that her coolness might have sprung from secret disquietude: yet now he feared an explana- tion as much as she had done; and now she would have told him all, had he required it; but it would have cost him too much to speak of Corinne, just as he was about to rejoin her, especially with a person whose character he so imperfectly knew. They crossed the Apen- nines, and regained the sweet climate of Italy. The sea-breeze, so glowing in summer, now spread a gentle heat. The turf was green, the autumn hardly over, and yet the spring already peeping forth. The iriarkets teemed with oranges and pomegranates. The Tusccn tongue was audible; and all Oswald's dearest memories revived, though now unmixed with hope. The mild air would have ren- dered Lucy confiding, had he encouraged her. Had a Corinne been with them, she would soon have learned their secrets ; but the more congenial they were, in natural and national reserve, the less easy WM it for them to break the ice which kept their hearts asunder. CHAPTEJl IL /As soon as they arrived in Florence, Nevil wrote to Ca?tel Forte; jCnd in a few minutes the Prince came to him. It was some time ere either spoke; at last Nevil asked for Coriune. "I have none but /'sad news for you," said her friend: "she grows weaker every day; sees no one but myself, and can scarce attempt any occupation; yet I think she has been calmer since we learned you were in Italy; though I cannot disguise from you, that at first her emotions on that intelligence caused her a relapse of fever. She has not told me her intention.1, for I carefully avoid your name." — "Have the goodneaa, CJONCLUSION. tSl Prince," said Oswald, "to give her the letter I wrote you nearly five years since: it contained a detail of all the circumstances that pre- vented my hearing of her journey to Scotland before I married. When she has read it, ask her to Beceive me. I long to justify my- self with her, if possible. Her esteem is essential to me, though I can no longer pretend to more." — "I will obey your desires, my Lord," said Castel Forte, "and wish that I may in any way be of service." Lady Nevil now entered the room. Oswald made her known to his friend. She met him coldly. He gazed on her with much- attention, sighed, thought of Corinne, and took leave. Oswald fol- lowed him. " Lady Nevil is very beautiful," said the Prince: "so fresh and young! Alas! my poor love is no longer so; yet forget not, my Lord, that she was a brilliant creature when you saw her first." — "Forget!" exclaimed Oswald: "no, nor ever forgive my- self." He could utter no more, and for the rest of the day was gloomily silent. Lucy sought not to disturb him: lier forbearance was unlucky; for he only thought: "Had Corinne beheld me sad, she would have striven to console me." The next morning his anxiety early led him to Castel Forte. "Well!" he cried, "what says she?'' — "That she will not see you," answered the Prince. — "And her motives?" — "I found her yesterday, in spite of her weak- ness, pacing the room all agitation, her paleness sometimes giving way to a vivid blush, that faded as suddenly as it rose. I told her your request: after some instants' silence, she said — if you exact from me her own words: ' That man has done me too much wrong already; but the foe who threw ftie into prison, banished and pro- scribed me, has not yet brought my spirit quite so low as he may think. I have suffered more than woman ever endured beside — alter- nate fondness and indignation making thought a perpetual torture. Oswald should remember that I once told him it would cost me more to renounce my admiration than my love. He has despoiled the object of my worship : he deceived me, voluntarily or otherwise — no matter: he is not what I believed him. He sported for nearly 'a year with my affection; and, when he ought to have defended me when his actions should have proved he had a heart, how did he treat me? Can he boast of having made one generous sacrifice? No! he is ha,ppy now, possessing all the advantages best appreciated by the ■world. lam dying, let him leave me in peace!'" — "These wordf are very harsh, sighed Oswald. — "She is changed by suffering," admitted Castel Forte; "yet I have often found her so charitable, that, let me own, she has defended you against me." — "You think me unpardonable, then?" — " If you permit me to say so. The in- 688 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. for^ve murder by poniard soonest." — "Believe me," cried Nevfl, "I, too, have been wretched — that is my sole extenuation; but for- merly she would have listened to it, now it avails me nothing ; ynt I ■will write to her: I still believe, in spite of all that parts us, she may yet understand me." — " I will beai your letter, my Lord; but I en- treat you temper it well; you guess not what you are to her. Years can but deepen an impression, when no new idea has divided its em- pire. Would you know in what stale she is at present? A fantasy, fi'Om which my prayers could not divert her, enables me to show you." He opened the door of another room; and Nevil first beheld a portrait of Corinne as she appeared in Juliet, on the night, of all others, when he felt most enamored of her. The confidence of hap- piness breathed from each feature. The memories of that festal tims came back on Oswald's heart; but as he yielded to them, the Prince took bis hand, drew aside a crape from another picture, and showed him Corinne, painted tlxat same year in the black dress, such as she had never abandoned since her return from England. Her lost lover recollected the figure which had passed him in the Park, but above all was he struck with the total change in her appearance. The long black lashes veiled her languid eyes, and threw a shadow over the- tiutless cheek; beneath was written this line, from the Pastor Fido: A peoa Bi pndd dir : *^ Questa fa roaa 1" - Scarcely can we now say: " Tbis waa a rose I" "How 1" cried Lord Nevil: " looks she like this?" — 'Within tba last fortnight still worse," returned the Prince; and Oswald ruahsd from him, as if distracted CHAPTER III. The unhappy man shut himself in his room. At the dinner hour Lucy, leading Juliet by the hand, tapped gently at his door; he opened it, saying: "Tliink not the worse of me, my dear, for beggtng that I may be left to m5'self to-day." His wife raised her child in her arms, and retired without a word. He now looked at the letter he had written to Corinne, and, bursting into tears, ex- claimed: " Shall I, then, make poor Lucy wretched, too? What is xiy life worth, if it serves but to reader all who love me miserable?" letter from Lord Nem to Corinne. " \v ere you not the most generous of human beings, what could I say to you, who might weigh me so low by reproaches, or still lower by yoiu griefs? Ibave done such ill to her I loved, that I almost CONCLUSION. believe myself ft monster. Ami, Corinne? I sufifer somuch, X cannot think myself an utter barbarian! You linowfwhen fi met you, I was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the gr I sought not happiness, but strujrgled long against your attract even when it triumphed, presentiments of misfortune lingered i Sometimes I believed you destined by my father to make me < more feel myself as well beloved as I had been by him ; then d fear to disobey his will, in marrying a foreigner. On my retur England, this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was by pare authority. Had he still lived, I should have felt a right to cor It; but the dead cannot hear us, and the irrevocable command those now powerless, possess a touching and a sacred force. C more surrounded by the ties of country, I met your sister, sele^ for me by my sire, and well according with my wish for a regulj quiet life. My weakness makes me dread some kinds of agitat Tiy mind is easily seduced by new hopes ; but my sick soul shr: from resolves that interfere with its original habits or affecti Yet, Corinne, had I known you were in England, that proof of derness would have decided me. Ah I wlierefore vaunt I wh would have done? Should we have been content? Am I capi of being so? Could I ever have chosen any one fate, without pining after some other? When you restored my liberty, I fell : the commoi; error, telling mytelf that so superior a woman mi easily be estranged from me. Corinne, I have wounded your he 1 know; but I thought mine the only sacrifice; I deemed youwc forget me. I cannot deny that Luoy is worthy of a still warmei tachment than I could give her; but since I learned your voyag England, and the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has been a per] ual pain. I soiight for death, certain that when you heard I was more, you would forgive me. Doubtless you can oppose to ^ years of fidelity and regret, such as my-ingratitude ill merits; « think — a thousand complicated circumstances invade the consta: of man. Imagine, if possible, that I have neither given nor recei felicity; that my heart has been lonely since I left you, sea daring even to commune with itself; that the mother of my ch j*^ who has so many titles to my love, is a stranger to my hist ^ and feelings; in truth, that my habitual sadness has reduced to the state from which your cares, Corinne, once extracted i If I have returned to Italy, not for my health (you cannot f « poet me of any love for life), but to bid you farewell, can i refuse to see me but once more? I wish it, because I think tha" would benefit you; my own sufferings less prompt this desire. W 890 CORINBE; OR, ITALY. the criminal wliose fate is far more altered than his heart. T respect the ties I have formed, and love your sister: but tlie human breast *?ild and inconsistent as it is, can reconcile that tenderness with what 1 feel for you. I have nothing to say for myself that can be written; all I might explain would but condemn me; yet, if you saw me pros- trate before you, through all my faults and duties, you would per- ceive what you are to me still, and that conversation would leave • balm for both. Our health is failing: Heaven may not accord u« Vength of days. Let, then, whichever may be destined to precede the other, feel regretted by the dear friend left behind. The inno- cent alone deserve such joy: but may it not be granted to the guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who can read all hearts, guess what I cannot add, and comprehend me, as you used to do. Let me but see yon; let my pallid lips touch your weak hand! It was not I alono who vrrought this ruin. No ; the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny struck two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne,. ta&y not be the least pitiable." Answer, " If I required but to see and pardon yon, I could not for an in- stant refuse. Why is it that I do not feel resentment, although the pangs you have caused me are so dreadful? I must still love you, not to hate. Religion alone would not disarm me thus. There have been moments when my reason has left me; others, far sweeter, when I hoped to die before the day could end; and some in which I have doubted even virtue : you were to me its image here below : there was no guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when the same blow struck both ray admiration and my love. W hat would have become of me without Heaven's help ? Everything in this world was poisoned by your image: one sole asylum was left, and God received me. My strength decays, but not that supporting enthusiasm. I joy to think that the best aim in life is to become worthy of eternity: our jbliss, our bane, alike tend to this purpose: and you were chosen to uproot the too strong hold I had on earth. Yet, when I .saw your . handwriting, learned that you were but on the other side of thenver, a fearful tumult rose within me: incessantly was I obliged to tell my- ■elf, 'My sister is his wife.' To see you again appeared felicity: I will not deny that my heart, inebriated afresh, preferred these inde- finite raptures to an age of calm: but Providence has not abandoned me in this pexil. Are you not the husband of another? What then have I to say to you? Is it for me to die in your arms? What ^would my conscience suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted myself another hour with you ? I can only appear before my God with anything like confidence by renouncing it. This resolution may •ppease my soul. Such happiness as I felt while you loved me is not K barmouy with our mortal state; it agitates us, because we feel its CX)KCLUSION. S fleetness: but religious meditation, that aims at self Impro^remei and refers every cause to duty, is a state of peace; and 1 know i what ravages the mere sound of your voice would make ou the ; pose I believe I have reg^iined. Why do you tell me that your hea! is impaired? Alas I I am no longer your nuise; but still, 1 suffer w: you. May God bless and prolong your days, my Lord! Be hapj but be so through piety. A secret communion with Divinity gii us in ourselves the power of confiding to a being who consoles us: makes two friends of one spirit. Do you f-till seek for what the woi calls happiness? Where will you find more than my tenderm would have bestowed? Know you that in the desert of the N World I should have blessed my lot had you permitted me to folli you? I could have served you like a slave, have knelt before you a heavenly being, had you "but loved me truly. What have y done with so much faith? You have changed it into an afflicti peerless as itself. Outrage me not, then, by one hope of happine except in prayer : let our thoughts meet in heaven! Yet whei feel myself about to die, perhaps I will be taken somewhere whei I may behold you pass. Assuredly, when my failing eyes can no more, your image will be with me ; but might not a recent revi of your features render it more distinct? Deities of old were ne present at the hour of death, so I forbid you mine ; but I should 1 to see you perfectly when Oswald, Oswald 1 behold how w< I am, when abandoned to your recollection! Why has not Lt Bought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my sister. I hi some kind and even generous things to tell her. And your chile I ought not to meet you; but you are surrounded by my family, they disown me stiU? or fear ye that poor little Juliet would scared at seeing me? Ghost as I look, I yet could smile upon y( daughter. Adieu, my Lord, adieu! Remerai)er that I might caU j brother. At least you will mourn for me externally, and, as a ki man, follow my remains to Rome: let them be borne by the rt where my car passed; and pause upon the spot where you restoi my crown. Yet no, I am wrong, Oswald: I could exact nothi that could afflict you, only one tear, and sometimes a fond look wards the heaven where I shall soon^wait you." CHAPTER IV. Many days elapsed ere Oswald could regain his composure: -293 C<5RniO; CS, XTAIT. jeot? He saw that Lucy was hurt t^hie distress, and hoped that she would question him; but she forbore, merely expressing a desire to visit Rome or Naples: he always begged a brief delay, and hucy^ with cold dignity, was silent. Oswald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of his little daughter, and secretly bade the nurse take Juhet to her. He met them on their return, and asked the child how she had enjoyed her visit. She replied by an Italian phrase, and with an accent so re-' sembUng Corinne's that her father started. . " Who taught you that,' dear?" he asked. — "The lady," she replied. — "And how did she behave to you ?" — " Oh, she kissed me, and tried; I don't know why; but- it made her worse, for she looks very ill, pagi." — ■ " Do you love her, darling?" — " That I do. I'll go to her every day. She has promised to teach me all she knows; and says that she wiU make me grow like Corinne : what's that, pa ? the lady did not tell me." Lord Nevil could not answer: he withdrew, to con. ceal his agitation, but bade the nurse take Juliet daily to Corinne. Perhaps he erred in disposing of his child without her mother's con- sent; but in a few days the youn^ pupil's progress was astonishing: her masters for Italian and music were all amazed. Nothing had ever pained Lucy more than her sister's influence over Juliet's edu- cation. The child informed her that, ill as the lady seemed, she took great pains with her. Lucy's heart would have melted, could she have seen in all this anytliing but a design to win Nevil back. She was divided between the natural wish of being sole directress fOT her daughter, and self-reproach at the idea of withholding her from such valuable instructions. One day Oswald came in as Juliet was practicing a music lesson. She held a lyre proportioned to her size; and her pretty arms fell into Coriniie's own attitude so perfectly, that he felt gazing on the miniature copy of a fine picture, with the added grace of childish innocence. He could not speak, but sank, trembling, on a seat. Juliet then played the Scotch air which he had heard at Tivoli, before the design from Ossian; he listened breathlessly. Lucy, unseen, stole behind him: as Joliet ceased, her father took her on his knee, and said: "The lady on the banks of the Arno taught you this, did she not?" — "Yes, papa; but it hurt her very much: she was so. ill while she taught me, that I begged her to leave off, but she would not'. She made me promise to play you that tune every year, on a particular day, I beUeve it was the 17th of November." — "My God!" cried Oswald, bursting into tears. Lucy now stepped forward, and, taking Juhet by the hand, said, hastily; "My Lord, it is too much to rob me of my child's aSection; that solace, at least, is due to my misfortunes." She retired. Oswald would have followed her, but was refused. At the dinner hour he was told that she had been out for some time, not saying wher«. He was fearfully alarmed at her absence; but she shortly retumpd, with a calm and gentle air, such as he llttls COHCLUSIOIT. £:: expected Be would now have confided in hev, and gained her par don by sincerity, but she replied: "Explanation, indeed, is needfu'. tons botli; yet, my dear Lord, permit me still to defer it: you ■wiL. soon know my motives fortius request." Her address, he perceived, was more animated than usual; and every day its warmth, its intei- est, increased. He could not tmderstand this change: its cause is soon told. And that Lucy so long had hidden in her heart escaped'. in the brief reproach she made her husband; and, as usually happenr to persons who suddenly break from their habitual character, sh© now ran into extremes, rcsclvlz^ ';o seek Oornne. and ask her if she had determined perpetually to disturb her wedded peace; bni, at she arrived at her sister's door, her diffidence returned; nor would she liave had courage to enter, had not the invalid, who saw her from a window, sent Theresina to entreat her. Lucy ascended to the sick chamber, and all her anger vanished at sight of its occupant The sisters embraced in tears. Corinne then set an example of frankness which it was impossible for Lucy not to follow. Such was that, m ind's ascendencv over every one, that, in her pres ence" n*^'*^^''''i dissimulation nor constraint could be preserved. Pallor and wea,k- ness confirmed her assertion, that she had not long to live: this sad truth added weight to her counsels. All Caatel Forte had told her, and all she had guessed from Oswald's letters, proved that reserve and coldness separated the Nevils from each other. She entered very simply on this delicate subject: her perfect knowledge of the husband's character enabled her to point out why he required to find spontaneously in those he loved the cdnfidence which he could not solicit, and to be received with cheerfulness proportioned tp his, own susceptibility of discouragement. She described her past self impar- tially, as if speaking of another, and showed how agreeable it must be for a man to find, united with moral conduct, that desire to please which is often inspired by a wish to atone for the loss of virtue. " Slany women," she said, "have been Ijeloved. not merely in spit e .^f/niit tnr flip sakp. nf thp.ir vfiry errors: because tliev strove to ex - _tort a pardon bv hping ever ttfrrepfMe, and haying so mucn ne ed-of, ' indulgisnce dared impose no laws on others. Therefore, dear sister, ," pride not in your perfeet.inns; let your charms consist in seeming t o fo rget them: b e Corinne and LucV in one: nor let vour own lynrth excuse to you a moment's neglect of your graces, nor your self-re- spect render your manners repulsive. Were your dignity ill f 01 inded ' it might wound him less ; for an over-exertion of certain rights thilla the heart more than do unjust pretensions. .Love delights in Baying ' more than is due, where nothing is exacted ." .Lucy thanked her fester with much tenderness for the interest tlius generously e^mced inher welfare; and Corinne resumed: "If I were doomed to live, I might not be capable of it; but now my only selfish wish is, that Oswald should find some traces, of my influence in you and ' n his child; nor ever taste one rapture that reminds him not of Co/ one." 294 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. Lady Kevil returned to her every day, and with tiie most amiable delicacy, siudied to resemble the being so dear to her Lord. His euriosity increased, as lie remarked the fresh attractions she thus ac- quired: he knew that she must owe them to Corinne; yet Lucy hav- ing promised to keep the secret of their meetings, no explanation oc- »urred. The sufferer projioscd yet to see the wedded pair together, but not till she was assured that she had but a few moments to livej U9I she involved this plan in so much mystery, that Lucy knew not b what mamier it was to be accomplished. CHAPTER "V. Corinne desired to bid Nevil and Italy such a farewell as might recall the days on which her genius shone with its full splendor. A pardonable weakness. Love and glory were ever blended in her mind ; and, at that moment when her heart was about to resign all earthly ties, she wished Oswald to feel, once more, that it was th e greatest woifian_ of "Tief day ;ihP] trad"3estroyect — the woman who bea t 'kjiewrl nnv t o "love and thmK-^=whOSe brilliant success he had ob- flcureg m misery ana aeatn . ' ~~~ ""blie naa no longer the strength required by an improvisatrice; but in solitude, since Oswald's return, had resumed her zest for writing poetry; she therefore named a day for assembling in one of the gal- leries all who desired to hear her ver.-)er how I loved its loveliness I How oft I sung its perfume and its air. I pray you sometimes to recall a line From out my sougs — my soul Is written there: But fatal Muses, love and misery. Taught my bust poetry. When the designs of mighty Providence Are work'd in u;*, internal music marks The coming of the angel of the grave: Nor fearful, nor yet terrible he spreads His white wings ; and, though compassed by night, A thousand omens tell of his approach. If the wind murmurSj then they seem to hear His voice ; nnd when night falls, the shadows ronnd Seem the dark foldings of hie sweeping robe. At noon, when life sees only the clear sky^ -•Had I but served my God with half the leal, etc."— Ifoisey. (SHAKESPBABa^ CONCLUSION. 297 Veetn onl; the bright sun, the fated one Whom Death hath called, upon the distance marks The heavy shade so soou to shroud AU nature from their eyes. Youth, hope, emotions of the heart— ye all Are now no more. Fur from me — vain rcgietc; If 1 can yet obtaiu some falling tears, If I can vet believe myself beloved. It :S beet, use I am about :o die. Conld I recall my fleeting life — that life, 8ooii would it tnru upon me all its sting; And l^ome 1 Bome, where my ashes willbe bomey Thou who hast seen so many die, forsive, If, with a trembliug step, I joii. the s..'ades. The multitude of your illustiioue dcudi Forgive me for my pity of myself.* Feeliniy of death. That mystery at least mapt give repose. Te do not answer me, ye silent tombs 1 Merciful God, thou dost not answer me ! I made my choic j oii earth, and now my heart Bas no asylum. Te decide for me, Aud such a destiny is best. L.E.L. Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The hall resotinded wit! deep, sad murmurs of applause. Lord Nevil could not support the violence of his emotion, but fell senseless to the ground. Corinne, beholding him in this condition, would have flown to him, but her strength failed as she attempted to rise. She was borne home, and from that hour no hopes were entertaine'l of saving her. Lucy has- tened to her, so afflicted by her husband's grief, that she threw her- self at her sister's feet, imploring her to admit him; but Corinne -refused. "I forgive him," she said, " for having broken my heart. - Men know not vrtiat they do; society persuades them that it is sport to fill a heart with rapturp, and then consign it to despair; but God's free grace has given me back composure. The sight of Oswald would revive sensations that ill befit a death-bed. Religion only possesses the secret clue through this terrific labyrinth. I pardon the being I so loved," she continued, with a failing voice; "may he be happy with you! but when in his turn he is called on to die, then may he recollect the poor Corinne. She will watch over him, if Heaven permits; for those never cease to love, whose love has had the strength to cost them life." Oswald stood at her door, sometimes abn"t to enter, spite har pro- ,* J'a pltii de moi-meme.— Cobiisili;e. 29a CORINKE; OR, ITAiT. Mbitton, gometimes motionless -with sorrow. Lucy passed from one to the other, like an angel of peace, Tsetween despair and death. One evening Corinne appeared more easy, and the parents went tat a short time to their child, whom they had not seen for three days. During their absence the dying woman performed all the duties of religion; then said to the reverend man who received her last solemn confession: "Now, father, you know my fate. Judge me! I have never taken vengeance on my foes ; the griefs of others never asked my «ympathy in vain, my faults sprung but from passions not guilty in themselves, though human pride and weakpess led them to excess and error. Think you, my father — you who have so much longer experience than I — that God will pardop me ?" — " Yes, child, I hope bo; is not your heart now wholly his?" — "I believe it, father; take away this portrait, it is Oswald's; lay on my breast the image of Him who descended to this life — ^not for the powerful, njor the In- spired, but for the sufferer, the dying; they need his mercy." She then perceived Castel Forte, who weist beside her bed, and holding out her hand to him, exclaimed: "My friend! you only are beside me now. I lived for love; yet, but for you, should die alone." Her tears fell as she spoke, yet she added: " There is no help for such a moment ; friend-* can but follow us to the brink; there begin thoughts too deep, too troubled, to be confided." ^e begged they would remove her to a sofa, whence she could gaze upon the s)iy. Lucy now came to her side; and the unhappy Oswald, following his wife, fell at the feet of Corinne, who would have spoken to him, but her voice failed: she raised her eyes to Heaven; the moon was covered with just such a cloud as they had seen on their way to Naples. Corinne pointed to it with a dying hand — one sigh — and that hand sank powerless. Oswald fell into such distriction that Lucy trembled for his life. He followed the funeral pomp to Rome; then retired to Tivoli, "where he remained long, without seeing even his wife and child. At last, duty and affection i^storeil him to them; they returned to England. Lord Nevil's domestic life became most exemplary: but did he ever pardon his past conduct? Could the approving world console him? After the fate he had enjoyed, cimld he content him- self with common life? I know not; nor will I, on that head, eitbw absolve or condemn him. NOTES. (1) Ancona fs not nrach l)etter supplied to this day. (2) Tfiis~obBcrvatIoii ia made in a letter oiTRomc, by AL Hnmboldt. brothflr to the cel^bt ated traveler, and Prussian miuister at Rome; a geutlemao whose writ- ings and convereation alike do honor to his learning uud originality. (3) An exception most be made in favor of MoiiH, who reads verse as well as he writes it. There can be few greater dramatic treats than to hear him recite tha episode of XJgoIino — of Fraucesca, or the death of Cloriuda. (4) Lord Nevil must Save alladed to the beantifnl lines of Propertiuft, Ut caput in magnis nbi non ^; ponere Bignis; Foiiilur hie Imos ant& corona pedes. (5) A Frenchman commanded the castle of St. Anprelo daring the last war ; and when snmmoned by the Neapolitans to sniTeuder, replied, that he would do so when the bronze augel sheathed his sword. (6) These facts are found in " A hisstory of the Italian Republics, during the Middle Ages," by M. Simonde, of tteneva; au autiior of profound sagacity, equally conscientions aud energetic. (7) *'EiiiflWeltzzwar hist du. oRomI dochohne die Liebe Ware dieWftUnicht -die Welt-, ware denn £om aucht nicht Rom," says Goethe^the poet and phil- oeopher, of all onr modem men of letters the most remarkable for imagination. (8) It is said that the building of St Peter's was one of the principal canses of the Reformation ; as It cost the popes eo iHnch, that they multiplied the sale oC Indalgencca. (9) Mineralogists affirm that these lions nre not hnstiltic, because the volcanic stone now so called was never found In Egypt; but as Pliuy and Winckleman (the historian of the arte) both give them that name, I avail myself o£ Its primitive floceptation. (10) ' Carpile nunc, taurl, de septem collibus herbao Bam licet, hlc magnse jam locus urbie erit. TIBULLU8. Hoc qnodcamque vides, bospes quAm maxima Roma est. Ante Phiygem ^nean collis et herfoa fait. etc. FSOPBBTXUS. (289) 300 NOTES. (11) Angnstna explrecl atNota, on the way to the waters of BruDdnBiam, whicb Wbicb were prescrtbeU him. He left Home iu a dying Btate. (12) Viximns iosignes inter utramqae facem. PBOFBBTIffa. (IS) Plin. Hist. Nat, 1, 3. Tiberia, qiiam libet magnornm narfncn es Italo marl capax, renim in toto orbe nascentium niercator placidlBBimnB, ploribne prob^ eoluH quain cseteri in oinnibns terris ainnes, accolitur, aspiciturqne nllis. Nalliqutj fluvioriitn minus licet, inclasls utriuque lateribus : nee tamen ipse pngnat, qnau- qnam crcber ac Bubitis lucrementls, et nusquam magis aqnis qaam iu ipsa urbe sta^antibac, Qiiin Imo vates intelligitur potius ac monitar, aacta semper religiosas venus qaaiu seevus. (U) The dancing of Madam Recaraier gave mo the Idea whicb I endeavored to express. This celebrated beauty, in the midst of affliction?, displayed so toaching a resignationf so total a forgetfolness of self* that her moral qualities seem as extraor- dinary as her personal grace. (IS) Mr. Roscoe, author of the '• History of the Medici," has Bince published thai of Leo X., which recounts the proofs of admiring esteem given by the princes aud people of Italy to men of letters; Impartially addiug, that mauyof the popes have emulated this liberality. (16> Cesnrotti, Vcni, and Bettinelli, three modern authors, have^ttlBtUled more thought into Italian prose than has been bestowed on it for many years. (IT) Giovanni Piudemonte has published a series of dramas founded on Italian hletoi^; a most praiseworthy enterprise. The name of Findemoute is also ennobled by Hippolito, one of Italy's sweetest niodera poets. (18) Alflori's posthumous works have been printed. It will be seen, by the eccentric experiment which he tried on his trngady of Abel,. that he himself thought bis style too austere, and that the stage required entertainments of greater fancy and variety, (19) I hnve allowed myself to borrow some paBsages from a discourse on death* which may be found In " The course of Reli;rious Morals," by M. Necker. Another work of his, '' The importance of Religious Opinions," had a more brilliant success, and IB sometimep confused with thiB, whicli appeared when public interest wa-* dis- tracti-d by political events ; but I dare affirm, that ** The Course of Religious Morals " Is my father's most eloquent production. No statesman, I believe, ever before composed volumes for the Christian pulpit; and this kindof writing, from a mnn who had so much to do with men, shows a kitowledge of the hnnian Heart, and the indulgence that knowhtdge inspires. It appears that, in two respects, these Ebsjivs are completely original. Areligions man is usually a recluse. Men of the world are seldom religions. Where, then, shiill we find united such observation of life, aud ench elevation of soul, that looks beyond it? I should say, fearless of finding my opinion attributed to partiality, that this book is one of the first among those which console the feeling heart, and interest the reflective mind, ou the great questioup which are incessantly agitating them both. (20) Prom a journal called " Europe," I have derived many valuable observations on pamting— an inexhaustible subject for their author, M. Frederic Schlegel, aud for Germau reasouers |n general. (21) The historical pictures here described are David's Brutus, Drouet's Marlus, and Q6rard's Belisarlus. The Tiido is by Eehbei^, a German fiainter ; Clorinda, in* the gallery of Florence: Macbeth,from an Guglish collection of pictures from Shakes- peara: the Fhedra is Guerin^s ; the two landscapes of Ciucinnatna aud Ossiau are at Rome ; their artist, Mr. Wallis, an Enelislunau. NOTES. 801 (82) I wked a little Tnscfln ^rl which ras the prettiest, her •later or hersetC ** Ah,** she replied, **_the beet face is miue." (23) An Italiau poetilton, belioldiiig his horse expire, prayed for him, crying. " St. Anthony, have pity on his eoul 1" (24) Thercader who \i78hesloknow more of the "Roman Cnruival, ehonld read the charmiug description of Goethu ; a picture faithful as it is animated. (26) There Is an exquisite account of the Lake Albano, in n collection of poems by Madame Bmnn (formerly M outer), one of the most talented and imagiuativo women of her country. (36) Discourse " On the duty of Children to their Parents," by M. Necker, See 'ilrst note. (27) On Indulgence. The same. (28) Mr. Elliot Bavcd the life of an old Neapolitan in the manner attribated to Lord Nevil. (29) This name must not be confoRed with that of Corilla, an Itnllan Improvisa- trice. The Grecian Corinue was famed for lyric poetry, Pindar himself received jeaaons from her. (30) An old tradition sapports the imaginative prfjndice which persuaded Corinne Ihat the diamond could forewarn its wearer of it** giver's treafhery. Frequent allu- sion's are made to thie legend bv Spanish poets, in their peculiar manner. In one of Calderon's tragedies, Ferdinand, Prince of Portugal, prefers death in chains, before the crime of surrendering to a Moorish kins the Christian city which his brother. King Edward, offc-re for Iiis ransom. Tlie Monr, enraged iit this refusal, subjects the noble youth to the basc'st ignominy. Ferdinand, in reproof, reminds him that mercy and generosity are the truusf. cluiracteristica of supreme power. He cites all tliflt IB royal in the nniversH— the lion, the dolphin, the eagle, amid nnimalc; and Keeks even among plants and stones for traits of natural goodness which have been attributed to those who lord it over the rest. Thus he s.-iys, the diamond, which resists the blow of steel, resolves itself todupt, thai it may inform its ma'-terif treason threatens hira. It is imposRil)le to know whether this modo of considering all nature aa connected with the destiny and peiithneuts of man is mathematically correct; but it is ever pleasing to imagination ; and poetry, especially tl»t of Spain, has owed it many great beauties. Calderon is only known to me by the German tranalatioQ of Wilhelm Schlegel ; but this author, one of his own country's fiueat poets, has the art of trans portmg into his native language, with the rarest perfectiou, the poetic graces of Spanish, English, and Italian— giving a lively idea of the origl- Dol, be it what it may. — . Xote Tb. — Had Oswald's gift hcen liia mother's wedding-ring, that Incident would have been more affecting than so fanciful a fable. N (31) M, Duhreuil, a veiy skilful French physician, fell ill of a fatal distemper. Hia populaiity filled the sick room with visitantft. Calling to his intimttce friend, M. Pfemfeja, as eminent a man as himself, he said, ** "Send away all these neopln; you know my fi'ver ia contagioaa; no one but yourself oujrht lobe with me now." Happy the friend who ever heard suciiworddl P6m6ja died fifteen days after 1*18 heart's brother. (32) Among the comic Italian aatbora who have described the'r country's mannera^ must be reckoued the Chevalier Koasi, a Koman, who singuiarly nnitea observation with satire^ (^) Talma, havint^ passed some years in London, blended the charms of each COantry's tragic acting witu uamirable talent ^ eoa NOTEa (34) After the dnath of Dante, the f'lorenthies, a-ohnmed of having permiftnd him to perieh far from liis home, eeiit a dcpniutioii to tlic pope for his remains ioterred at KaTeuna. The pope refased, riglitly deeming that tiie-fitnd which had phe'' red him iu exile must liave b<>come his comitry, and deserved not to l>e thus roblsed of the glory that shone around liie tomb. (36) Alfleri >M, that it was In the church of Santa Croce he first fell a Ibvefor fame. The enitaph he composed for himself and the Countess d'Albani is most simply and a^ectmgly expressive of long and perfect friendship. (36) It was announced at Bologna that a solar eclipse would talie plare one day at two. 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