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 C K I >N N E ; 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 BY 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL-HOLSTEIN. 
 
 Udrallo U bcl pause, 
 
 Ch' Appennia parte, e'l mar circoudu e 1'Alpe. 
 
 Petrorca. 
 
 TRANSLATED FOB THB 
 
 LIBRARY OF STANDARD NOVELS. 
 
 THE POETICAL PASSAGES BY 
 
 Li Et Li 
 
 AMERICAN EDITION, WITH NUMEROUS CORRECTION. 
 
 TWO VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 J)ork : 
 
 STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 
 
 222 BROADWAY.
 

 
 Stack 
 Annex 
 
 5: 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 00"] 
 
 TO THE AMERICAN EDITION, 
 
 THE only translation through which 
 the celebrated chef-d'oeuvre of Madame de 
 
 ' Stael has been hitherto known to the 
 English reader, was of so inferior a char- 
 acter, that a great proportion of the 
 thoughts of the author were wholly lost, 
 or so obscured and distorted as to be lit- 
 
 ! tie better than lost. ' A new translation 
 
 : was in progress here when that which is 
 now presented to the reader in a revised 
 
 . shape was received from England. It 
 was prepared for the London Library of 
 
 Standard Novels. 
 
 characterized by a degree of ease and 
 
 Its style was found 
 
 grace rarely met with in a translation. 
 The idiom of a foreign tongue has seldom 
 been more completely thrown off. But 
 
 of the author was found to be in many 
 instances lamentably misconceived. In 
 others such a latitude was taken with the 
 original as seemed to betray a doubtful 
 perception of its meaning ; and often the 
 most beautiful trains of thought were left 
 half developed. These defects it has been 
 our object to repair. 
 
 The poetical contributions of L. E. L. 
 add much to the value of this edition. 
 They are worthy of her reputation. We 
 have thought it requisite to discard a po- 
 etidal translation, by another hand, of 
 the chapter entitled, " Fragments of the 
 thoughts of Corinne," and have substituted 
 a strictly literal prose translation. The 
 incongruity of a poetical garb with the 
 
 such a peculiar merit was perhaps hardly reflections and feelings expressed in that 
 
 consistent with the most thorough and 
 ji practical familiarity with the language of 
 j I the original. A short examination detect- 
 f ed numerous errors, and it was found ne- 
 11 cessary to subject the whole book to a 
 
 minute and ririd revision.* The sense 
 
 * It may be thought proper to give an exam- 
 ple of some of the mistakes which we found it 
 i necessary to correct One, of quite an amusing 
 i character, may be taken from the very first book. 
 
 At the fire in Ancona, Oswald is represented as 
 j bringin? on shore the ship's pump, to aid in ex- 
 ; tinguishing the conflagration! This ludicrous 
 
 error arose from the use in the French of the 
 
 | word pompe instead of pompe a feu fire-engine, 
 
 as in English we use the word "engine" instead 
 
 of " fire-engine," when the connection is such 
 
 to supersede the use of the compound word. 
 
 The engines belonging to the ship were of course 
 
 intended 
 
 picture and feeling, and of observations on 
 
 on/t c*?i? g _ 
 
 chapter will be obvious to every reader. 
 
 It does not come within the design of 
 this notice to present an analysis of this 
 Celebrated work. We cannot, however, 
 forbear transcribing from the recently pub- 
 lished memoirs of one of the most dis- 
 tinguished critics of this or any other age, 
 Sir James Mackintosh, a few sentiments 
 to show the estimation in which " Corinne " 
 was held by him. 
 
 The extracts which follow are from Sir 
 James' diary. 
 
 " ' Corinne,' first volume! I have not 
 received the original, and I can no longer 
 refrain from a translation. 
 
 " It is, as has been said, a tour in Italy, j 
 mixed with a novel. The tour is full of ;
 
 national character, so refined that scarcely 
 any one else could have made them. * 
 
 " She paints Ancona and above all Rome 
 in the liveliest colors. She alone seems 
 to have inhabited the Eternal City. * * 
 
 " In the character of Corinne, Madame 
 de Stael draws an imaginary self what 
 she is, what she had the power of being, 
 and what she might easily imagine that 
 she might have become. Purity, which 
 her sentiments and principles teach her to 
 love, talents and accomplishments, which 
 her energetic genius might easily have 
 acquired ; uncommon scenes fitted for her 
 extraordinary mind ; and even beauty 
 which her fancy contemplates so con- 
 stantly aiid which in the enthusiasm of 
 invention she bestows on this adorned as 
 well is improved self. These are t.ho 
 
 materials out of which she has formed 
 Corinne. 
 
 " 13th. Second and third volumes of 
 ' Corinne.' I swallow Corinne slowly, 
 that I may taste every drop. I prolong 
 my enjoyment and really dread its termi- 
 nation. 
 
 " How she ennobles the most common 
 scenes ! a sermon from the quarter deck 
 of a ship of war ! 
 
 " 15th. Fourth and fifth volumes of 
 ' Corinne.' Farewell Corinne ! Power- 
 ful and extraordinary book ; full of faults 
 so obvious, as not to be worth enumerat- 
 ing, but of which a single sentence has 
 excited more feeling, and exercised more 
 reason than the most faultless models of 
 elegance."
 
 C O R I N N E ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 ITALY. 
 
 B K I . 
 
 OSWALD. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN the year 1794, Oswald, Lord Nelvil, a 
 Scotch nobleman, left Edinburgh to pass the 
 winter in Italy. He possessed a nobje and 
 handsome person, a fine mind, a great name, 
 an independent fortune ; but his health was 
 impaired ; and the physicians, fearing that his 
 lungs were affected, prescribed the air of the 
 south. He followed their advice though with 
 little interest in his own recovery, hoping, at 
 least, to find some amusement in the varied 
 objects he was about to behold. That heavi- 
 est of all afflictions, the loss of a father, was 
 the cause of his malady. The remorse inspir- 
 ed by scrupulous delicacy still more embitter- 
 ed his regret and haunted his imagination. 
 When we suffer we readily convince ourselves 
 that we are guilty, and violent griefs bring 
 pangs even to the conscience itself. 
 
 At five-and-twenty he was already tired of 
 life ; he judged the future by the past, and his 
 wounded sensibility was no longer alive to 
 the illusions of the heart. No one could be 
 more kind and devoted to his friends ; yet 
 not even the good he effected gave him one 
 sensation of pleasure. He constantly sacri- 
 ficed his tastes to those of others ; but this 
 total forgetfulness of self could not be explain- 
 ed by generosity alone ; it was often to be 
 attributed to a degree of melancholy, which 
 rer.dered him careless of his own doom. The 
 indifferent considered this mood extremely 
 graceful ; but those who loved him felt that 
 he gave himself to the happiness of others, 
 like a man who hoped for none himself; and 
 
 they almost repined at receiving felicity from j 
 one on whom they could never bestow it. 
 
 Yet his natural disposition was versatile, j 
 sensitive and impassioned ; uniting all the ' 
 qualities which could excite himself or others , 
 but misfortune and repentance had rendered 
 him timid, and he thought to disarm, by ex- 
 acting nothing from, fate. He trusted to find, 
 in a firm adherence to his duties, and a re- 
 nouncement of all enjoyments, . a security j 
 against the sorrows which had distracted him. 
 No pleasures of the world seemed to him 
 worth the risk of its pains ; but when we are 
 capable of feeling them, by what mode of life 
 can we hope to escape them ? 
 
 Lord Nelvil flattered himself that he should 
 quit Scotland without regret, as he had re- j 
 mained there without pleasure ; but it is not : 
 thus with sensitive imaginations ; he did not ; 
 suspect the strength of the ties which bound ; 
 him to the very scene of his miseries, the j 
 home of his father. There were apartments 
 which he could not approach without a shud- 
 der, and yet, when he had resolved to quit 
 them, he felt more lonely than ever. A sen- 
 sation of desolateness stole over his heart ; 
 he could no longer weep ; he could no more 
 recall those little local associations which so 
 deeply touched him ; his recollections had less 
 of life ; they belonged not to the objects that j 
 surrounded him. He did not think the less of j 
 him whom he mourned, but he found it more 
 difficult to recall his presence. 
 
 Sometimes, too, he reproached himself for 
 abandoning the place where his father had 
 dwelt. "Who knows," would he sigh, "it
 
 CORIXNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 the shades of the dead can follow the objects 
 of their affection ? They may not be permit- 
 ted ta wander beyond the spots where their 
 ashes repose ! Perhaps, at this moment, my 
 father deplores mine absence, powerless to 
 recall me. Alas ! may not a host of wild 
 events have persuaded him that I have be- 
 trayed his tenderness, turned rebel to my 
 country, to his will, and all that is sacreo! on 
 earth V These remembrances occasioned 
 him such insupportable despair, that, far from 
 daring to confide them in any one, he dreaded 
 even to sound their depths himself; so easy 
 is it, out of our own reflections, to create ir- 
 reparable evils ! 
 
 It is a greater trial 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 he- 
 coming impossible ; besides, the sight of the 
 main always profoundly impresses us, as the 
 image of that infinitude which perpetually at- 
 tracts the soul, in which thought ever feels 
 herself lost. Oswald, leaning near the helrn, 
 his eyes fixed on the waves, appeared perfect- 
 ly calm. Pride and diffidence generally pre- 
 vented his betraying his emotions even before 
 his friends ; but sad feelings struggled within. 
 He, thought on the time when that spectacle 
 animated his youth with a desire to cleave the 
 billows and measure his strength with theirs. 
 
 " Why," he bitterly mused, " why thus con- 
 stantly yield to meditation 1 How much plea- 
 sure is there in active life, in those violent 
 exertions that make us feel the energy of ex- 
 istence ! death itself, then, is looked on as but 
 an. event, perhaps glorious ; at least sudden, 
 and not preceded hy decay ; but that death 
 which finds us without being bravely sought, 
 that gloomy death which steals from you, in a 
 night, all you held dear, which mocks your 
 regrets, repulses your supplications, and piti- 
 lessly opposes to your desire the eternal laws 
 of time and nature, that death inspires a 
 kind of contempt for human destiny, for the 
 impotence of grief, and all the vain efforts 
 that wreck themselves against necessity." 
 
 Such were the thoughts by which Oswald 
 was haunted. The vivacity of youth was 
 united with the reflection of age. He gave 
 himself up to feelings which might have oc- 
 cupied the mind of his father in his last hours, 
 and infused the ardor of five-and-twenty into 
 the melancholy contemplations of declining 
 years. He was weary of everything; yet, 
 nevertheless, lamented the loss of happiness 
 as if he was still alive to its illusions. 
 > This inconsistency, entirely at variance 
 with the will of nature, disordered the depths 
 of his soul ; but his manners were ever gentle 
 
 and harmonious ; nay, his grief, far *rom in- 
 juring his temper, taught him a still greater 
 degree of consideration and kindness for 
 others. 
 
 Twice or thrice in the voyage from Har- 
 wich to Kmden the sea threatened a storm. 
 Nelvil directed the sailors, cheered the passen- 
 gers; and when toiling at the ropes himself, 
 or taking for a while the helmsman'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 onboard j 
 crowded round him to take leave, thanking j 
 him for a thousand good offices, which he had j 
 forgotten : sometimes it was a child that he i 
 had caressed and amused; more frequently, !l 
 some old man whose steps he had supported ;! 
 while the wind rocked the vessel. A greater ; 
 absence of personal feeling was scarce ever | 
 known. His voyage had passed without his ' 
 having devoted a moment to himself; he gave j 
 up his time to others, with a melancholy be- j 
 nevolence. As he quitted the vessel the i 
 whole crew cried, almost with one voice, 
 " God bless you, my Lord ! we wish you bet- 
 ter!" Yet Oswald hnd not once complained 
 of his sufferings ; and the persons of a high- 
 er class, who crossed with him, had said not 
 a word on this subject ; but the common peo- 
 ple, in whom their superiors so rarely 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 spontaneous 
 sympathy is unmixed either with censure or i 
 advice. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 TRAVELLING, say what we will, is one of 
 the saddest pleasures in life. If you ever feel 
 at ease in a strange place, it is because you 
 have begun to make it your home ; but to tra- 
 verse 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 dig- 
 nity ; for the hurry to arrive where no one 
 awaits you, that agitation whose sole cause is 
 curiosity, lessens you in your own esteem., 
 until new objects can become bound to you 
 by some sweet links of sentiment and habit. 
 
 Oswald felt his despondency redoubled in 
 crossing Germany to reach Italy, obliged by 
 
 F
 
 CORINXE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 war to avoid France and its frontiers, as well 
 as the troops, who rendered the roads impas- 
 sable. This necessity for attending to detail, 
 and taking, almost every instant, a new reso- 
 lution, was utterly insuiferable. His health, 
 instead of improving, often obliged him to stop, 
 while he longed to arrive at some other place, 
 or at least to fly from where he was. He took 
 the least possible 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 1 but I want pow- 
 er 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 I was deserted by nature and by fate." 
 
 He had flattered himself that a continual 
 change of external objects would somewhat 
 divert his fancy from its usual routine ; but he 
 could not, at first, realize this effect. It is 
 necessary, after any great loss, to familiarise 
 ourselves afresh with all that had surrounded 
 us, accustom ourselves again even to familiar 
 fas, to the house in which we live, and the 
 daily habits which we must resume : every 
 such effort jars fearfully on the heart; and 
 nothing so multiplies them as travelling from 
 one scene to another. 
 
 Oswald's only pleasure was exploring the 
 Tyrol, on a horse which he had brought from 
 Scotland and who climbed the hills at a gallop. 
 The astonished peasants began by shrieking 
 with fright, as they saw him 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 threw off the weight of grief and recon- 
 ciled him for the instant with that life which 
 he thus seemed to rescue, and which it would 
 have been so easy to lose. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 AT Inspruck, where he stayed for some 
 time, in the house of a banker, Oswald was 
 much interested by the history of Count d'Er- 
 feuil, a French emigrant, who had sustained 
 the total loss of an immense fortune with per- 
 fect serenity. By his musical talents he 
 had maintained himself and an aged uncle, 
 over whom he watched till the good man's 
 
 death, constantly refusing the pecuniary aid 
 which had been pressed on him. He had dis- 
 played the rqost brilliant valor that of France 
 during the war, and an unchangeable gaiety 
 in the midst of reverses. He was anxious to 
 visit Rome, that he might find a relative, 
 whose heir he expected to become ; and wish- 
 ed for a companion, or rather a friend, with 
 whom to make the journey agreeably. 
 
 Lord Nelvil'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 an union of the most 
 estimable qualities. He therefore ofiered, 
 through the narrator of Count d'Erfeuil's 
 story, to take this noble and unfortunate young 
 man with him to Italy. The banker in an 
 hour informed him that his proposal was 
 gratefully accepted. Oswald rejoiced in ren- 
 dering this service to another, though it cost 
 him much to resign his seclusion ; and his re- 
 serve suffered greatly at the prospect of find- 
 ing himself thus thrown on the society of a 
 man he did not kno%v. 
 
 He shortly received a visit of thanks from 
 the Count, who possessed an elegant manner, 
 ready politeness, and good taste ; from the 
 first appearing perfectly at his ease, Every 
 one, on seeing him, wondered at what he had 
 undergone : for he bore his lot with a courage 
 approaching to forgetfulness. There was a 
 liveliness in his conversation truly admirable, 
 while he spoke of his own misfortunes ; though 
 less so, it must be owned, when extended to 
 other subjects. 
 
 " I am greatly obliged to your Lordship." 
 said he, "for transporting me from Germany, 
 of which I am tired to^death." " And yet," 
 replied Nelvil, "you are universally beloved 
 and respected here." " I h'ave friends, in- 
 deed, whom I shall sincerely regret ; for in 
 this country or.e meets none but the best of 
 people : only I don't know 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 uncle, I have not known what 
 to do with my leisure : while I had to attend 
 on him, that filled up my time ; but now the 
 four-and-twenty hours hang heavily on my 
 hands." " The delicacy of your conduct to- 
 wards your kinsman, Count," said Nelvil, 
 " has impressed me with the deepest regard 
 for you." " I did no mere than my duty, j 
 Poor man! he had lavished his favors on my ; 
 childhood. I could never have left him, had j 
 he lived to be a hundred ; but 'tis well for him ! 
 that he's gone ; 'twere well for me to be with j 
 him," he added, laughing, " for I've little to 
 hope in this world. I did my best, during the 
 war, to get killed ; but since fate would spare
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 me, I mast live on as I may." " I shall congra- 
 tulate myself on coming hither," answered 
 Nelvil, " 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 medi- 
 tation that I have acquired my philosophy, 
 but from being used to the world and its mis- 
 haps ; nay, you see, my lord, I have some 
 reason for trusting to chance, since I owe to j 
 it the opportunity of travelling with you." j 
 The Count then agreed on the hour for setting 
 forth next day, and with a graceful bow, de- 
 parted. After the mere interchange of civil- 
 ities with which their journey commenced, 
 Oswald remained silent for some hours ; but 
 perceiving that this fatigued his fellow travel- 
 ler, he asked him if he anticipated much 
 pleasure in his visit to Italy. " Oh," replied 
 the Count, " I know what to expect, and don't 
 look forward to the least amusement. A 
 frierd of mine passed six months there, and 
 tells me that there is not a French province 
 without a better theatre, and more agreeable 
 society, than Rome ; but in that ancient capi- 
 tal 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 been 
 tempted to learn Italian 1 ?" "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 resolu- 
 tion 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 ourselves ; all 
 the rest is mere imitation^." Oswald said no- 
 thing. A few moments afterwards the Count 
 renewed the conversation by sallies of vivaci- 
 ty and humor, in which he sported with 
 words and phrases most ingeniously ; but 
 neither what he saw nor what he felt was 
 his theme. His discourse sprang not from 
 within, nor from without ; but, steering clear 
 alike of reflection and imagination, found its 
 subjects in the superficial traits of society. 
 He named twenty persons in France and Eng- 
 land, inquiring if Lord Nelvil knew them ; 
 and related as many pointed anecdotes, as if, 
 in his opinion, the only language for a man 
 of taste was the gossip of good company. 
 Nelvil pondered for some time on this singu- 
 lar combination of courage and frivolity, this 
 contempt of misfortune, which would have 
 been so heroic if it had cost more effort, in- 
 stead of springing from the same apathy 
 which rendered him incapable of deep affec- 
 tions. " An Englishman," thought he, " would 
 have been overwhelmed by similar circum- 
 stances. Whence does this Frenchman de- 
 
 rive his fortitude, yet pliancy of character ? 
 Does he rightly understand the art of living * 
 I deem myself his superior, yet am I not ill 
 and wretched 7 Does his trifling course ac- 
 cord better than mine with the fleetness o! 
 life 1 Must one fly from thought as from a 
 foe, instead of yielding all the soul to its pow- 
 er V Could Oswald have settled this question, 
 it would have been in vain ; for none can 
 leave the intellectual region which nature has 
 assigned to him, and our qualities of mind are 
 as intractable as our faults of character. 
 
 The Count gave no attention to Italy, and 
 rendered it almost impossible for Oswald to 
 enjoy it. D'Erfeuil continually disturbed 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 ob- 
 stacle to the pleasure he might have tasted 
 than was the mirth of d'Erfeuil. The regrets 
 of a feeling heart may find relief in a con- 
 templation of nature and an enjoyment of the 
 fine arts ; but frivolity, under whatever form 
 it appears, deprives attention of its power, 
 thought of its originality, and sentimeHt of its 
 depth. One strange effect of the Count's 
 levity was its inspiring Nelvil with diffidence 
 in all their relations with each other. The 
 most thoughtful characters are often the easiest 
 abashed. The giddy embarrass and over-awe 
 the contemplative ; and the being who calls him- 
 self happy appears wiser than he who suffers. 
 
 D'Erfeuil was every way mild, obliging, and 
 free ; serious only in his self-love, and worthy 
 to be liked as much as he could like another; 
 that is, as a good companion in pleasure and 
 in peril, but one who knew not how to partici- 
 pate in others' pain. He wearied of Oswald's 
 melancholy ; and, as well from the goodness 
 of his heart as from taste, he strove to dissi- 
 pate it. " What would you have 1" he often 
 said : " Are you not young, rich, and well, if 
 you choose 1 you are but fancy-sick. I have 
 lost all, and know not what 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 Nelvil ; " but the reverses 
 you have known wound less than, do the sor- 
 rows of my heart." "The sorrows of the 
 heart ! ay, true, they must be the worst of all : 
 but still you must console yourself; for a sen- 
 sible man ought to banish from his mind what- 
 ever can be of no service to himself or others. 
 Are we not placed here below to be useful 
 first, and consequently happy 7 My dear Nel- 
 vil, let us hold by that faith."
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 All this was rational enough, in the usual 
 sense of the word ; for d'Erfeuil was, in most 
 respects, a clear-headed man. The impas- 
 sioned are far more liable to weakness, than 
 the fickle ; but, instead of his mode of think- 
 ing securing the confidence of Nelvil, he 
 would fain have assured the Count that he 
 was the happiest of human beings, to escape 
 the infliction of his attempts at comfort. 
 Nevertheless, d'Erfeuil became strongly at- 
 tached to Lord Nelvil. His resignation and 
 simplicity, his modesty and pride, created re- 
 spect irresistibly. The Count was perplexed 
 by Oswald's external composure, and taxed 
 his memory for all the grave maxims, which 
 in childhood he had heard from his old rela- 
 tions, in order to try their effect upon his 
 friend ; and astonished at his failing to van- 
 quish his apparent coldness, he asked himself, 
 " Am I not good-natured, frank, brave, and 
 popular in society 1 What do I want, then, to 
 make an impression on this man ! May there 
 not be some misapprehension between us, 
 arising, perhaps, from his not sufficiently un- 
 derstanding French ?" 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN unforeseen circumstance much increased 
 the sensations of deference which d'Erfeuil 
 felt towards his travelling companion. Lord 
 Nelvil's state of health obliged him to stop 
 some days at Ancona. Mount and main con- 
 spired to beautify its site ; and the crowd of 
 Greeks, orientally seated at work before the 
 shops, the varied costumes of the Levant, to 
 be met with in the streets, give the town an 
 original and interesting air. Civilisation tends 
 to render all men alike, in appearance if not 
 in reality : yet fancy may find pleasure in 
 characteristic national distinctions. 
 
 Men only resemble each other when sophis- 
 ticated by sordid or fashionable life ; whatever 
 is natural admits of variety. There is a slight 
 gratification, at least for the eyes, in that di- 
 versity of dress, which seems to promise us 
 equally novel ways of feeling and of judgment. 
 The Greek, Catholic, and Jewish forms of 
 worship exist peaceably together in Ancona. 
 Their ceremonies are strongly contrasted ; but 
 the same sigh of distress, the same petition 
 for support, ascends to Heaven from all. 
 
 The Catholic church stands on a height 
 that overlooks the main, the lash of whose 
 tides frequently blends with the chant of the 
 priests. Within, the edifice is loaded by orna- 
 I ments of indifferent taste ; but, pausing be- 
 
 neath the portico, the soul delights to recall 
 its purest of emotions religion while gazing 
 at that superb spectacle, the sea, on which 
 man never left his trace. He may plough 
 the earth, and cut his way through mountains, 
 or contract rivers into canals, for the transport 
 of his merchandise ; but if his fleets for a 
 jnoment furrow the ocean, its waves as in- 
 stantly efface this slight mark of servitude, 
 and it again appears such as it was on the first 
 day of its creation.* 
 
 Lord Nelvil had decided to start for Rome 
 on the morrow, when he heard, during the 
 night, a terrific cry from the streets, and has- 
 tening from his hotel to learn the cause, be- 
 held a conflagration which, beginning at the 
 port, spread from house to house towards the 
 higher part of the town. The flames were 
 reflected afar off in the sea ; the wind, in- 
 creasing their violence, agitated their images 
 on the waves, which mirrored in a thousand 
 shapes the blood-red features of a lurid fire. 
 The inhabitants, having no engine in good re- 
 pair(l), hurriedly bore forth what succor they 
 could ; above their shouts was heard a clank 
 of chains, as the slaves from the galleys toiled 
 to save the city which served them for a pri- 
 son. The various people of the Levant, 
 whom commerce had drawn to Ancona, be- 
 trayed their consternation by the stupor of 
 their looks. The merchants^ at the sight of 
 their blazing stores, lost all presence of mind. 
 Alarm for property affects the mass of men 
 almost as much as for life, without awakening 
 that desperate energy of soul which will find 
 and try every resource. 
 
 The shouts of sailors have ever something 
 dreary in their sound ; fear now rendered 
 them still more appalling. The mariners af 
 the Adriatic were clad in peculiar red and 
 brown hoods, from which peeped their ani- 
 mated Italian faces, under every expression 
 of dismay. The natives, lying on the earth, 
 covered their heads with their cloaks, as if 
 nothing remained for tfeem to do but exclude 
 the sight of their calamity. Reckless fury 
 and blind submission reigned alternately, but 
 no one evinced that coolness which redoubles 
 our means and our strength. 
 
 * Lord Byron translated this paragraph in the fourth 
 canto of Childe Harold, but without acknowledging whence 
 the ideas were borrowed : 
 
 " Roll on, thou dark and deep blue ocean roll ! 
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; 
 Man marks the earth with ruin his control 
 Stops with the shore ; upon the wat'ry plain 
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain 
 A shadow of man's ravage. 
 
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow 
 Such as creation's dawn beheld, tho rollest now." 
 See stanzas 179, and 182 Ta.
 
 :o 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, if ALY. 
 
 Oswald remembered that there were two 
 English vessels in the harbor : the fire-engines 
 of both were ir. perfect order : he ran to the 
 Captain's house, and put off with him in a boat, 
 to fetch them. Those* who witnessed this 
 exclaimed to him, " Ah, you foreigners do well 
 to leave our unhappy town !" " We shall soon 
 return," said Oswald. They did not believe 
 him, till he came back, and placed one of the 
 engines in front of the house nearest to the 
 port, the other before that which blazed in the 
 centre of the street. Count d'Erfeuil ex- 
 posed his life with gay and careless daring. 
 The English sailors and Lord Nelvil's serv- 
 ants came to his aid, for the populace remained 
 motionless, scarcely understanding what these 
 strangers meant to do, and without the slight- 
 est faith in their success. The hells ruhg 
 from all sides ; the priests formed processions ; 
 weeping females threw themselves before their 
 sculptured saints ; but no one thought on the 
 natural powers which God has given man for 
 his own defence. Nevertheless, when they 
 perceived the fortunate effects of Oswald's 
 activity the flames extinguished, and their 
 homes preserved rapture succeeded astonish- 
 ment : they pressed around him, and kissed 
 his hand with such ardent eagerness, that he 
 was obliged by feigned displeasure to drive 
 them from him, lest they should impede the 
 rapid succession of necessary orders for sav- 
 ing the town. Every one ranked himself be- 
 neath Oswald's command : for, in trivial as in 
 great events, where danger is, firmness will 
 find its rightful station ; and while men strong- 
 ly fear, they cease to feel jealousy. Amid 
 the general tumult, Nelvil now distinguished 
 shrieks more horrible than aught he had pre- 
 viously heard, as if from the other extremity 
 of the town. He inquired their source ; and 
 was told that they proceeded from the Jews' 
 quarter. The officer of police was accus- 
 tomed to close its gates every evening ; the 
 fire gained on it, and the occupants could not 
 escape.' Oswald shuddered at the thought, 
 and bade them instantly open the barriers ; but 
 the women, who heard him, flung themselves 
 at his feet, exclaiming, " Oh, our good angel ! 
 you must be aware that it is certainly on their 
 account, we have endured this visitation ; it is 
 they who bring us ill fortune ; and if you set 
 them free, all the water of the ocean will 
 never quench these flames." They entreated 
 him to let the Jews be burnt with as much 
 persuasive eloquence as if they had been 
 petitioning for an act of mercy. Not that 
 they were by nature cruel, but that their su- 
 perstitious fancies were forcibly struck by a 
 great disaster. Oswald with difficulty con- 
 tained his indignation at hearing a prayer so 
 
 hatchets, to cut down the gate which confined 
 these hapless men, who instantly spread them- 
 selves about the town, rushing to their mer- 
 chandise, through the flames, with that greedi- 
 ness of wealth, which impresses us so 
 painfully, when it drives men to brave even 
 death ; as if human beings, in the present 
 state of society, had nothing to do with the 
 simple gift of life. There was now but one 
 house, at the upper part of the town, where 
 the fire mocked all efforts to subdue it. So 
 little interest had been shown in this abode, 
 that the sailors, believing it vacant, had car- 
 'ried their engines towards the port. Oswald 
 himself, stunned by the calls for aid around 
 him, had almost disregarded it. The confla- 
 gration had not been early communicated to 
 this place, but it had made great progress 
 there. He demanded so earnestly what the 
 dwelling was, that at last a man informed him, 
 the Hospital for Maniacs ! Overwhelmed 
 by these tidings, he looked in vain for his as- 
 sistants, or for Count d'Erfeuil ; as vainly did 
 he call upon the inhabitants : they were em- 
 ployed in taking care of their property, and 
 deemed it ridiculous to risk their lives for the 
 sake of men who were all incurably mad. " It 
 will be no one's fault if they die, but a bless- 
 to themselves and families," was the gene- 
 
 opinion ; but while they expressed 
 
 ing 
 ral 
 
 Oswald strode rapidly towards the building, 
 and even those who blamed involuntarily fol- 
 lowed him. On reaching the house, he saw, 
 at the only window not surrounded by flame, 
 the unconscious creatures, looking on, with 
 that heart-rending laughter which proves 
 either an ignorance of all life's sad realities, 
 or such deep-seated despair as disarms death's 
 most frightful aspect of its power. An inde- 
 scribable chill seized him at this sight. In 
 the severest period of his own distress he had 
 felt as if his reason were deserting him ; and, 
 since then, never looked upon insanity without 
 the most painful sympathy. He secured a 
 ladder which he found near, placed it against 
 the wall, ascended through the flames, and 
 entered, by its window, the room where the 
 unfortunate lunatics were assembled. Their 
 derangement was sufficiently harmless to justi- 
 fy their freedom within doors ; only one was 
 chained. Fortunately the floor was not con- 
 sumed, and Oswald's appearance in the midst 
 of these degraded beings had all the effect of 
 enchantment ; at first they obeyed without re- 
 sistance. He bade them descend before him, 
 one aftnr the other, by the ladder, which might 
 in a few seconds be destroyed. The first of 
 them complied in silence, so entirely had Os- 
 wald's looks and tones subdued them. An- 
 other, heedless of the danger in which the 
 
 revolting. He sent four English sailois, with I least delay must involve Oswald and himself,
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 11 
 
 was inclined to rebel ; ths people, alive to all 
 the horrors of the situation, called on Lord 
 Xelvil to come down, and leave the senseless 
 wretches to escape as they could ; but, their 
 deliverer would listen to nothing- that could 
 defeat his generous enterprise. Of the six 
 patients found in the hospital, five were al- 
 ready safe. The only one remaining was the 
 youth who had been fettered to the wall. Os- 
 wald loosened his irons, and bade him take 
 the same course as his companions ; bnt, on 
 feeling himself at liberty, after two years' 
 bondage, he sprung about the' room with fran- 
 tic delight, which, however, gave place to 
 fury, when Oswald desired him to get out of 
 the" window. But finding persuasion fruitless, 
 and seeing that the fatal element was fast ex- 
 tending its ravages, he clasped the struggling 
 maniac in his arms ; and, while the smoke 
 prevented his seeing where to step, leaped 
 from the last bars of the ladder, giving the 
 rescued man, who still contended with his 
 benefactor, into the hands of persons whom 
 he charged to guard him carefully. 
 
 Oswald, with his locks disordered, and his 
 countenance sweetly yet proudly animated by 
 the perils he had braved, struck the gazing 
 crowd with an almost fanatical admiration ; 
 the women, particularly, expressed themselves 
 in that fanciful language, the universal gift 
 of Italy, which often lends a dignity to the 
 address of her humblest children. They cast 
 themselves on their knees before him, crying, 
 " Assuredly thou art St. Michael, the pa- 
 tron of Ancona. Show us thy wings, yet do 
 not fly, save to the top of our cathedral, 
 where all may see and pray to thee !" " My 
 child is ill, oh cure him !" said one. 
 ' Where," added another, " is my husband, 
 who has been absent so many years ] tell 
 me !" Oswald was longing to escape, when 
 d'Erfeuil, joining him, pressed his hand. 
 " Dear Nelvil !" he began, " could you share 
 nothing with your friend 1 'twas cruel to keep 
 all the glory to yourself." " Help me from 
 this place !" returned Oswald in a low voice. 
 A moment's darkness favored their flight, and 
 both hastened in search of post-horses. 
 Sweet as was the first ser.se of the good he 
 had just effected, with whom could he par- 
 take it, now that his best fnejid was no more ? 
 So wretched is the bereaved, that felicity and 
 care alike remind him of his heart's solitude. 
 What substitute has life for the affection born 
 with us ? for that mutual understanding, that 
 kindred sympathy, that friendship, formed by 
 Heaven to exist but between parent and child '? 
 We may love again ; but the happiness of 
 confiding the whole soul to another, that we 
 can never regain. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OSWALD sped to Rome, over the Marches 
 of Ancona, and the Papal States, without re- 
 marking or interesting himself in anything. 
 Besides his melancholy, his disposition had a 
 natural indolence, from which it could only be 
 roused by some strong passion. His taste 
 for the arts was not yet developed ; he had 
 lived but in England and in France ;* in the 
 former, society is everything, in the latter, 
 political interests nearly absorb all others. 
 His mind, concentrated in his griefs, could 
 not yet solace itself in the wonders of nature, 
 or the works of art. 
 
 D'Erfeuil, running through every town, 
 with the Guide-Book in his hand, had the 
 double pleasure of making a%vay with his 
 time, arid of assuring himself that there was 
 nothing to see worthy the praise of any one 
 who had been in France. This nil admirari 
 of his discouraged Oswald, who was also 
 somewhat prepossessed against Italy and 
 Italians. He could not yet penetrate the 
 mystery .ot the people or their country, a 
 mystery that must be solved rather by imagi- 
 nation than by that spirit of judgment which 
 an English education particularly matures. 
 
 The Italians are more remarkable for what 
 they have been, and might be, than for what 
 they are. The wastes that surround Rome, 
 as if the earth, fatigued by glory, disdained 
 to become productive, are but uncultivated 
 and neglected lands to the utilitarian. Os- 
 wald, accustomed from his childhood to a love 
 of order and public prosperity, received, at 
 first, an unfavorable impressic i. in crossing 
 such abandoned plains as mark the approach 
 to the former queen of cities. Looking on 
 the scene with the eye of an enlightened pa- 
 triot, he censured the idle inhabitants and 
 their rulers. 
 
 The Count d'Erfeuil regarded it as a man 
 of the world ; and thus the one from reason, 
 and the other from levity, remained dead to 
 the effect which the Campagna produces on a 
 mind filled by a regretful memory of those 
 natural beauties and splendid misfortunes, 
 which invest this country with an indescriba- 
 ble charm. 
 
 The Count uttered the most comic lament- 
 ations over the environs of Rome. " W r hat !" 
 said he, "no villas'? no equipages'! nothing 
 to announce the neighborhood of a great city ? 
 Good God ! how dull !" The same pride 
 with which the natives of the coast point out 
 
 *This alludes to a previous tour; in his present one, 
 Oswald has not approached France. His longest stay wa 
 in Germany. TR
 
 12 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 the sea, and the Neapolitans show their Ve- 
 suvius, now transported the postillions, who 
 exclaimed, " Look ! that is the cupola of St. 
 Peter's." ' One might take it for the dome 
 of the Invalides !" cried d'Erfeuil. This 
 coicparison, rather national than just, de- 
 stroyed the sensation which Oswald might 
 have received, in first beholding that magnifi- 
 cent wonder of man's creation. 
 
 They entered Rome, neither on a fair day, 
 nor a lovely night, but on a dark and misty 
 evening, which dimmed and confused every 
 object before them. They crossed the Tiber 
 without observing it ; passed through the Porto 
 del Popolo, which led them at once to the 
 Corso, the largest street of modern Rome, 
 but that which possesses the least originality 
 of feature, as being the one which most re- 
 sembles those of other European towns. 
 
 The streets were crowded ; puppet-shows 
 and mountebanks formed groups round the 
 
 base of Antoninus' pillar. Oswald's attention 
 was caught by these objects, and the name of 
 Rome forgotten. He felt that deep isolation 
 which presses on the heart, when we enter a 
 foreign scene, and look on a multitude to 
 whom our existence is unknown, and who 
 have not one interest in common with us. 
 These reflections, so saddening to all men, 
 are doubly so to the English, who are accus- 
 tomed to live among themselves, and find it 
 difficult to blend with the manners of other j 
 lands. In Rome, that vast caravansary, all | 
 is foreign, even the Romans, who seem to j 
 live there, not like its possessors, but like | 
 pilgrims who repose among its ruins. (2) j 
 Oppressed by laboring thoughts, Oswald shut 
 himself in his room, instead of exploring the 
 city ; little dreaming that the country he had 
 entered beneath such a sense of dejection 
 would soon become the mine of so many new 
 ideas and enjoyments. 
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OSWALD awoke in Rome. The dazzling 
 sun of Italy met his first gaze, and his soul 
 was penetrated with sensations of love and 
 gratitude for that heaven, which seemed to 
 smile on him in these glorious beams. He 
 heard the bells of numerous churches ringing, 
 discharges of cannon from various distances, 
 as if announcing some high solemnity. He 
 inquired the cause, and was informed that the 
 most celebrated female in Italy was about that 
 morning to be crowned at the capitol Corin- 
 ne, the poet and improvisatrice, one of the 
 loveliest women of Rome. He asked some 
 questions respecting this ceremony, hallowed 
 by the names of Petrarch and of Tasso : every 
 reply he received warmly excited his curi- 
 osity. 
 
 There can be nothing more hostile to the 
 habits and opinions of an Englishman than 
 any great publicity given to the career of a 
 woman. But the enthusiasm with which all 
 imaginative talents inspire the Italians, infects, 
 at least for the time, even strangers, who for- 
 get prejudice itself among people so lively in 
 the expression of their sentiments. 
 
 The common populace of Rome discuss 
 their statues, pictures, monuments, and anti- 
 quities, with much taste ; and literary merit, 
 carried to a certain height, becomes with them 
 a national interest. 
 
 On going forth into the public resorts, Os- 
 wald found that the streets through which Co- 
 rinne was to pass had been adorned for her 
 reception. The multitude, who generally 
 throng but the path of fortune or of power, were 
 almost in a tumult of eagerness to look on one 
 whose soul was her only distinction. In the 
 present state of the Italians, the glory of the 
 fine arts is all their fate allows them ; and 
 they appreciate genius of that order with a 
 vivacity which might raise up a host of great 
 men, if applause could suffice to produce them 
 if a life of struggle, great interests, and an 
 independent station were not the food required 
 to nourish thought. 
 
 Oswald walked the streets of Rome, await- 
 ing the arrival of Corinne : he heard her 
 named every instant ; every one related some 
 new trait, proving that she united all the tal- 
 ents most captivating to the imagination. One 
 asserted that her voice was the most touching 
 in Italy ; another, that, in tragic acting, she
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 13 
 
 had no peer ; a third, that she danced like a 
 nymph, and drew with equal grace and inven- 
 tion : all said that no one had ever written or 
 extemporised verses so sweet ; and that, in 
 daily conversation, she displayed alternately 
 an ease and an eloquence which fascinated all 
 who heard her. They disputed as to which 
 part of Italy had given her birth ; some ear- 
 nestly contending that she must be a Roman, 
 or she could not speak the language with such 
 purity. Her family name was unknown. Her 
 first work, which had appeared five years 
 since, bore but that of Corinne. No one could 
 tfcll where she had lived, nor what she had 
 been, before that period ; and she was now 
 nearly six and twenty. Such mystery and 
 publicity, united in the fate of a female of whom 
 every one spoke, yet whose real name no one 
 knew, appeared to Nelvil as among the won- 
 ders jaf the land he came to see. He would 
 have* judged such a woman very severely in 
 England ; but he applied not her social eti- 
 quettes to Italy ; and the crowning of Corinne 
 awoke in his breast the same sensation which 
 he would have felt on reading an adventure of 
 Ariosto's. 
 
 A burst of exquisite melody preceded the 
 approach of the triumphal procession. How 
 thrilling is each event that is heralded by mu- 
 sic ? A great number of Roman nobles, and 
 not a few foreigners, came first. "Behold 
 her retinue of admirers]" said one. "Yes," 
 replied another ; " she receives a whole world's 
 homage, but accords her preference to none. 
 She is rich, independent ; it is even believed, 
 from her noble air, that she is a lady of high 
 birth, who wishes to remain unknown." " A 
 divinity veiled in clouds," concluded a third. 
 Oswald looked on the man who spoke thus : 
 everything betokened him a person of the hum- 
 blest class ; but the natives of the South con- 
 verse as naturally in poetic phrases as'if they 
 imbibed them with the air, or were inspired by 
 the sun. 
 
 At last four spotless steeds appeared in 
 the midst of the crowd, drawing an antiquely- 
 shaped car, beside which walked a band of 
 maidens in snowy vestments. Wherever Co- 
 rinne passed, perfumes were thrown upon the 
 air ; the windows, decked with flowers and 
 scarlet hangings, were peopled 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 ; Nelvil could not yield to the 
 spirit of the scene, till he beheld Corinne. 
 
 Attired like Domenichino's Sibyl, an Indian 
 shawl was twined among her lustrous black 
 curls, a blue drapery fell over her robe of vir- 
 gin white, and her whole costume was pictur- 
 
 esque, without sufficiently varying from mo- 
 dern 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 Nelvil her friend even before any 
 more ardent sentiment subdued him. Her 
 arms were transcendently beautiful ; her figure 
 tall, and, as we frequently see among the Gre- 
 cian 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 na- 
 tural disposition sweetly contrasting with the 
 pomp of her extraordinary 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 not more elicited wondering 
 conjecture, than it conciliated sympathy and 
 affection. The nearer she approached the 
 Capitol, so fruitful in classic associations, the 
 more these tributes of admiration increased. 
 That resplendent atmosphere, these Romans 
 so full of enthusiasm, and, above all, Corinne 
 herself, produced an electric effect on Oswald. 
 He had often, in his own land, seen statesmen 
 drawn in triumph by the people ; but this was 
 the first time that he had ever witnessed the ten- 
 der of such honors to a woman, illustrious only 
 in mind. Her car of victory cost no fellow 
 mortal's tear ; nor terror nor regret could 
 check his admiration for those fairest gifts of 
 nature creative fancy, sensibility, and reason. 
 These new ideas so intensely occupied him, 
 that he noticed none of the long-famed spots 
 over which Corinne proceeded. At the foot 
 of the steps leading to the Capitol the 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 |nd character. Every one ap- 
 proved her choice. She ascended to the Ca- 
 pitol, whose imposing majesty seemed gra- 
 ciously to welcome the light footsteps of wo- 
 man. The instruments sounded with fresh 
 vigor, the cannon shook the air, and the all- 
 conquering Sybil entered the palace pufepared 
 for her reception. 
 
 In the centre of the hall stood the senator 
 who was to crown Corinne, surrounded by his 
 brothers in office ; on one side, all the cardi- 
 nals and most distinguished ladies of Rome ; 
 on the other, the members of the Academy ; 
 while the opposite extremity was filled by some 
 portion of the multitude who had followed Co-
 
 14 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 rinne. The chair destined for her was placed 
 a 'step lower than that of the senator. Ere 
 
 iting herself in presence of that august as- 
 j; ocmbly, she complied with the custom of 
 bending one knee to the earth : the gentle dig- 
 nity of this action filled Oswald's eyes with 
 tears, to his own surprise ; but, in the midst 
 'of all this success, it seemed as if the looks of 
 Corinne implored the protection of a friend, 
 with which no woman, however superior, can 
 dispense ; and he thought how delicious it 
 were to be the stay of her, whose sensitive- 
 ness alone could render such a prop necessary. 
 As soon as Corinne was seated, the Roman 
 poets recited the odes and sonnets composed 
 for this occasion ; all praised her to the high- 
 est ; hut in styles that described her no more 
 than they would have done any other woman 
 of genius. The same mythological images 
 and illusions might have been addressed to 
 such beings from the days of Sappho to our 
 own. 
 
 Already Nelvil was displeased with this 
 kind of incense for her ; he fancied that he 
 could that moment have drawn a truer, a more 
 finished portrait ; such, indeed, as could have 
 belonged to no one but Corinne. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PRINCE CARTEL FORTE now took up the 
 discourse, in a manner which riveted the 
 attention of his audience. He was a man of 
 fifty, with a measured address and command- 
 ing carriage. The assurance which Nelvil 
 had received, that he was but the friend of 
 Corinne, enabled him to listen with unqualified 
 delight to what, without such safeguard, 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 of Corinne. He pointed out 
 the particular merit of her works as partly 
 derived from her profound study of foreign 
 literature, teaching her to unite the graphic 
 description of the South, with that observant 
 knowledge of the human heart which appears 
 the inheritance of those whose countries offer 
 fewer objects of external beauty. He lauded 
 her graceful gaiety, tliat, free from ironical 
 satire, seemed to spring but from the freshness 
 of her fancy. He strove to speak of her ten- 
 derness ; but it was easily to be seen that 
 personal regret mingled with this theme. He 
 
 touched on the difficulty for a woman so en- 
 dowed to meet, in real life, with any object 
 resembling tiie ideal image clad in the hues 
 of her own heart ; then contented himself by 
 depicting the impassioned feelings which kin- 
 dled her poetry, her art of seizing on the 
 most touching charms of nature, the deepest 
 emotions of the soul. He dwelt on the origi- 
 nality of her expressions, which, arising from 
 her own peculiar turn of thought, constituted 
 an involuntary -spell, untarnished by the 
 slightest cloud of mannerism. He spoke of 
 her eloquence as a resistless power, which 
 must transport most those who possessed the 
 best sense and the truest susceptibility. 
 " Corinne," said he, " is doubtless more cele- 
 brated than any other of our countrywomen ; 
 and yet it is only her friends who can describe 
 her. The qualities of her soul, when true, 
 always require to be divined ; fame, as well 
 as obscurity, might prevent their detection, if 
 some congenial sympathy came not to ouraid." 
 He dilated on her talent as an improvisatrice, 
 as distinct from everything which had ,been 
 known by that name in Italy. " It is not only 
 attributable," he continued, " to the fertility 
 of 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 em- 
 body the fleeting and delicate reveries of the 
 heart." He extolled the conversation of Co- 
 rinne, as one who had tasted all its delights. 
 " In it," 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 nell' nnima si sente,' 
 
 a language that 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 music 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 1 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." 
 " Yes !" he cried, as his glance accidentally 
 fell upon Oswald ; " look on Corinne, if you 
 may pass your days with her if that twofold 
 existence can be long assured to you : but 
 behold her not, if you must be condemned to 
 leave her. Vainly would you seek, however 
 long you might survive, the creative spirit 
 which multiplied, in partaking, all you?
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 15 
 
 thoughts and feelings : you would never find 
 it more !" 
 
 Oswald trembled at these words ; his eyes 
 \vere fixed on Corinne, who listened with an 
 agitation which had not its source in self-love, 
 but iu gentler and more tender emotions. 
 Castel Forte resumed the address, which a 
 momentary weakness had suspended. He 
 spoke of Corinne as a painter and a musician ; 
 of her declamation and her dancing. " In all 
 these talents," he said, " she is still herself 
 confined to no one mode, nor rule but ex- 
 pressing, in various languages, the euchant- 
 ments of Art and Imagination. I cannot flatter 
 myself on having faithfully represented one, 
 of whom it is impossible to form an idea until 
 she herself is known ; but her presence is left 
 to Rome, as among the chief blessings of her 
 brilliant sky. Corinne is the link tfiat binds 
 her friends to each other. She is the motive, 
 the interest of our lives ; we rely on her worth, 
 and are proud of her genius, and say to the 
 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, discord, 
 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 of the 
 past, a prophetess of the future ; and when 
 strangers, pitiless of the faults born of our 
 misfbrtunes, insult the country whence have 
 arisen the luminaries that have enlightened 
 all Europe, still we but say to them, ' Look 
 upon Corinne.' Yes; we will follow in her 
 track, and be such men as she is a woman ; 
 if, indeed, men can, like women, make worlds 
 in their own hearts ; jf our moral tempera- 
 ments, necessarily dependent on social obliga- 
 tions and exterior circumstances, could, like 
 hers, owe all their light to the glorious torch 
 of poesy!" 
 
 The instant the Prince ceased to speak, was 
 followed by an unanimous outbreak of admira- 
 tion, even from the dignitaries of the State, 
 although the discourse had ended by an indi- 
 rect censure on the present situation of Italy ; 
 so true it is, that there men practise a degree 
 of liberality which,- though it extends not to 
 any improvement 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 are 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 re- 
 cite 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 such a sensation of timidity, 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. 
 
 CHANT OF COBINNK AT THB CAPITOt.* 
 
 CRADLE of Letters ! Mistress of the World ! 
 Soil of the Sun ! Italia ! I salute thee ! 
 How oft the human race have worn thy yoke, 
 The vassals of thine arms, thine arts, thy sky ! 
 
 Olympus for Ausonia once was left, 
 And by a god. Of such a land are bom 
 Dreams of the golden time, for there man looks 
 Too happy to suppose him criminal. 
 
 By genius Rome subdued the world, then reien'd 
 A queen by liberty. The Roman mind 
 Set its own stamp upon the universe ; 
 And, when barbarian hordes whelm'd Italy 
 Then darkness was entire upon the earth. 
 
 Italia re-appear'd, and with her rose 
 Treasures divine, brought by the wandering Greeks; 
 To her were then reveal'd the laws of Heaven. 
 Her daring children made discovery 
 Of a new hemisphere: Queen still she held 
 Thought's sceptre ; but that laurel'd sceptre made 
 Ungrateful subjects. 
 
 Imagination gave her hack the world 
 Which she had lost. Painters and poets shaped 
 Earth and Olympus, and a heaven and hell. 
 Her animating fire, by Genius kept, 
 Far better guarded than the pagan god's, 
 Found not in Europe a Prometheus 
 To bear it from her. 
 
 And wherefore am I at the Capitol ? 
 Why should my lowly brow receive the crown 
 Which Petrarch wore 7 which yet suspended hangs 
 Where Tasso's funeral cypress mournful waves 
 Why ? oh, my countrymen ! but that you love 
 Glory so well, that you repay its search 
 Almost like its success, 
 
 Now, if you love that glory which too oft 
 Chooses its victims from its vanquishers, 
 Those which itself has crown'd ; think, and be proud 
 Of days which saw the perish'd Arts reborn. 
 
 * For the translation of this Ode, the proprietor of the 
 Standard Novels is indebted to the pen of Miss L. E. 
 LandOQ.
 
 16 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 Your Dame ! Homer of the Christian age, 
 The sacred poet of Faith's mysteries, 
 Hero of thought, whose gloomy genius plunged 
 In Styx, and pierced to hell ; unil whose deep soul 
 Was like the abyss it fathom'd. 
 
 Italia ! as she was in days of power 
 Revived in D<-intc: such a spirit stirr'd 
 In old republics : bard and warrior too, 
 He lit the tiro of action 'mid the dead, 
 Till e en his shadows had more vigorous life 
 Than real existence; still were they pursued 
 By earthly memories: passions wiihout aim 
 Gnaw'd at their heart, still fever'd by the past; 
 Yet less irrevocable seem'd that past, 
 Than their eternal future. 
 
 Methinka that Dante, banish'd his own soul, 
 Bore to imagined worlds his actual grief, 
 Ever his shades inquire the things of life, 
 As ask'd the poet of his native land ; 
 And from his exile did he paint a hell. 
 In his eyes Florence set her stamp on all ; 
 The ancient dead seem'd Tuscans like himself: 
 Not that his power was bounded, but his strength ; 
 And his great mind forced all the universe 
 Within the circle of its thought. 
 
 A mystic chain of circles and of spheres 
 Led him from Hell to Purgatory ; thence 
 From Purgatory unto Paradise : 
 Faithful historian of his glorious dream. 
 He fills with light the regions most obscure 
 The world created in his triple song 
 Is brilliant, and complete, and animate, 
 Like a new planet seen within the sky. 
 
 All upon earth doth change to poetry 
 Beneath his voice : the objects, the ideas. 
 The laws, and all the strange phenomena, 
 Seem like a new Olympus witn new Gods,- 
 Fancy's mythology, which disappears 
 Like Pagan creeds at sight of paradise, 
 That sea of lisht, radiant with shining stars, 
 And love, and virtue. 
 
 The magic words of our most noble bard 
 Are like the prism of the universe ;- 
 Her marvels there reflect themselves, divide, 
 And re-create her wonders , sounds paint hues, 
 And colors melt in harmony. The rhyme 
 Sounding or strange, and rapid or prolong'd 
 That charm of genius, triumph of high art ; 
 Poetry's divination, which reveals 
 All nature's secrets, such as influence 
 The heart of man. 
 
 From this great work did Dante hope the end 
 Of his long exile ; and he call'd on Fame 
 To be his mediator : but he died 
 Too soon to reap the laurels of his land. 
 Thus wastes the transitory life of man 
 In adverse fortunes ; and he glory wins, 
 If some chance tide, more happy, floats to shore. 
 The grave is in the port ; and destiny, 
 In thousand shapes, heralds the close of life 
 By a return of happiness. 
 
 Thus the ill-fated Tasso, whom 
 
 i you praise, 
 Id yet console, 
 
 /The beautiful, the chivalric, the brave, 
 Dreaming the deeds, feeling the love he sung, 
 With awe and gratitude approach'd your walls, 
 As did his heroes to Jerusalem. 
 They named the day to crown him ; but its eve 
 Death bade him to his feast, the terrible ! 
 The Heaven is jealous of the Earth : and calls 
 Its favorites from the stormy waves of time. 
 
 'Twas in an age more happy and more free 
 Than Tasso's, that, like Dante, Petrarch sang : 
 Brave poet of Italian liberty. 
 
 Elsewhere they know him by his love : 
 Here memories more severe aye consecrate 
 His sacred name ; hia country could inspire 
 E'en more than Laura. 
 
 His vigils gave antiquity new life ; 
 Imagination was no obstacle 
 To his deep studies : that creative power 
 Conquer'd the future and reveal'd the past. 
 He proved how knowledge lends invenliou aid ; 
 And more oncina! his genius seem'd, 
 When, like the powers eternal, it could be 
 Present in every time. 
 
 Our laughing climate and our air serene 
 Inspired our Ariosto : after war, 
 Our many long and cruel w ars, he came 
 LiKe to a rainbow ; varied and as bright 
 As that glad messenger of summer hours, 
 His light, sweet gaiety is like nature's smile, 
 And not the irony of man. 
 
 Raflaele, Galileo, Angelo, 
 Pergolese ; you ! intrepid voyagers, 
 Greedy of other lands, though Nature never 
 Could yield ye one more lovely than your own ; 
 Come ye, and to our poets join" your fame : 
 Artists and sages, and philosophers, 
 Ye are like them, the children of a sun 
 Which kindles valor, concentrates the mind, 
 Developes fancy, each one in its turn ; 
 Which lull scon tent, and seems to promise all, 
 Or make us all forget. 
 
 Know ye the land where orange-trees are blooming ; 
 Where all heaven's rays are fertile, and with love 1 
 Have you inhaled these perfumes, luxury ! 
 In air already so fragrant and so soft 7 
 Now answer, strangers; Nature, in your home, 
 Is she as generous or as beautiful ? 
 
 Not only with vine-leaves and ears of com 
 Is Nature dress'd, but 'neath the feet of man, 
 As at a sovereign's feet, she scatters flowers 
 And sweet and useless plants, which, bora to please 
 Disdain to serve. 
 
 Here pleasures delicate, by nature nurst, 
 Felt by a people who deserve to feel ; 
 The simplest food suffices for their wants. 
 What though her fountains flow with purple wine 
 From the abundant soil, they drink them not ; 
 They love their sky, their arts, their monuments ; 
 Their land, the ancient, and yet bright with spring ; 
 Brilliant society; refined delight: 
 Coarse pleasures, fitting to a savage race, 
 Suit not with them. 
 
 Here the sensation blends with the idea ; 
 Life ever draws from the same fountain head ; 
 The soul, like air, expands o'er earth and heaven. 
 Here Genius feels at ease ; its reveries 
 Are here so gentle ; its unrest is soothed : 
 For one lost aim a thousand dreams are given, 
 And nature cherishes, 'f man oppress, 
 A gentle hand consoles, and binds the wound ; 
 E'en for the griefs that haunt the stricken heart, 
 Is comfort here : by admiration fill'd, 
 For God, all goodness ; taught to penetrate 
 The secret of his love ; not by brief days- 
 Mysterious heralds of eternity 
 But in the fertile and majestic breast 
 Of the immortal universe ! 
 
 Corinne was interrupted for some momenta 
 by impetuous applause. Oswald alone joined 
 not in the noisy transport around him. He 
 had bowed his head on his hand, when Corin- 
 ne said
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 17 
 
 "E'?n for the sorro'.vsof the stricken heart 
 Is comfort here ;" 
 
 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 him as Eng- 
 lish. She was struck by the mourning which 
 he wore, and his melancholy countenance. 
 His gaze, then fixed upon herself, seemed 
 gently to reproach her : she entered into his 
 thoughts, and felt a wish to sympathize with 
 him, by speaking of happiness \yth less reli- 
 ance, and consecrating some few verses to 
 Death in the midst of a festival. With this 
 intention she again took up her lyre ; a few 
 prolonged and touching tones silenced the as- 
 semblage, while thus she continued : 
 
 Yet there are griefs which our consoling sky 
 May not efface: but where will grief convey 
 Noble and sort impressions to the soul, 
 As it does here ? 
 
 Elsewhere the living cannot find them space 
 For all their hurrying paths, and ardent hopes; 
 And deserts, ruins, vacant palaces, 
 Leave a vast vacancy to shadows ; Rome, 
 Is she not now the country of the tombs ? 
 
 The Coliseum, and the obelisks 
 The wonders brought from Egypt and from Greece 
 From the extremity of time, here met. 
 From Romulus to Leo, all are here. 
 Greatness attracting greatness, that one place 
 Might garner all that man could screen from time: 
 All consecrate to funeral monuments. 
 Our idle life is scarcely here perceived : 
 The silence of the living to the dead 
 Is homage : they endure, but we decay. 
 
 The dead alone are honor'd, and alone 
 Recorded still ; our destinies obscure 
 Contrast the glories of our ancestors ; 
 Our present life leaves but the past entire, 
 And deep the quiet around memory : 
 Our tropnies are the work of those no more : 
 Genius itself ranks 'mid UY illustrious dead. 
 
 It is Rome's secret charm to reconcile 
 Imagination with our long last sleep. 
 We are resign'd ourselves, and suftVr less - 
 For those we love. The people of the South 
 Paint closing life in hues less terrible 
 Than do the gloomy nations of the North: 
 The sun, like glory, even warms the grave. 
 
 The chill, the solitude of sepulchres 
 'Neath our fair sky, beside our funeral urns 
 So numerous, less haunt the frighted soul. 
 We deem they wait for us, you shadowy crowd . 
 And from our silent city's loneliness 
 Down to the subterranean one below ' 
 Is a gentle passage. 
 
 The edge of grief is blunted thus, and turn'd, 
 Not by a harden'd heart, a wither'd soul, 
 But by a yet more perfect harmony, 
 An air more fragrant, b! ending with our life. 
 We yield ourselves to Nature with less fear 
 Nature, whose great Creator said of old, 
 "The lilies of the vale, lo ! they toil not, 
 And neither do they spin 
 Yet the great Solomon, in all his glory, 
 Was not array 'd like one of thes." 
 
 Oswald was so enchanted by these stanzas, 
 that ha testified his transport with a vehe- 
 mence unequalled by the Romans themselves : 
 in sooth, it was to him, rather than to her 
 countrymen, that the second improvisation of 
 Corinne had been addressed. The generality 
 of Italians read poetry with a kind of monoto- 
 nous chant, that destroys all effect. (3) In 
 vain the words vary, the impression is ever 
 the same, because the accent is unchanged : 
 but Corinne recited with a mobility of tone 
 which increased the charm of its sustained 
 harmony. It was like listening to different 
 airs, all played on the same celestial organ. 
 
 A language so stately and sonorous, breathed 
 by so gentle and affecting a voice, awakened 
 a very novel sensation in the mind of Oswald. 
 The natural beauties of the English tongue 
 are all melancholy ; tinted by clouds, and 
 tuned by lashing waves ; but Italian, among 
 sounds, may be compared to scarlet, among 
 colors ; its words ring like clarions of victory, 
 and glow with all the bliss a delicious clime 
 can shower on human hearts. When, there- 
 fore, Italian is spoken by a faltering tongue, 
 its splendor melts, its concentrated force 
 causes an agitation resistless as unforeseen. 
 The intents of nature seem defeated, her 
 bounties useless or repulsed ; and the expres- 
 sion of sorrow in the midst of enjoyment, 
 surprises, touches us more deeply, than would 
 despair itself, if sung in those northern lan- 
 guages, which it seems to have inspired. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE senator took the crown of bays and 
 myrtle he was to place on the brow of Corinne. 
 She removed the shawl which had bound the 
 ebon curls that now fell upon her shoulders, 
 and advanced with an air of pleased thankful- 
 ness, which she strove not to dissemble. 
 Again she knelt, but not in trepidation, as at 
 first. She had just spoken, had filled her soul 
 with godlike images ; enthusiasm had sur- 
 mounted timidity ; she was no longer the 
 shrinking maid, but the inspired vestal who 
 exultingly devoted herself to the worship of 
 Genius. 
 
 When the chaplet was set upon her heaM, 
 the musicians sent forth one of thq^e trium- 
 phant airs which so powerfully exalt the soul. 
 The clash of cymbalsi and the flourish of 
 trumpets, overwhelmed Corinne afresh ; her 
 eyes filled, she sunk on a seat, and covered
 
 18 
 
 CORINNE ; OR ITALY. 
 
 her face. Oswald rushed from the crowd, 
 and made a few sfeps towards her, but an 
 urscontrollable emotion kept him silent. Co- 
 rinne looked on him for some time,' taking- 
 care however that he should not detect her, 
 and when Prince Castel Forte took tier hand 
 to lead her from the Capitol, she yielded in 
 abstraction, frequently* turning-, on various 
 pretexts, to gaze again on Oswald. He fol- 
 lowed her ; and as she descended the steps, 
 one of these gestures displaced her crown, 
 which Oswald hastily raised, and presenting 
 it, said in Italian a few words, implying that 
 humble mortals lay at the feet of their deities 
 the crowns they dare not place upon their 
 brdws.(4) What was his astonishment when 
 | Corinne thanked him in English, with that 
 | insular accent, which can scarce ever be 
 acquired on the Continent : he remained mo- 
 tionless, till, feeling himself almost' faint, he 
 leaned against one of the basaltic lions that 
 stand at the foot of the staircase. Corinne 
 gazed oil him again, forcibly struck by his 
 emotion ; but they had led her to fyer car, and 
 the whole crowd had disappeared, long ere 
 Oswald recovered his presence of mind. Till 
 now, he had been enchanted with a most 
 attractive foreigner; but that English intona- 
 tion had brought back all the recollections of 
 his country, and, as it were, naturalized in his 
 heart the charms of Corinne. Was she Eng- 
 lish! Had she not passed many years of her 
 life in England 1 lie could not guess, but it 
 was impossible that study alone could have 
 taught her to speak thus. She must have 
 lived in the same country with himself. Who 
 could tell, but that their families might have 
 been related ? perhaps he had even seen her 
 in his childhood. There is often in the heart 
 
 ! some innate image of the beings we are to 
 
 | love tliat lends to cur first sight of them almost 
 
 I an air of recognition. 
 
 Oswald had believed the Italians, though 
 impassioned, too vacillating for deep or con- 
 stant affection. Already had the words of 
 Corinne given him a totally distinct view of 
 their character. What then must he feel 
 should he thus at once revive the remem- 
 brance of his home, and receive a new-born 
 life, for future enjoyment, , without being 
 
 j weaned from the past ] In the midst of these 
 
 I reveries he found himself on the bridge of St. 
 
 j Angelo, which leads to the castle of that 
 name, or rather to Adrian's tomb, which has 
 
 ! been converted into a fortress. The silence 
 of the scene, the pale waves of the Tiber, the. 
 moonbeams that lit up the statues till they 
 appeared like pallid phantoms, steadfastly 
 watching the current of time, by which they 
 could be influenced no more ; all these objects 
 recalled him to his habitual train of thought : 
 he laid his; hand on his breast, and felt the 
 portrait of his father, which he always wore ; 
 he drew it forth, and gazed on it,while the 
 cause of the felicity he had just enjoyed but 
 too strongly reminded him of all that long 
 since had tempted his rebellion against his 
 parent. 
 
 " Ever cherished remembrance !" he cried, 
 with revived remorse, " too wronged and too 
 forgiving friend ! could 1 have believed that 
 an emotion of pleasure would so soon find 
 access to my soul 1 but it is not thine indul- 
 gent spirit which rebukes me : Vhou wouldst 
 have me happy in spite of my faults ; or may 
 I not mistake thy mandates now uttered from 
 above. I who misunderstood them while thou 
 were yet on earth V 
 
 BOOK III. 
 
 CORINNE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. ' 
 
 THE Count d'Erfeuil had been presented at 
 tne Capitol, and called the next day on Lord 
 Nelvil, saying, " My dear Oswald ! would you 
 like me to take y ou to Corinne's this evening !" 
 "How!" interrupted 1 Oswald eagerly, "do 
 you know .her *" " Not I ; but so famous a 
 person is always gratified by a desire to see 
 
 her ; and I wrote this morning for her per- 
 mission to visit her house to-night with" you." 
 " I could have wished," replied Oswald, 
 blushing, " that you had not named me thus 
 without my consent." "You should rather 
 thank me for having spared you so many te- 
 dious formalities. Instead of going to an 
 ambassador, who would have led you to a 
 cardinal, who might have taken you to a lady,
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 19 
 
 who, perhaps, could have introduced you to 
 Corinne, I shall present you, you will present 
 me, and we shall both be very well received." 
 " I am less confident than you ; and, doubt- 
 less, it is but rational to conclude that so hasty 
 a request must have displeased her." " Not 
 at all, I assure you, she is too sensible a girl, 
 as her polite reply may prove." "Has she 
 then answered you ? What had you said, rny 
 dear CountV "Ah! ' my dear Count,' is ill" 
 [ laughed d'Erfeuil, " you melt apace, now that 
 you know that she has answered me ; but I 
 like you too well not to forgive all that. I 
 humbly confess, then, that my note spoke 
 more of myself than of you, and that hers 
 i gives your 'lordship's name precedence; but 
 I then, you know, I'm never jealous of my 
 | friends." " Nay," returned Nelvil, " it can- 
 j not be presumed that either of us can render 
 ourselves agreeable to her. All I seek is 
 I sometimes to enjoy the society of so wondrous 
 i a being. This evening, then, since you have 
 j so arranged it." " You will go with me V 
 i " Why, yes," rejoined Nelvil in visible confu- 
 | sion. " Why then all this regret at what I've 
 done 1 ? though 'tis but just to leave you the 
 honor of being more reserved than I, always 
 provided that you lose nothing by it. She's 
 really a delightful person, this Corinne ! with 
 a vast deal of ease and cleverness. I could 
 not very well make out what she talked of, 
 but I'll wager you she speaks French : we 
 can decide that to-night. She leads a strange 
 life. Young, free*, and wealthy, yet no one 
 knows whether she has any lovers or no. It 
 seems plain that at present she favors no one ; 
 j that she should never have met. in this epun- 
 j try, with a man worthy of her, don't astonish 
 me in the least." D'Erfeuil ran on for some 
 time, in this kind of chat, without any inter- 
 ruption from Oswald. He said nothing which 
 could exactly be called coarse, yet his light 
 matter-of-fact manner, on a topic so interest- 
 ing, clashed with the delicacy of his compa- 
 nion. There is a refinement which even wit 
 and knowledge of the world cannot teach their 
 votaries, who often wound the heart, without 
 violating strict politeness. 
 
 Lord Nelvil was much disturbed during the 
 day in thinking over the visit of the evening ; 
 j but he did his utmost to banish his disquieting 
 i presentiments, and strove to persuade himself 
 | that he might indulge a pleasing sentiment, 
 | without permitting it to decide his fate. 
 j False hope ! the heart can receive no bliss 
 j from that which it knows must prove evanes- 
 ! cent. Accompanied by the Count, he arrived 
 1 at the house of Corinne, which was situated 
 j a little beyond the castle of St. Angelo, com- 
 [ manding a view of the Tiber. Its interior 
 was ornamented with the most perfect ele- 
 
 gance. The hall was embellished with caats 
 of the Niobe, Laocoon, Venus de Medicis, 
 and dying Gladiator ; while in the sitting- 
 room usually occupied by Corinne, he found 
 but books, musical instruments, and simple 
 furniture, arranged for the easy conveisation 
 of a domestic circle. Corinne was not there 
 when he entered ; and, while waiting for her, 
 he anxiously explored the apartment, remark- 
 ing in its evary detail a happy combination of 
 the best French, Italian, and English attri- 
 butes ; a taste for society, a love of letters, 
 and a zeal for the fine arts. Corinne at last 
 appeared ; though ever picturesque, she was 
 attired without the least research. She wore 
 some antique cameos in her hair, and round 
 her throat a band of coral. Natural and 
 familiar as she was among her friends, they 
 still recognized the divinity of the Capitol. 
 She bowed first to Count d'Erfeuil, though 
 looking at his friend ; then, as if repenting 
 this insincerity, advanced towards Oswald, 
 addressing him as " Lord Nelvil," she twice 
 repeated that name, as if it was associated in 
 her mind with some affecting reminiscence. 
 At last she said a few words in Italian on his 
 obliging restoration of her crown. Oswald 
 endeavored to express his admiration, and 
 gently complained of her no longer addressing 
 him in English. "Am I a greater stranger 
 than I was yesterday 1" he said. " Certainly 
 not," she replied ; " but when one has been 
 accustomed for many years of one's life to 
 speak two or three different languages, one 
 chooses that which will best express what one 
 desires to say." " Surely," he cried, " Eng- 
 lish is your native tongue that which you 
 | speak to your friends." " I am an Italian," 
 j interrupted Corinne. ' " Forgive me, my lord! 
 but I think I perceive in you the national im- 
 portance which so often characterizes your 
 countrymen. Here we are more lowly, nei- 
 ther self-complacent, like the French, nor 
 proud of ourselves, like the English. A little 
 indulgence suffices us from strangers ; and 
 we have the great fault of wanting, as indivi- 
 duals, that dignity which we are not allowed 
 as a people ; but when you know us, you may 
 find some traces of our ancient greatness, 
 such as, though few and half-effaced, might 
 be restored by happier times. I shall now 
 j and then speak to you in English, but Italian 
 I is more dear to me. I have suffered much," 
 j she added, sighing, "that I might live in 
 j Italy." D'Erfeuil here gallantly upbraided 
 I her for conversing in languages of which he 
 was entirely ignorant. " In mercy, fair Co- 
 rinne," he said, " speak French, you are truly 
 worthy to do so." She smiled at this com- 
 pliment, and granted its request, with ease, 
 1 with purity, but with an English accent.
 
 20 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 Nelvil and the Count were equally astonished ; 
 but the latter, who believed that he might say 
 what he pleased, provided he did so with a 
 grace, imagining that impoliteness dwelt not 
 in matter but in manner, put the direct ques- 
 tion to Corinne, on the reason of this singu- 
 larity. She seemed at first somewhat uneasy, 
 beneath this sudden interrogation ; then re- 
 covering herself, said, "Perhaps, monsieur, 
 that I learnt French of an English person." 
 He renewed his attack with earnest gaiety. 
 Corinne became more confused, and at last 
 said, gravely, " During the four years that I j 
 have pared in Rome, monsieur, none even of ' 
 the friends most interested in me have ever 
 inquired into my fate : they understood, from 
 the first, that it was painful for me to speak 
 of it." This check silenced the Count ; but 
 Corinne feared that she had hurt him ; and, 
 as he seemed so intimate with Lord Xelvil, 
 she dreaded still more, without confessing it 
 to herself, that he might speak unfavorably of 
 her to his companion, and therefore took 
 sufficient pains in atoning to him. The 
 Prince Caslel Forte now arrived, with many 
 of their mutual acquaintance, men of lively 
 and amiable miriTls, of kind and courteous 
 manners, so easily animated by the conversa- 
 tion of others, so capable of appreciating all 
 that desired approval, that they make the best 
 listeners possible. The Italians are usually 
 too indolent to display in society, or often in 
 any way, thr; wit they really possess. The 
 generality of them cultivate not, even in se- 
 clusion, the intellectual faculties of their na- 
 tures ; but they revel in the mental delights 
 which find them without, any trouble of their 
 own. Corinne had all a Frenchwoman's sense 
 of the ridiculous, and evinced it with all the 
 fancy of an Italian ; but she mingled in both 
 such sweetness of temper that nothing ap- 
 peared preconcerted or hostile for, in most 
 things, it is coldness which orTends ; while 
 vivacity, on the contrary, has almost invaria- 
 bly an air of good nature. 
 
 Oswald found ia Corinne a grace which he 
 had never before met. A terrible event of 
 his life was associated with recollections of a 
 ry lovely and gifted Frenchwoman ; but 
 orinne in no way resembled her. Every 
 kind of talent seemed united in the conversa- 
 tion he now partook. Ingeniously aivd rapid- 
 ly as she twined its flowers, nothing was 
 frivolous, nothing incomplete ; such was her 
 depth of feeling, and knowledge of the world, 
 that he felt borne away, and lost in wonder, at 
 ! qualities so contrasted. He asked himself, if 
 ; it was from an all-embracing sensibility, or 
 from a forgctfulness of each mood, as a new 
 one succeeded, that she fled, almost in the 
 same instant, ' from grave to gay, from lively 
 
 : Vf 
 
 c 
 
 to severe," from the learning which might 
 have instructed men, to the coquetry of a 
 woman who amused herself by making con- 
 quests ; yet, in this very coquetry, there was 
 such perfect nobleness, that it exacted as 
 much respect as the most scrupulous reserve. 
 The Prince Castel Forte, and all her other 
 guests, paid her the most assiduous and deli- 
 cate attention. The habitual homage with 
 which they surrounded her, gave the air of a 
 fete to every day of her life. She was happy 
 in being beloved, just as one is happy to 
 breathe in a gentle clime, to hear harmonious 
 sounds, and receive, in fact, none but agree- 
 able impressions. Her lively and fluctuating 
 countenance betrayed each emotion of her 
 heart ; but the deep and serious sentiment of 
 love was not yet painted there. Oswald 
 gazed on her in silence : his presence ani- 
 mated and inspired her with a wish to please ; 
 nevertheless, she sometimes checked hersejf, 
 in the midst of her most brilliant sallies, as- 
 tonished at his external composure, and doubt- 
 ing whether he might not secretly blame her, 
 or if his English notions could permit him to 
 approve such display in a woman. He was, 
 however, too fascinated to remember his 
 former opinions on the obscurity which best 
 becomes a female ; but he asked himself, who 
 could ever be loved by her ] What single 
 object could ever concentrate so many rays, 
 or t;;ke captive a spirit gifted with such glo- 
 rious wings ? In truth, he was alike dazzled 
 and distressed ; nay, though, as he took leave, 
 she politely invited him to visit her again, a 
 whole day elapsed without his going to her 
 house, restrained by a species of terror at the 
 reeling which had carried him away. Some- 
 times he compared it with the fatal error of his 
 early youth, but instantly rejected such com- 
 parison. Then it was by treacherous arts he 
 had been subdued ; and who could doubt the 
 truth, the honor of Corinne '? Were her 
 spells those of poetry or of magic 1 Was 
 she a Sappho or an Armida ? It was impos- 
 sible to decidet Yet it was evident, that not 
 society, but Heaven itself, had formed this 
 extraordinary being, whose mind was as 
 inimitable as her character was unfeigned. 
 "Oh, my father !" he sighed, " had you 
 known Corinne, what would you have thought 
 of her !" 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE Count d'Erfeuil called on Lord Nel- 
 vil, as usual, next morning ; and, censuring 
 him for not having visited Corinne the pre-
 
 COR1NNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 21 
 
 ceding night, said gaily, "You would have 
 been delighted if you had." "And v, hy!" 
 usked his friend. " Because yesterday 
 me the most satisfactory assurance that you 
 have extremely interested her." " Still this 
 levity! Do you kno\v that I. neither can nor 
 will endure it V " What you call levity is 
 rather the readiness of my observation : have 
 I the less reason, because my reason is 
 active ! You \vere formed to grace those 
 blest patriarchal days when man had five 
 centuries to Jive ; but I warn you that we 
 have retrenched four of them at least."' "Be 
 it so! And what may you have discovered 
 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 enough received, of course ; but 
 her eyes were fixed on the door, to look 
 whether you followed me. She attempted to i 
 speak of something else ; but, as she happens ' 
 to be a mighty natural young person, she 
 presently, in ail simplicity, asked why you 
 were nut with me ! I said, because you 
 would not come, and that you- were a gloomy, 
 eccentric creature : I'll spare you whatever I 
 might have further said in your praise. ' He 
 is pensnre,' remarked Corinne : ' doubtless he I 
 has lost some one who was dear to him : for j 
 whom is he in mourning "?' ' His father, ma- 
 dame, though it is more than a year since 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 thinking that griefs, apparent- 
 ly the same, act alike on all. The father of 
 your friend, and your friend himself, were not, 
 perhaps, men of the common order. I am 
 greatly inclined to think so.' Her voice fra.s 
 so sweet, clear Oswald, as she uttered these 
 words!" "And are these all your proofs of 
 her interest in me V " Why, truly, with half 
 of them I should make sure of being beloved ; 
 but since you will have better, you shall. I 
 kept the strongest to come last. The Prince 
 Castel Forte related the whole of your ad- 
 venture at Ancona, without knowing that it 
 was of you he spoke. He told the story with j 
 much warmth and spirit, 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 learning. Be- 
 sides, Corinne's face explained what I should 
 not else have comprehended. 'Tvvas so easy 
 to read the agitation of her heart : she would 
 scarcely breathe, for fear of losing a single 
 word ; when he inquired if the name of this 
 Englishman was known, her anxiety was 
 such, that I could very well estimate the 
 
 dread she suffered, lest any other name than 
 yours should be pronounced in reply. Castel 
 Forte confessed his ignorance ; and Corinne, 
 turning eagerly to me, cried, ' -Am I noi 
 monsieur ! was it not Lord Nelvil ?' ' 
 inadame.' said I, and then she mtli ' 
 tears. She had not wept during the Is: 
 what was there in the name of its hero more 
 affecting than the recital itself!" " She 
 \\ept!" repeated Oswald. " Ah, why was I 
 not there?" then instantly checking himself, 
 he cast down his e3 r es, and his maniy face ex- 
 pressed the most delicate timidity. He hur- 
 riedly resumed the. topic, lest d'Erfeuil should 
 impair his sacred joy by one comment. " It 
 the adventure at Ancona he worth the telling, 
 its honor belongs to you also, my dear Count." 
 " They certainly did speak of a most engag- 
 ing Frenchman, who was with you, my Lord," 
 lejoined d'Erfeuil, laughing ; " but no one, 
 save myself, paid any attention to that paren- 
 thesis. The lovely Corinne prefers you, 
 doubtless believing that you will prove more 
 faithful than I this muy not be the case 
 you rnay even cost her more pains than I 
 should have done ; but your very romantic 
 women love trouble, therefore you will suit 
 her exactly." Nelvil smarted beneath every 
 word ; but what could he say ? D'Erfeuil 
 never argued ; nay, he could not even listen 
 with sufficient attention to alter his opinions : 
 once uttered, he cared no more about them, 
 and the best plan was to forget them, if pos- 
 sible, 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 
 entrancing that first beam of intelligence be- 
 tween one's self and the being we adore! 
 Ere memory extends in the he-art with hope, 
 ere the eloquence of words has sought to de- 
 pict our feelings, there is, in these first hours 
 of love, some indefinite and mysterious charm, 
 more fleeting, but mote 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 
 been in some way convinced of her prefer- 
 ence, ere thus suddenly engaged in an inter- 
 view which might chill her manner towards 
 him ; and in that expectation his own address
 
 22 
 
 CORINXE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 became cold from very embarrassment. 
 Whether she detected this, or that similar 
 feelings made her desire to remove his re- 
 straint, sh'e 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 
 bat you, madame, or remained alone."' She 
 wished to speak of his conduct at Ancon'a, 
 and began, " I learnt last night " here she 
 paused and then said, "but I will talk of that 
 when our party have joined us." Lord Nel- 
 vil 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 wit- 
 nesses. Oswald was deeply touched by this 
 reserve, and by the frankness with which she 
 unconsciously disclosed its motive ; but the 
 more oppressed he became, the IP*-, could he 
 explain himself. He hastily rose, and went 
 to the window ; then remembering that this 
 action must be unintelligible to Corinne, he 
 returned to his seat without speaking ; and 
 though she had more confidence than himself, 
 his diffidence 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 
 reased the emotions of Oswald, lent him a 
 slight degree of firmness He dared to look 
 on her ; and who could do so without being 
 struck by the divine inspiration enthroned in 
 her eyes 1 Re-assured by the mildness which 
 veiled their splendor, he might have spoke'n, 
 had not Prince Castel Forte that instant en- 
 tered the room. It was not without a pang 
 that he beheld Nelvil tele-a-tet.e with Corinne : 
 but he was accustomed to conceal his sensa- 
 tions, and that habit, which an Italian often 
 unites with the most vehement passions, in 
 him was rather the result of lassitude and 
 natural gentleness. He had resigned the 
 hope of being the first object of Corinne's 
 regard ; he was no longer young. He h"d 
 just the wit, taste, and fancy, which varies, 
 without disturbing one's existence ; and 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 him con- 
 tinue this routine ; qn which condition it 
 would not have cost him much regret to see 
 her united with ai other. The heart's disap- 
 pointments are nut, in Italy, aggravated by 
 those of vanity. You meet some men jeal- 
 ous enough to stab their rivals, others suffi- 
 ciently modest to accept the second place in 
 the esteem of a woman whose company they 
 enjoy ; but you seldom find those who, rather 
 than appear rejected, deny themselves the 
 
 pleasure of keeping up a blameless intimacy. 
 The dominion of society over self-love is 
 scarcely known in the land. The Count 
 d'Erfeuil and Corinnc's v/onted guests having ij 
 assembled, the conversation turned on the ! 
 talent for improvisation, which she had so ! 
 gloriously displayed at the Capitol ; and she jj 
 was asked what she thought of it herself, ji 
 "It is so rare a thing," said Castel Forte, l! 
 " to find a person at once susceptible of en- |! 
 thusiasm, and capable of analysis ; endowed ;; 
 I as an artist, yet gifted with so much self- -i 
 i knowledge, that we ought to implore her j 
 | revelation of her own secret." " The faculty i 
 of extemporising," returned Corinne, " is not 
 more extraordinary in southern tongues, than 
 senatorial eloquence or lively repartee in ' 
 other languages. I should even say that, ; 
 unfortunately, it is easier .for us to breathe : 
 j impromptu verse than to speak well in prose. 
 
 from which poetry differs so widely, that the , 
 j first stanzas, by their mere expressions, re- i 
 move the poet from the sphere of his auditors, | 
 and thus command attention. It is not only 
 to the sweetness of Italian, but to the em- |j 
 phatic vibration of its syllables, that we : 
 should attribute the influence of* poetry 
 amongst us. Italian has a musical charm 
 which confers delight by the very sound of its 
 words, almost independent of ideas, though 
 nearly all those words are so graphic, that i 
 they paint their own significations on the ;j 
 mind : you feel that only in the midst of the : | 
 | arts, and beneath a beauteous sky, could a ;' 
 I language so melodious and highly-colored i 
 i have had birth. It is, therefore, easier in | 
 I Italy than anywhere else to dazzle by words, i 
 I unaided by depth or novelty of thought. Po- ; 
 i etrj', like all the fine arts, captivates the sen- 
 1 ses as much as the mind. Nevertheless, I 
 venture to assert, that I never act the ivnpro- 
 visatrice, unless beneath some real feeling, or ' 
 some image which I believe original. 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, j 
 solely by the charm of rhythm and of har- 
 ii:ony." " You think, then," said one of her | 
 friends, " that this genius for spontaneous i 
 verse does injury to our literature 7 I thought ! 
 so too, till I heard you, who have entirely i 
 reversed my decision." " I have said," re- j 
 turned Corinne, " that from this facility and 
 abundance must result a vast quantity of in- j 
 different poems ; but I rejoice that such fruit- j 
 fulness should exist in Italy, as I do to see 
 oui plains covered with a thousand superflu- j 
 ous productions. I pride in this bounty of j 
 Heaven. Above all, I love to find improvi- \\ 
 satores among the common people ; it shows 
 that imagination of theirs which is concealed
 
 CORIXN 
 
 23 
 
 in other countries, and only developes itself 
 amongst us. It gives a poetic air to the 
 !' humblest ranks of society, and 1 spares us : 
 from the disgust \ve cannot help feeling, at ! 
 what is vulgar. When our Sicilians, while | 
 rowing the traveller in their barks, bid him in j 
 their graceful dialect an endearing welcome, | 
 I, or sing him a kind and long farewell, one 
 i| misrht dream that the pure breath of heaven 
 ji acted on man as on an /Eolian harp; and 
 I that the one, like the other, echoed but the j 
 I' voice of nature. Another reason why I set j 
 this value on our talent for improvisation is. I 
 i: that it appears one which could not possibly | 
 | survive among a community disposed to ridi- 
 j : cule. Poets who risk this perilous enterprise 
 j require all the good humor of a country in 
 \. which men love to amuse themselves, with- 
 out critically analysing what amuses them. 
 A single sneer would suffice to banish the 
 ! self-possession necessary for rapid and unin- 
 |: terrupted composition. Your hearers must 
 warm with you, and their plaudits must be, 
 your inspiration." " But, madame," said 
 Oswald, who, till now, had gazed in silence 
 on Corinne, " to which class of your poems 
 do you give the preference 1 those that are the 
 works of reflection, or such as were instanta- 
 neously inspired ?" " My Lord," replied 
 Corinne, with a look of gentle deference, " I 
 will make you my judge ', but if you bid me 
 examine my own heart, I should say that im- 
 provisation is, to me, like animated converse. 
 I do not confine myself to such or such sub- i 
 jects, but yield to the impression xv^iich the | 
 interest of my hearers produces on myself; ' 
 
 and it is to my friends that I owe the greater 
 
 portion of my talent in this line. Sometimes, 
 while they speak of the noble questions that 
 involve the moral condition of man, the aim 
 and end of his duties here, my impassioned 
 excitement carries me beyond myself ; teach- 
 |; es me to find in nature, and mine own heart, 
 such daring truths, and forcible expressions, 
 as solitary meditation could not have engen- 
 dered. My enthusiasm, then, seems super- 
 natural : a spirit sparkles within me far 
 greater than mine own ; it often happens that 
 I abandon the measure of verse, to explain 
 my thoughts in prose. Sometimes I quote 
 ! the most applicable passages from the poets 
 ' of other lands. Those divine apostrophes 
 are mine, while my soul is filled by their im- 
 port. Sometimes rny lyre, by a simple na- 
 tional air, may complete the effect which flies 
 from the control of words. 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 most 
 disdainful of all that is selfish and base ; 
 when noble actions appear, most easy to me, 
 
 'tis then my verse is best. I am. indeed, a 
 poet while I admire or hate, not by my 
 personal feelings, nor in mine own cause, but 
 for the sake of human dignity, and the glory 
 of the world !" * 
 
 Corinne, now perceiving how far she had 
 been borne away ; blushed, and, turning to 
 Lord Nelvil, said, " You see I cvinnot touch 
 on any of the themes that affect me, without 
 that kind of thrill which is the source of 1 
 ideal beauty in the arts, of religion in the re- 
 cluse, generosity iu heroes, and disinterested- 
 ness among men. Pardon me, my Lord : 
 however little I may resemble those women 
 who are most esteemed in your country." 
 li Who can resemble yon ?" replied Oswald ; 
 " and who shall make laws for a being so 
 peculiar !" 
 
 Count d'Erfeuil was actually spell-bound, 
 without understanding all she said ; her ges- 
 tures, voice, and manner, charmed him. It 
 was the first time that any, save French 
 graces, had moved him thus. But, to say 
 truth, the popularity of Corinne aided and 
 sanctioned his judgment; so that he might 
 have admired her without relinquishing his 
 convenient habit, of being guided by the opi- 
 nion of others. As they left, the house together, 
 he said to his friend, " Confess, now, dear 
 Oswald, that I have some merit in not paying 
 my court to so delightful a person." " But," 
 replied Nelvil, "do they not say that she is 
 difficult to please ?" " They say, but I don't 
 believe it. A single woman, who leads as it 
 were the life of an artist, can't, be difficult to 
 please." Xelvil's feelings were wounded by 
 this remark, but whether d'Erfeuil saw it or 
 not, or was resolved to follow the bent of his 
 own inclinations, he continued, " Not but that, 
 if I could believe in any woman's virtue, I 
 should trust hers above all. * She has certainly 
 a thousand times more ardor than, were re- 
 quired in your country, or even in mine, to 
 create doubts of a lady's cruelty ; yet she is 
 a creature of such superior tact and informa- 
 tion, that the ordinary rules for judging her 
 sex cannot be applied to her. Would you 
 believe that I find her manners imposing? 
 they overawe me in spite of her careless affa- 
 bility. I wished yesterday, merely out of 
 gratitude for her interest in you, to hazard a 
 lew 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 may be 
 luckier still ; but Corinne looked on me coldly, 
 and I was altogether disconcerted. Is it not 
 absurd to feel out of countenance before an 
 Italian, a poet, in fine, everything that ought 
 to put a man at his ease ]" " Her name is 
 unknown," replied Nelvil, "but her beharior 
 assures us that she is highly born." " Nay,
 
 I 24, 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 'tis only the fashion of romance to conceal 
 one's nobility : in real life, people tell every- 
 thing that can do themselves 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 lite is 
 more domestic, here there may be secrets, 
 which only he who is to marry Corinne should 
 seek to fathom." " Marry Corinne !". repeated 
 d'Erfeuil, laughing vehemently, " such a no- 
 tion never entered my head. My dear Nelvil, 
 f you will commit extravagances, let them be 
 such as are not irreparable. In marriage one 
 should consult nothing but convenience and 
 decorum. You think me frivolous; never- 
 theless I'll engage that my conduct in life 
 shall be more rational than your own." " I 
 don't doubt it," returned Nelvil, without ano- 
 
 j ther word , for how could he tell the Count 
 
 I that there \v j.s much selfishness in frivolity ? 
 
 ! or that vanity never leads a man towards the 
 error of sacrificing himself 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 pos- 
 sess. 
 
 A deficiency of enthusiasm, of settled opi- 
 nions, and of sensibility, is a negative treasure, 
 on which, with a little talent, rank and for- 
 tune may easily be acquired or maintained. 
 The jests of d'Erfeuil had pained Lord Nelvil 
 much : he condemned them, but still they 
 haunted him most importunately. 
 
 , B O O K IV. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE next fortnight Oswald devoted exclu- 
 sively to the society of Corinne. He never 
 left his house but to visit her. He saw, he 
 sought for nothing besides ; and, without 
 speaking of his love, he made her sensible of 
 it every hour in the day. She was accus- 
 tomed to the lively an'd flattering tributes of 
 the Italians ; but the dignified deportment and 
 apparent coldness of Oswald, through which 
 his tenderness of heart so often broke, in spite 
 of himself, exercised a far greater power over 
 her imagination. He never related a generous 
 deed or a tale of misfortune, but his eyes filled, 
 though he always strove to hide this weak- 
 ness. It was long since she had felt such 
 respect as that which he awakened. No 
 genius, however distinguished, could have 
 awed her ; but elevation of character acted 
 deeply on her mind. Oswald added to this 
 an elegance which pervaded the most trivial 
 actions of his life, and contrasted strongly 
 with the negligent familiarity of the Roman 
 nobles. Although some of his tastes were 
 uncongenial to her own, their mutual under- 
 standing was wonderful They read each 
 other's hearts in the lightest alteration of 
 countenance. Habituated as he was to the 
 most tempestuous demonstrations of passion, 
 
 this proud retiring attachment, continually 
 proved, though never confessed, shed a new 
 interest over her life. She felt as if sur- 
 rounded by a purer, sweeter atmosphere t and 
 every moment brought with it a sense of hap- 
 piness in which she revelled, without seeking 
 to define its source. 
 
 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 but 
 an artful plan to attract your notice. What, 
 indeed, can any one say to you that you have 
 not already heard * What kind of praise have 
 you not been offered 1 But there is something 
 veiled and reined in about the character of 
 Lord Nelvil, which will never permit you to 
 judge it wholly as you do ours. You are the 
 most easily known person in the world ; but 
 it is just because you voluntarily show your- 
 self as you are, that reserve and mystery both 
 please and govern you. The unknown, be it 
 what it may, has a greater ascendency over 
 you than all the 'professions which could be 
 tendered by man." Corinne smiled. " You
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 25 
 
 think then, dear Prince," she said,- " that my 
 heart is ungrateful, and my fancy capricious] 
 I believe, however, that Lord Nelvil evinces 
 qualities too remarkable for me to flatter my- 
 self as their discoverer." '' I allow," rejoined 
 Castel Forte, " that he is high-minded, intel- 
 ligent, even sensitive, and melancholy above 
 all ; hut I am much deceived if his pursuits 
 have the least affinity with yours. You- can- 
 not perceive this, so thoroughly is he influ- 
 enced by your presence ; but your empire 
 would not last were he absent from you. 
 Obstacles would fatigue a mind warped by the 
 griefs, he has undergone, by discouragements 
 which must have impaired the energy of his 
 resolutions ; besides, you know what slaves 
 are the generality of English to the manners 
 and habits of their country." These words 
 recalled to the mind of Corinne the painful 
 events of her early years. She sighed, and 
 spoke not ; but in the evening she again he- 
 held her lover, and all that remained as the 
 effect of the Prince's counsel was a desire so 
 to enamor Nelvii of the varied beauties with 
 which Italy is blest, that he would make it 
 his home for life. With this design she wrote 
 him the following letter. The free life led at 
 Rome excused her, and, much as she might 
 be reproached with a too rash degree of can- 
 dor, she well knew how to preserve a modest 
 dignity, even in her most independent pro- 
 ceedings. 
 
 " TO LORD NELVIL. 
 
 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 
 not yet explored Rome, that you knew nothing 
 either of the chefo-d'ceuvres of our fine arts, 
 or the antique ruins that teach us history by 
 imagination and sentiment. I conceived the 
 idea of daring to propose myself as your guide 
 through the mazes of long-gone years. 
 
 " Doubtless Rome can boast of many men 
 whose profound erudition might be far more 
 useful ; but if I succeed in endearing to you 
 an abode towards which I have always felt so 
 imperiouslv drawn, your own studies will 
 complete wuat my imperfect sketches may 
 begin. 
 
 " Many foreigners come hither, as they go 
 to London or Paris, seeking but the dissipation 
 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 he found a 
 charm of which none could ever sate Will 
 you pardon me, my lord, for wishing that this 
 charm may be known to you ? 
 
 " It is true that you must first forget all the 
 political relations of the world ; but when they 
 are not linked With our sacred duties, thety do 
 but freeze the heart. It is necessary also to 
 renounce what is elsewhere called the pleas- 
 ures of society ; but do they not too frequently 
 wither up the mind ] One tastes in Rome a 
 life at once secluded and enlivened, which 
 liberally matures in our breasts whatever 
 heaven hath planted there. 
 
 " Once more, my lord, pardon this love for 
 my country, which makes me long to know 
 it beloved by a man like yourself; and do not 
 judge with English severity the pledges of 
 good will that an Italian believes it her right 
 to jestow, without losing anything in her own 
 eyes or in yours. ' 
 
 " CORINNE." 
 
 In vain 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 the soul of man seemed 
 blended in the enchanting project of exploring 
 Rome with .Corinne. He considered he 
 hesitated no more ; but instantly started for 
 her house, and, on his way, looked up to 
 heaven, enjoyed its pure influences, for life 
 was no longer a burden. Regret and fear 
 were lost behind the golden clouds of hope ; 
 his heart, so long oppressed by sadness, 
 throbbed and bounded with delight ; he felt 
 that such a state could not last ; but even hi.3 
 sense of its transitoriness lent this fever of 
 felicity but a more active force. 
 
 " You are come !" cried Corinne, as he 
 entered. " Ah, thank you !" She offered him 
 her hand ; he pressed it to his lips, with a 
 tenderness unqualified by that afflicting tremor 
 which so often mingled with his happiness, 
 and embittered the presence of those he loved 
 the most. An intimacy had commenced be- 
 tween them since they had last parted, esta- 
 blished by the letter of Corinne ; both were 
 content, and felt towards one another the 
 sweetest gratitude. 
 
 " This morning, then," said Corinne, " I 
 will show you the Pantheon and St. Peter's. I 
 trusted," she added, smilingly, " that you would 
 not refuse to make the tour of Rome with me ; 
 so my horses are ready. I expected you 
 you are here all is well let us go." 
 " Wondrous creature !" exclaimed Oswald. 
 " Who then are you T Whence do you derive 
 charms so contrasted, that each might well 
 exclude the others 1 feeling, gaiety, depth, 
 wildness, modesty ! Art thou an illusion 1 an 
 unearthly blessing for those who meet thee ?" 
 " Ah ! if I have but power to do you any ser- 
 vice," she answered, " believe not that I wiJl
 
 26 
 
 CORINXE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 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 
 ij heart. If I feel some r'elief while breathing 
 j your sweet presence, what will become of me 
 I when thrown hack on mine own fate ? \Vhat 
 shall I be then V " Let us leave that to time 
 [ and chance," interrupted Corinne ; " they wiil 
 decide whether the impression of an hour shall 
 I last beyond its day. If our souls 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, 
 she descended. Nelvil followed her, aston- 
 ished at her reply : it seemed that she admit- 
 ted the possibility of a momentary attachment 
 to 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 car- 
 riage, "I do not think the heart is so consti- 
 tuted that it must either feel no love at all, or 
 the most unconquerable 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 re-action 
 more promptly." " You have reflected much 
 upon this sentiment, madame," observed Os- 
 wald, with bitterness. Corinne blushed, and 
 was silent for some moments, then said, with 
 a striking union of frankness and dignity, li 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 words, the 
 accent of Corinne, somewhat dispersed the 
 clouds that gathered over Nelvil's thoughts ; 
 yet he said to himself, " She is a most engag- 
 ing creature, but she is an Italian 
 
 Is not a shrinking, innocent heart, even to 
 itself unknown, such as, I doubt not, beats 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 wiat ehe might one day become. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OSWALD and Corinne went first to the Pan- 
 theon, 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, 
 unimpaired, 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 observe that this building was con- 
 structed in such a manner as made it appear 
 much larger than it was. " St. Peter's," 
 she said, " produces an opposite effect : you 
 will, at first, think it less vast than it is in 
 reality. The 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 di.l an- 
 tique poetry design but the massive features 
 of a theme, leaving the reader's fancy to sup- 
 ply the detail : in all affairs we moderns say 
 and do too much. 
 
 " This fane," continued Corinne. " was 
 consecrated by Agrippa, the favorite of Au- 
 gustuf , to his friend, or rather, his uiaster ; 
 who, however, had the humility to refuse this 
 dedication ; and Agrippa was reduced to the 
 necessity of devoting it to all the gods of 
 Olympus, and of substituting 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 
 displayed ? in other attitudes ; and over the 
 front of the temple is still legible, ' Conse- 
 crated by Agrippa.' Augustus gave his name 
 to the age in which he lived, by rendering it 
 an era in the progress of human intellect. 
 From the chefs-d'ceui-res of his contempora- 
 ries emanated 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 liffht which streams in from above was 
 considered the emblem of a divinity superior 
 to the highest divinities. The heathens ever 
 loved symbolical irnasfes : that language, in- 
 deed, seems to accord better with religion 
 than with common parlance. The rain often 
 falls on this marble floor ; b'ut the sunshine 
 succeeds to efface it and teaches the worship- 
 per. What a serene yet festal air is here ! 
 The Pagans deified life, as the Christians 
 sanctify death ; such is the distinction between 
 the two faiths ; but Catholicism here is far
 
 COR [NNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 less gloomy than in th'e north, as you will 
 observe whep 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 
 ot the Caesars, we have scarce ever boasted 
 any political independence ; consequently, you 
 will find no statesmen, no heroes here. Ge- 
 nius constitutes our only fame ; but do you 
 not think, my lord, that a people who thus 
 revere the talents still Jeft amongst them must 
 deserve a nobler destiny V " I believe," re- 
 plied Oswald, " that nations generally deserve 
 their own fates, whatever they may be." 
 " That is severe ! but, perhaps, by 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 a place here. I have already 
 chosen mine," she added.,, pointing to a niche 
 still vacant. " Oswald, who knows but you 
 may one day return to this spot, when my 
 bust " " Hold !" interrupted he ; " can you, 
 resplendent in youth and beauty, talk thus to 
 one whom misfortune even now is bending 
 
 towards the 
 
 grave 
 
 Ah !" exclaimed 
 
 Corinne, " the storm may in a moment dash 
 down flowers that have not yet begun to droop. 
 Oswald, dear Oswald ! why are you not hap- 
 py ?" " Never ask me," he replied ; " you 
 have your secrets, and I mine : let us respect 
 our mutual silence. You know not what I 
 should suffer if forced to relate my distresses." 
 Corinne said no more ; but her steps, as she 
 left the temple, became slow, and her looks 
 more pensive. 
 
 She paused beneath the portico. " There," 
 she said, " stood a porphyry urn of great 
 beauty, now removed to St. John Lateran ; it 
 contained the ashes of Agrippa, which were 
 deposited at the foot of the statue he had 
 erected to himself. The ancients lavished 
 such art on sweetening the idea of destruction, 
 that they succeeded in banishing all its most 
 dreary and alarming traits. There was such 
 magnificence in their tombs, that the contrast 
 between the nothingness of death and the 
 splendors of life was less felt. It is certain, 
 too, that the hope of another world was far 
 less vivid amongst them than it is with 
 Christians. They were obliged to contest 
 with death the principle which we fearlessly 
 confide to the bosom of our eternal Father." 
 
 Osward sighed, and spoke not ; melancholy 
 ideas have many charms, when we are not 
 ourselves deeply miserable ; but, while grief, 
 in all its cruelty, reigns over the breast, we 
 cannot hear without a shudder words which, 
 of old, only excited reveries not more sad than 
 soothing. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN going to St. Peter's, they crossed the 
 bridge of St. Angelo on foot. " It was 
 there," said Oswald, " that, on my way from 
 the Capitol, I, for the first time, mused long 
 on you." " I did not flatter myself," she re- j 
 joined, " that this coronation at the Capitol 
 would gain me a friend ; yet, still in toiling 
 for celebrity, I have ever wished that it might 
 make me beloved : of what avail would it be, 
 at least to a woman, without such expecta- 
 tion ?" " Let us stay here awhile," said Os- 
 wald. " Can by-gone centuries afford me one 
 remembrance equal to that of the day on 
 which I beheld you first '?" " I may err," 
 answered Qorinne, " but I think persons be- 
 come most endeared to each other while par- 
 ticipating in the admiration of works which 
 speak to the soul by their true grandeur. 
 Thos^ of Rome are neither cold nor mute ; 
 conceived, as they were, by genius, and hal- 
 lowed by memorable events. Nay, perhaps, 
 Oswald, one could not better learn to love the 
 possessor of a character like yours than by 
 enjoying with him the noble beauties of the 
 universe." " But I," returned Oswald, 
 " while gazing, listening beside you, need the 
 presence of no other wonder." Corinne 
 thanked him by a gracious smile. 
 
 Pausing before the castle of St. Angelo, 
 she pursued : " This is one of the most ori- 
 ginal exteriors among all our edifices : the 
 tomb of Adrian, fortified by the Goths, bear- 
 ing a double character from its successive 
 uses. Built for the dead, an impenetrable 
 circle enclosed 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) ; j 
 within are prisons, framed for ingenious tor- 
 ture. All the epochs of Roman history, from 
 the days of Adrian to our own, are associated 
 with this site. Belisarius defended it against 
 the Goths ; and, with a barbarism scarce in- 
 ferior to their own, hurled on them the beau- 
 teous statues that adorned the interior. Cres- 
 centii's, Arnault de Brescia, and Nicolas Ri- 
 enzi (6), those friends of Roman liberty, who 
 so oft mistook her memories for her hopes, 
 long defied their foes from this tomb of an em- 
 peror. I love each stone connected wita 
 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 long in preparations for his death. 
 Moral ideas and disinterested sentiments must,, 
 fill the soul that, in any way, outsteps th/il 
 boundaries of life.
 
 28 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 " To this point," continued Corinne, " ought 
 the pillars in front of St. Peter's extend ; 
 such was the superb plan of Michael Angelo, 
 which he trusted his survivors would com- 
 plete ; but the men of our day think not of 
 posterity. When once enthusiasm has been 
 turned into ridicule, all is defeated, except 
 wealth and power." "It is for you to re- 
 generate it," cried Nelvil. " Who ever ex- 
 perienced such happiness as I* now taste ? 
 Rome shown me by you ! interpreted by 
 imagination and genius ! What a world is 
 Rome thus animated by sentiment, without 
 which 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 1 'It is for Heaven to dispose of us 
 both." 
 
 At last they beheld St. Peter's ; the great- 
 est edifice ever erected by man : for even the 
 Egyptian Pyramids are its inferiors in height. 
 " Perhaps," said Corinne, " I ought to have 
 shown you the grandest of our temples last ; 
 I but that is not my system. It appears to me 
 that, to- perfect a sense of the fine arts, one 
 should begin by contemplating the objects 
 which awaken the deepest and most lively 
 admiration. This, once felt, reveals a new 
 sphere of thought, and renders us capable of 
 loving and judging whatever may, even in an 
 humbler quality, revive the first impression 
 we received. All cautious and graduated 
 attempts at producing a strong effect are 
 against my taste.. We do not arrive at the 
 sublime by degrees, for infinite distances 
 separate it even from that which is only 
 beautiful." 
 
 Oswald felt the most extraordinary sensa- 
 tions when standing in front of St. Peter's. 
 It was the first time the work of man had 
 affected him like a wonder of nature. It is 
 the only work of art on the face of the globe 
 that possesses the same species of majesty 
 which characterizes those of creation. Co- 
 rinne enjoyed his astonishment. " I have 
 selected," she said, " a day when the sun is 
 in all his splendor ; still reserving for you a 
 yet more holy rapture, that of beholding St. 
 Peter's by moonlight ; but I wished you first 
 to be present at this most brilliant spectacle 
 the genius of man bedecked by the magnifi- 
 cence of nature." 
 
 The square of St. Peter's is surrounded by 
 pillars, which appear light from a distance, 
 but massive as you draw nearer : the sloping 
 ascent towards the porch adds to the effect 
 produced. An obelisk, of eighty feet in 
 
 height, which looks scarce raised above the 
 earth, in presence of the cupola, stands in the 
 centre. The mere form of an obelisk is 
 pleasing to the fancy : it loses itself in an, 
 as if guiding the thoughts of man towards 
 heaven. This was brought from Egypt to 
 adorn the baths of Caligula, and afterwards 
 removed by Sixtus V. to the foot of St. Pe- 
 ters, beside which this contemporary of so 
 many ages that have loft no traces upon it, 
 creates a sentiment of awe. Man feels him- 
 self so perishable, that he bows before the 
 presence of immutability. At some distance, 
 on each side of the obelisk, are two fountains, 
 whose waters, perpetually gushing upwards, 
 fall again in abundant cascades. Their mur- 
 murs, such as we are wont to hear in wild and 
 rural scenes, lend a strange charm to this 
 spot, yet one that harmonizes with the stilling 
 influence of that august cathedral. Painting 
 and sculpture, whether representing the hu- 
 man form, or oilier natural objects, awaken 
 clear and intelligible images ; but a perfect 
 piece of architecture kindles that aimless 
 revery, which bears the soul we know not 
 whither. The ripple of water well accords 
 with these vague yei deep impressions : it is 
 uniform, as the edifice is regular. " Eternal 
 motion and eternal rest" seem here united, 
 defying even time, who has no more sullied 
 the source ot those pure springs than shaken 
 the base of that commanding temple. These 
 sheaves of liquid silver dash themselves into 
 spray so fine, that on sunny days the light 
 will form them into little rainbows, tinted 
 with all the iris hues of the prism. 
 
 " Stop here a moment," said Corinne to 
 Keivil, who was already beneath the portico : 
 'pause, ere you unveil the sanctuary: does 
 riot your heart throb as you approach *it, as if 
 anticipating -some solemn event !" She 
 raised the curtain herself, and held it back for 
 Nelvil to pass, with such a grace that his 
 first look was on her, and for some seconds 
 he could observe nothing else ; yet he entered 
 the interior, and soon, beneath its immense 
 arches, was filled by a piety so profound that 
 love alone no longer sufficed to occupy his 
 breast. He walked slowly beside Corinne. 
 Both were mute. There everything com- 
 mands silence ; for the least sound is re- 
 echoed so far, that no discourse seems worthy 
 to be thus repeated, in such an almost eternal 
 abode. Even prayer, the accent of distress, 
 springing from whatever feeble voice, rever- 
 berates deeply through its vastness, and when j 
 we hear, from far, the trembling steps of age, 
 on the fair marble, watered by so many tears, 
 man becomes imposing from the very infirmi- 
 ties that subject h's divine spirit to so much 
 
 ==J 
 
 \
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 29 
 
 of wo : and we feel that Christianity, the 
 creed of suffering, contains the true secret 
 which should direct cur pilgrimage on earth. 
 
 Corinne broke on the meditations of Os- 
 wald, saying-, " You must have remarked that 
 the Gothic churches of England and Ger- 
 many have a far more gioomy character than 
 this. Northern Catholicism has in it some- 
 tiling- mystic ; ours speaks to the imagination 
 by external objects. Michael Angeio, on bo- 
 holding the dome of the Pantheon, exclaimed, 
 ' I will place it in the air !' ifcdeed St. Pe- 
 ter's is a temple based upon a church ; its 
 interior weds the ancient and modern faiths 
 in the mind : I frequently wander hither to 
 regain the composure my spirit sometimes 
 loses. The sight of $uch a building is like a 
 ceaseless, changeless melody, here awaiting 
 to console all who seek it : and, among our 
 national claims to glory, let me rank the 
 courage, patience, and disinterestedness of 
 the chiefs of our church, who have,' for so 
 many years, devoted such treasures to the 
 completion of an edifice which its founders 
 could not expect to enjoy. (8) It is even 
 rendering a service to public morality, to be- 
 stow on a nation a monument emblematic of 
 such noble and generous desires. 1 ' " Yes," 
 replied Oswald, " here art is grand, and ge- 
 nius inventive ; but how is the real dignity of 
 man sustained ? How weak are the generality 
 of Italian governments, yet how do they en- 
 slave 1" " Other nations," interrupted Co- 
 rinne, " have borne the yoke, like ourselves, 
 and without like power to conceive a better 
 fate, 
 
 ' Servi siara si, ma servi ognor frementi.' 
 
 ' We are slaves, indeed, but for ever chafing 
 beneath our bonds,' said Al fieri, the boldest of 
 our modern writers. With such, soul for the 
 fine arts, may not our character oae day equal 
 our-genius 1 
 
 " Look," continued Corinne, " at these 
 statues on the tombs, these mosaics, labo- 
 rious and faithful copies from the chefs- 
 cT&uvres of our great masters. I never ex- 
 amine St. Peters in detail, because I am 
 grieved to find that its multiplied adornments 
 somewhat impair the beauty of the whole. 
 Yet well may the best works of human hands 
 seem superfluous here. This is a world of 
 itself; a re.uge from both heat and cold: it 
 hath a season of its own, perennial spring, 
 which the atmosphere without can never 
 affect. A subterranean church is built be- 
 neath : the popes, and many foreign princes, 
 are buried there Christine, after her abdica- 
 tion : the Stuarts, alter their dynasty was 
 overthrow^. Koine, so long an asylum for 
 
 the exile, is she not herself dethroned ? Her 
 aspect consoles sovereigns despoiled like her. 
 
 Cadono le citti, cadono i reani. 
 Et 1'uom, dcsser mortal, parcbe si 
 
 Dlegni 1 
 
 Yes, cities fall, whole empires disappear, and 
 yet man is indignant that he is mortal ! 
 
 " Sland here, Nelvil ! near the altar, be- 
 neath the centre of the dome, you perceive, 
 through these iron gratings, the church of 
 the dead, which lies beneath our feet, and, on 
 raising your eyes, they can scarcely pierce to 
 the summit of the vault : do you not feel as 
 if a huge abyss was opening over your head? 
 Everything which extends beyond a certain 
 proportion must cause that limited creature 
 man uncontrollable dismay. What we know 
 is as inexplicable as the unknown : we have 
 so reconciled ourselves to habitual darkness, 
 that any new mystery alarms and confounds 
 us. 
 
 " The whole church is embellished by an- 
 tique marbles who know more than we do of 
 vanished centuries. There is the statue of 
 Jupiter converted into St. Peter, by the glory 
 which has been set upon its head. The gen- 
 eral expression of the place perfectly typifies 
 a mixture of obscure dogmas and sumptuous 
 ceremonies ; a mine of sad ideas, but such as 
 may be soothingly applied ; severe doctrines, 
 capable of mild interpretation : Christian 
 theology and Pagan images ; in fact, the most 
 admirable union of all the majestic splendors 
 which man can give to his worship of the 
 Divinity. Tombs decked by the arts can 
 scarcely represent death as a formidable ene- 
 my : we do not, indeed, like the ancients, 
 carve sports and dances on the sarcophagus ; 
 but thought is diverted from the bier by works 
 that tell of immortality even from the altar 
 of death. Thus animated, we feel not that 
 freezing silence which constantly watches 
 over a northern sepulchre." " It is, doubt- 
 less, the purpose with us," said Oswald, " to 
 surround death with appropriate gloom : ere 
 we were enlightened by Christianity, such 
 was our mythologic bias. Ossian called 
 around the tomb funeral chants, such as here 
 you would fain forget. I know not if I should 
 wish that your fair sky may so far change 
 my rnood." 
 
 ' Yet think not," said Corinne, " that we 
 are either fickle or frivolous ; we have too 
 little vanity : indolence may yield our lives 
 some intervals of oblivion, but they can nei- 
 ther sate nor wither up the heart : unfortu- 
 nately .we are often scared from this repose 
 by passions more terrible than those of habit- 
 ually active minds." _ They were now at the 
 doo.. "On;) more glanee !" said Nelvil
 
 i!30 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 | " See how insignificant is man in the presence 
 1 of religion ! whiie we shrink even before its 
 j material emblem : behold what duration man 
 1 can give to his achievements, while his own 
 j date is so brief that he soon survives but in 
 ; his fame. This temple is an image of infini- 
 I tude ; there are no bounds tbr the sentiments 
 : to which it gives birth the hosts of past and 
 future years it suggests for speculation. On 
 leaving it we seem quilting a world of hea- 
 venly thought for one of common interests ; 
 exchanging religion and eternity for the trivial 
 pursuits of time." 
 
 Corinne pointed out the bas-reliefs, from 
 Ovid's Metamorphoses, on the doors. " We 
 shame not," she said, " in the Pagan trophies 
 which art has hallowed. The wonders of 
 genius always awaken holy feelings in the 
 soul, and we pay homage to Christianity in 
 tribute of all the best works that other faiths 
 have inspired." Oswald smiled at this expla- 
 nation. " Believe me, my Lord," continued 
 Corinne, " there is much sincerity among 
 .people of lively fancy. -To-morrow, it' you 
 ! like, I will take you to the Capitol, and I trust 
 I have many such days in store for you ; but 
 when they are over must you depart ?" 
 She checked herself, fearing that she had 
 said too much. " No, Corinne," cried Os- 
 wald, " I cannot renounce this gleam of bliss, 
 which my guardian angel seems to shower on 
 me from above." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE next day Oswald and Corinne set forth 
 with more confidence and calmness. They 
 were friends, and began to say we. Ah, how 
 affecting is that we, pronounced by love ! 
 What a timid, yet ardent confession does it 
 breathe ! ' We go to the Capitol, then V 
 said Corinne. " Yes, we will:" replied Os- 
 wald, and his voice told all in those simple 
 words ; so full of gentle tenderness was his 
 accent. " Frm the top of the Capitol, such 
 as it is now," said Corinne, " we can clearly see 
 the Seven Hills ; we will go over them all 
 in succession ; there is not one but teems 
 with historica. recollections." They took 
 what was formerly called the sacred or tri- 
 'umphnnt road. " Your car passed this way," 
 said Oswald. "It did," answered Corinne, 
 '" the venerable dust might have wondered at 
 my presumption ; but since the Roman re- 
 public, so many a guilty track has been im- 
 
 punted on this road, that the respect it once 
 demanded is decreased." She led him to the 
 btairs of the present Capitol ; the entrance 
 to the original one was by the Forum. " I 
 would," she said, il that vhese steps were the 
 sameN by which Scipio ascended ; when, re- 
 pulsing calumny by glorious deeds, he went 
 to oiler thanks in the temple for the victories I 
 he had won ; but the new staircase and Capi- 
 tol were built on the ruins of the old, to re- 
 ceive the peaceful magistrate who now mo- 
 nopolizes the high-sounding title of Roman 
 senator, which once extorted reverence from 
 the whole universe. We have but names 
 here now. Yet their classic euphony always 
 creates a thrill of mingled pleasure and regret. 
 I asked a poor woman, whom I met the other 
 day, where she lived. ' On the Tarpeian 
 Rock,' she answered. These words, stripped 
 as they are of all that once attached to them, 
 still exert some power over the fancy." 
 
 Oswald and Corir.ne stopped to observe the 
 two basaltic lions at the foot of the stairs. (9) 
 They came from Egypt, whose sculptors, 
 much more faithfully transmitted the forms of 
 animate than those of men. The physiognomy 
 of these lions has all the stern tranquillity, 
 the strength in repose, which we find de- 
 scribed by Dante. 
 
 " A guisa di Icon quaodo si posa." 
 
 Not far from thence is a mutilated Rom?n 
 statue, which the moderns have placed there, 
 unconscious that they thus display a striking 
 symbol of Rome as it is. This figure has 
 neither head nor feet ; but the trunk and dra- 
 pery that reinaip have still the beauty of an- 
 tiquity. At the top of the stairs are two 
 colossal statues, thought to represent Castor 
 and Pollux ; then come the trophies of Mari- 
 us ; then the two columns which served to 
 measure the Roman empire ; lastly, the statue 
 of Marcus Aurelius, calm and beautiful amid 
 contending memories. Thus the heroic age 
 is personated by these colosSal shapes, the 
 republic by the lions, the civil wars by Marius, 
 and the imperial epoch by Aurelius. 
 
 To the right and left of the modern Capitol 
 two churches have been erected, on the ruins 
 of temples to Jupiter Feretrius and Capitoli- 
 nus. In front of the vestibule is a fountain, 
 over which the geniuses of the Tiber and the 
 Nile are represented as presiding, as does the 
 she- wolf if Romulus. The name of the Tiber 
 is never pronounced like that of an inglorious 
 stream ; it is a proud pleasure for a Roman 
 but to say, " Come to the Tiber's banks ! Let 
 us cross the Tiber!" In breathing such 1 
 words he seems to invoke the spirit of history, j 
 and re-animate the dead.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 31 
 
 Going to the Capitol by the way of the 
 Forum, you find, to your right, the Mamertine 
 prisons, constructed by Ancus Martius for 
 ordinary criminals ; but excavated by Servius 
 Tullius, into far more cruel dungeons for 
 state culprits ; as it" they merit not most mercy 
 who err from a zealous fidelity to what they 
 believe their duty. Jugurtha and the friends 
 of Catiline perished in these cells : it is even 
 said that St. Peter and St. Paul were confined 
 there. On the other side of the Caphol is the 
 Tarpeian Rock, at the foot of which now 
 stands the Hospital of Consolation, as if the 
 severe spirit of antiquity, and the sweet one 
 of Christianity, here met, across the wide 
 interval of years, as visibly to the eye as to 
 the mind. 
 
 When Oswald and Corinne had gained the 
 top of the Capitol, she showed him the Seven 
 Hills, and the city, bounded first by Mount 
 Palatinns, then by the walls of Servius Tullius, 
 which enclose the hills, and by those of Au- 
 relian, which still surround the greatest part 
 of Rome. Corinne repeated verses of Tibullus 
 and Propertius. that glorify the weak com- 
 mencement of what became the mistress of 
 the world. (10) Mount Palatinus once con- 
 tained all Rome ; but soon did the imperial 
 palace fill the space that had sufficed for a 
 nation. A poet of Nero's day made this 
 epigram : 
 
 " Roma doaiu? fiot. Veios migrate. Qufeites ; 
 fii non et Vtios occupat ista domus." 
 
 " Rome will soon be but one palace. Go to 
 Yeii ; citizens ! if you can be sure that this 
 palace will not include even Yeii itself." 
 The Seven Hifls are far less lofty now than 
 when they deserved the title of steep moun- 
 tains ; modern Rome being forty feet higher 
 than the ancient city, and the valleys which 
 separated them almost filled up by ruins ; but 
 what is still more strange, two heaps of shat- 
 tered vases have formed new hills, Cestario 
 and Testacio. Thus, in time, the very refuse 
 of civilisation levels the rock with the plain, 
 effacing, in the moral as in the material world, 
 all the pleasing inequalities of nature. 
 
 Three other hills, Janiculum, Yaticanus, 
 and Mario, not comprised in the famous seven, 
 j>ive so picturesque an air to Rome, and afford 
 such magnificent views from her interior, as 
 perhaps no other city can command. There 
 is so remarkable a mixture of ruins and new 
 buildings, of fair fields and desert wastes, that 
 one may contemplate Rome on all sides, and 
 ever find fresh beauties. 
 
 Oswald could not weary of feasting his 
 gaze from the elevated point 1o which Corinne 
 had led him. The study of history can never 
 act on tis like the sight of that scene itself. 
 
 The eye reigns all powerfully over the soul. 
 He now believed in the old Romans, as if he 
 had lived amongst them. Mental recollections 
 are acquired by reading ; those of imagination 
 are born of more immediate impressions, such 
 as give life to thought, and seem to render us 
 the witnesses of what we learn. Doubtless 
 we are annoyed by the modern dwellings 
 which intrude on these wrecks, yet a portico 
 beside some humble roof, columns between 
 which the little windows of a church peep 
 out, or a tomb that serves for the abode of a 
 rustic family, so blends the grand with the 
 simple, and affords us so many agreeable 
 discoveries, as to keep up continual interest. 
 Everything is common-place and prosaic in 
 the generality of European towns ; and Rome, 
 more frequently than any other, presents the 
 sad aspect of misery and degradation ; but all 
 at once some broken column, or half-effaced 
 bas-relief, or a few stones bound together by 
 indestructible cement, will remind you that 
 there is in man an eternal power, a divine 
 spark, which he ought never to weary of fan- 
 ning in his own breast, and relumine in those 
 of others. 
 
 That Forum, whose narrow enclosure has 
 
 j been the scene of so many wondrous events, 
 
 1 is a striking proof of man's moral greatness. 
 
 When, in the latter days of Rome, the world 
 
 was subjected to inglorious rulers, centuries 
 
 passed from which history could scarce extract 
 
 a single feat. This Forum, the heart of H 
 
 circumscribed town, whose natives fought 
 
 i around it against the invaders of its territories 
 
 j this Forum, by the recollections it retraces, 
 
 ' has been the theme of genius in every age. 
 
 Eternal honor to the brave and free, who thus 
 
 !' vanquish even the hearts of posterity ! 
 Corinne observed to Nelvil that there were 
 I but few vestiges left of the republic, or of the 
 regal day which preceded it. The aqueducts 
 and subterranean canals were their only luxu- 
 ries, all that remains of those ages are useful 
 edifices, a few tombs, and temples of brick. 
 Not till after the fall of Sicily did the Romans 
 adopt the use of marble ; but it is enough to 
 survey the spots on which great actions have 
 been performed : we experience that indefinite 
 emotion to which we may attribute the pious 
 zeal of pilgrims. Celebrated countries of all 
 kinds, even when despoiled of their great men 
 and great works, exert a power over the 
 imagination. That which would once have 
 attracted the eye exists no more ; but the 
 charm of memory still survives. 
 
 The Forum now retains no trace of that 
 famed tribunal whence the people were ruled 
 by the force of eloquence. There still exist 
 three pillars of a temple to Jupiter Tonans, 
 raised by Augustus, because a thunderbolt had
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY 
 
 fallen near him there without injury. There is, 
 loo, the triumphal arch erected by the senate 
 lo requite the exploits of Septimus Severus. 
 The names of his Uvo sons, Caracalla and 
 Geta, were inscribed on its front ; but when Ca- 
 racalla assassinated his brother, his name was 
 erased ; some marks of the letters are yet 
 visible. Further off is a temple to Faustina, 
 a monument of the weakness of Marcus Au- 
 relius. A temple to Venus, which, in the 
 republican era, was consecrated to Pallas ; 
 and, at a little distance, the relics of another, 
 dedicated to the sun .find moon, by the Empe- 
 ror Adrian, who was so jealous of the Greek 
 architect, Apollodorus, that he, pat him to 
 death for censuring its proportion. 
 
 On the other side are seen the remains of 
 buildings devoted to higher and purer aims. 
 The columns of one believed to be that of 
 Jupiter Stator, forbidding fte 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 him- 
 self and some belonging either ,to the Tem- 
 ple of Concord or to that of Victory. Perhaps 
 this conquering people confounded the two 
 ideas, believing that they could only attain 
 true peace by subduing the universe. 
 
 At the extremity of Mount Palatinus stands 
 an arch celebrating Titus's conquest of Jeru- 
 salem. It is asserted that no Jews will ever 
 pass beneath it ; and the little path they lake 
 to avoid it is pointed out. We will hope, for 
 the credit of the Jews, that this anecdote is 
 true ; such enduring recollections well become 
 the long-suffering. Not far from hence is the 
 arch of Constantine, embellished by some 
 bas-reliefs, taken from the Forum, in the time 
 of Trajan, by the Christians, who resolved 
 thus to deck the monument of the Founder of 
 Peace. The arts, at this period, were already 
 on the wane, and spoils from the past were 
 made to honor new achievements. 
 
 The triumphal gates still seen in Rome 
 perpetuated, as much as men could do, the 
 respect paid to glory. There were places for 
 musicians at their summits : so that the hero, 
 as he passed, might be intoxicated at once by 
 melody and praise, tasting, at the same mo- 
 ment, 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 metal ran even to the Forum. Finally, 
 the Coliseum, the grandest ruin of Rome, 
 terminates the circle in which all the epochs 
 of history seem collected for comparison. 
 That superb edifice whose stones, now bereft 
 of marble and of gilding, once formed the 
 arena in which the gladiators contended with 
 
 ferocious beasts. Thus were the Romans 
 amused and duped, by strong excitements, 
 while their natural feelings were denied their 
 exercise. There were two entrances to the 
 Coliseum ; the one devoted to the conqueicrs, 
 the other that through which they carried the 
 dead. $t range scorn of humanity ! to decide 
 beforehand the life or death of man, for mere 
 pastime. Titus, the best of emperors, dedi- 
 cated the Coliseum to the Roman people ; 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 {.he triumphs of art the praise which is due 
 but to monuments that tell of generous insti- 
 tutions. 
 
 Oswald's enthusiasm equalled not that of 
 Corinne ; while beholding these four galleries, 
 rising one above the other, in proud decay, 
 j inspiring at once respect and tenderness, he 
 j saw but the luxury of rulers, the blood of 
 slaves, and was almost prejudiced against the 
 arts, for thus lavishing their gifts, indifferent 
 as to the purposes to which they were applied. 
 I Corinne attempted to dombat this mood. " Do 
 | not," she said, " let your principles of justice 
 j interfere with a contemplation like tnis. I 
 have told you that these objects would rather 
 remind you of ancient taste and elegance than 
 I of the age of Roman virtue ; but do you not 
 i trace some moral grandeur in the gigantic 
 ! splendor that succeeded it ? The very degra- 
 dation of the Romans is imposing : while 
 bereaved of liberty they strewed thte earth 
 with wonders ; and ideal beauty sought to 
 solace man for the real dignity he had lost. 
 Look on these immense baths, open to all who 
 wished to taste of oriental voluptuousness ; 
 these circles, wherein elephants once battled 
 with tigers ; these aqueducts, which could 
 instantaneously convert the arenas into lakes, 
 where galleys raced in their turn, or croco- 
 diles filled the space just occupied by lions. 
 Such was the luxury of the Romans, when 
 luxury was their pride. Thebc obelisks, 
 brought from Egypt, torn from the African's 
 shades to decorate the sepulchres of Romans ! 
 Can all this be considered useless as the pomp 
 of Asiatic despots ? No, you behold the ge- 
 nius of Rome, the victor of the world, attired 
 by the arts ! There is something superhuman 
 and poetic:i3 in this magnificence, which 
 I makes one forget both ks origin and its aim." 
 The eloquence of Corinne excited, without 
 i convincing, Oswald. He sought a moral sen- 
 I timent in all things, and the magic of art 
 could never satisfy him without it. Corinne 
 | now recollected that, in this same arena, the 
 * persecuted Christians had fallen victims to 
 ; their constancy : she pointed out the altars 
 ; erected to their>ashes, and the path toward*
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 33 
 
 the cross which the penitents trod beneath 
 the ruins of mundane greatness : she asked 
 him if the dust of martyrs spoke nothing to 
 his heart. " Yes," he cried, " deeply do I 
 revere the pow<;r of the soul 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 im- 
 molate self to principle that we are truly vir- 
 tuous. Then alone does a celestial power 
 subdue the mortal in our breasts." These 
 pure and noble words, nevertheless, disturbed 
 Corinne ; she gazed ou Nelvil, then cast down 
 her eyes ; and though at the same moment he 
 took her hand, and pressed it to his heart, she 
 trembled to think that such a man might de- 
 vote himself or others to despair, in his adhe- 
 rence to the opinions, principles, or duties of 
 which he might make choice. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 CORINXE and Nelvil employed two days in 
 wandering over the Seven Hills. The Ro- 
 mans formerly held a fete in their honor : it 
 is one of Rome's original beauties that it em- 
 braces these eminences, and patriotism natu- 
 rally loved to celebrate such a' peculiarity. 
 Oswald and Corinne having already viewed 
 the Capitoline Hill, recommenced their course 
 at Mount Palatinus. The palace of the Cae- 
 sars, called the Golden Palace, once occupied 
 it entirely. Augustus, Tiberius, Caligula, and 
 Nero, built its four sides ; a heap of stones. 
 overgrown with shrubs, is all that now re- 
 mains. Nature has reclaimed her empire 
 over the works of man ; and her fair flowers 
 atone for the fall of a^ palace. In the regal 
 and republican eras, grandly as towered their 
 public buildings, private houses were extreme- 
 ly small and simple. Cicero, H,prtensius, and 
 the Gracchi, dwelt on this eminence, which 
 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, desig- 
 nated solely by the eras of its masters. The 
 la;;re! tree of war, and that of the arts culti- 
 vated 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 pre- 
 cious stones, then lavished on walls or ceil- 
 ings, 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 chambers that the outrage must have 
 been conceived. How often may his gaze 
 have been arrested by these pictures, whose 
 tasteful garlands still survive ! Th^ master 
 of the world betrayed in his nearest affections ! 
 What thought his old age of life and its vain 
 pomps ] Did he reflect on his glory, or its 
 victims ? Hoped he or fr ared he a future 
 world ? Does the last thought, which reveals 
 all to man, yet wander over these halls, the 
 scenes of his past power 1(11) 
 
 Mount Aventinus affords more traces of 
 Rome's early day than any of its sister hills. 
 Exactly facing the palace constructed by Ti- 
 berius is seen a wreck of the Temple to Li- 
 berty, built by the father of the Gracchi ; and 
 at the foot of this ascent stood that dedicated 
 to the Fortune of Men, by Servius Tulhus, to 
 thank the gods that, though born a slave, he 
 had become a king. Without the walls of 
 Rome another edifice rose to the Fortune of 
 Women, commemorating the influence exerted 
 by Yeturia over Coriolanus. 
 
 Opposite to Mount Aventinus is Mount 
 Janiculum, on which Porsenna marshalled hia 
 army. It was in front of this hill that Hora- 
 tius Codes cut away the bridge which led to 
 Rome : its foundations still exist. On the 
 banks of the stream was built a brick arch, 
 s.\mple as the action it recalled was great. In 
 the midst of the Tiber we see the 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 difficult, 
 in our own day, to 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 Yesta still remains, j 
 almost entire, though the inundations of the ]j 
 Tiber have often threatened 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, 
 Clffilia and her companions were confined by 
 Porsenna, and swam across the river to rejoin 
 the Romans. Mount Aventinus indemnifies 
 the mind for all the painful recollections the 
 other hills awake ; and its aspect is as beau- 
 teous as its memories are sweet. The banks 
 at its foot were called the Lovely Strand 
 (pulchruin Uttim). Thither the orators of 
 Rome walked from the Forum : there Caesar 
 and Povnpey met like simple citizens, and 
 sought to conciliate Cicero, whose independent 
 eloquence was of more weight than even the 
 power of their armies. Poetry also has em-
 
 34 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 bellished this spot : it was there that Virgil 
 placed the cave of Cacus ; and Rome, so great 
 in history, is still greater by the heroic fictions 
 with which her fabulous origin has been 
 decked. In returning from Mount Aventinus, 
 you see the house of Nicolas Hienzi, who 
 vainly strove to restore the spirit of antiquity 
 in modern days. 
 
 Mount Coelius is remarkable for the remains 
 of a pretorian encampment, and that of the 
 foreign troops : on the ruins of the latter we 
 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. 
 
 Esquilinus was called the " Poet's Hill ;" 
 Maecenas, Horace, Propertius, and Tibullus, 
 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 pam- 
 per the senses in the chambers where they 
 bathe. Thus, by the light of lamps, did the 
 Romans gaze on the chefs-d'ceuvres of paint- 
 ing and sculpture ; for it appears from the 
 construction of these buildings that day never 
 entered' them ; they were sheltered from the 
 noontide rays', so piercing here as fully to 
 deserve the title of Apollo's darts. The ex- 
 treme precautions taken by the ancients might 
 induce a. 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 baths of Nero, was found the Apollo 
 Belvidere. Can we look on that noble figure 
 and conceive Nero destitute of all generous 
 sentiments 1 
 
 The baths and circuses are the only places 
 of public amusement that have left their ves- 
 tige. Though the ruins of Marcellus's theatre 
 still exist, Pliny relates that 360 marble pillars, 
 and 3000 statues, were placed in a theatre 
 incapable of lasting many days. The Romans 
 sometimes built with a solidity that delied the 
 earthquake's shock ; sometimes they wasted 
 like pains on edifices which they destroyed 
 themselves when the fetes held in them were 
 concluded ; thus, in every sense, sported they 
 with time. They had not the Grecian's ma- 
 nia for dramatic representations ; the fine arts 
 then flourished at Rome only in the works of 
 Greece ; and Roman grandeur consisted rather 
 in colossal architecture than in efforts of ima- 
 gination. The gigantic wonders thus pro- 
 duced bcre a very dignified stamp, no longer 
 
 I ' 
 
 of liberty, but that of power still. The dis- 
 tricts devoted to the public baths were called 
 provinces, and united all the varied establish- 
 ments 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 300,000 people. Almost the whole 
 nation might be amused, at the same moment ; 
 and these immense festivals might, be consi- 
 dered as popular institutions, which assembled 
 for mere pleasure those who formerly united 
 for glory. 
 
 Mounts Quirinalis and Viminalis are so 
 near each other that it is not easy to distin- 
 guish them apart. There stood the houses 
 of Sallust and of Pompey. There, too, in the 
 present day, does the pope reside. One can- 
 not lake a single step in Rome without con- 
 trasting its present and its past. But one 
 learns to view the events of one's own time 
 the more calmly for noting the eternal fluctu- 
 ations that mark the history of man ; and one 
 feels ashamed to repine, in the presence, as it 
 were^ of so many centuries, who have all 
 overthrown the achievements of their prede- 
 cessors. 
 
 Around and on the Sever. 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 
 conflagration 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 beneath 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 Agrippina 
 in honor of Claudius, whom she had caused 
 to be poisoned ; finally, they passed the tomb 
 of Augustus, the enclosure around which now 
 serves as an arena for animal combats. 
 
 " 1 have led you rapidly," said Corinne, 
 " over a few^ foot-prints of ancient history ; 
 but you can appreciate the pleasure which 
 may be found in researches at once learned 
 and poetic, addressing the fancy as well as 
 the reason. There are many distinguished ij 
 men in Rome whose sole occupation is that of 
 discovering new links between our ruins and 
 our history." " I know no study which could 
 interest me more," replied Nelvil, " if 1 felt 
 my mind sufficiently composed for it. Such 
 erudition is far more animated than that we 
 acquire from books ; we seem to revive what 
 we unveil ; and the past appears to rise from 
 the dust which concealed it." " Truly," said
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 35 
 
 Corinne, " this passion for antiquity is no idle 
 prejudice. We live in an age when self- 
 interest seems the ruling principle of all men : 
 what sympathy, what enthusiasm, can ever 
 be its result 1 Is it not sweeter to dream over 
 | the days of self-devotion and heroi,c sacrifice, 
 | which once existed, 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 
 betray the interest he inspired, prompt as she 
 was by nature to confess her feelings. Per- 
 haps she even thought that while speaking on 
 subjects foreign to their love, the very voice 
 might disclose their mutual affection ; 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, she received from 
 him an almost ceremonious note, stating that 
 indisposition would 'confine him to his house 
 for some days. A sad disquietude seized the 
 heart of Corinne : at first she feared that he 
 was dangerously ill ; but Count d'Erfeuil, 
 who called in the evening, informed her that 
 it was but one of those attacks of melancholy 
 to which Nelvil 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 ob- 
 ject, 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 appearance, would tell her all he knew. 
 But whether he wished to hide, beneath an air 
 of mystery, the fact that Nelvil had confided 
 nothing, or whether he believed it more ho- 
 norable to th%vart her wishes than to grant 
 them, he met her ardent curiosity by imper- 
 turbable silence. She, who had always gained 
 such an ascendency over those with whom 
 she spoke, could not understand why her per- 
 suasive powers should fail with him. She did 
 not know that self-love is the most inflexible 
 quality in the world. Where was then her 
 resource for learning what passed in the heart 
 of Oswald * Should she write to him t A 
 letter requires such caution ; and the loveliest 
 attribute of her nature was its impulsive sin- 
 
 cerity. Three days passed, and still he came 
 not. She suffered the most cruel agitation. 
 " What have I done," she thought, " to dis- 
 sever him from me ? I have not committed 
 the error so formidable in England, so par- 
 donable in Italy ; I 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 Lucy Edgarmond, 
 he knew that such had been his fathers wish, 
 and desired to conform with it. Corinne was 
 not known by her real name : she had for 
 many years led a life far too independent for 
 him to hope that an union with her would 
 have obtained the approbation of his parent, 
 and he felt that it was not by such a step he 
 could expiate his early offences. He pur- 
 posed to leave Rome, and write Corinne an 
 explanation of the motives which enforced 
 such resolution ; but not feeling strength for 
 t'\is, he limited his exertions to a forbearance 
 from visiting her; and this sacrifice soon ap- 
 peared 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 sensations, that the 
 vulture talons of passion seized at once upon 
 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 chance. 
 
 Her ardent fancy, the' source of her talents, | 
 was unhappily blended with such natural feel- 
 ing, that it constituted her wretchedness. On 
 the evening of the fourth day of this cruel 
 absence, the moon shone clearly over Rome, 
 which in the silence of night looks lovely, as 
 if it were inhabited but by the spirits of the 
 great. Corinne, on her way from the house 
 of a female friend, left her carriage, and op- 
 pressed with grief, seated herself beside the 
 fountain of Trevi, that abundant cascade which 
 falls in the centre of Rome, and seems the life 
 of that tranquil scene. Whenever its flow is 
 suspended, all appears stagnation. In other 
 cities it is the roll of carriages that the ear 
 requires ; in Rome, it is the murmur of this 
 immense fountain, which seems the indispen- 
 sable accompaniment of the dreamy life led 
 there. The form of Corinne was now re- 
 flected on the surface of this water, which is 
 so pure, that it has for many ages been named 
 the Virgin Spring. Oswald, who had paused 
 there at the same moment, beheld the en-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 chanting countenance of her he loved thus 
 mirrored in the wave : at first it affected him 
 so strangely that he believed himself crazing 
 on her phantom, as his imagination had often 
 conjured up that of his father ; lie leaner! for- 
 ward, in order to see it more plainly, and his 
 own features appeared beside those of Corinne. 
 She recognized them, shrieked, rushed to- 
 wards him, and seized his arm, as if she fear- 
 ed ' he would again escape ; but scarcely had 
 she yielded- to this too impetuous impulse, ere, 
 remembering the character of Lord Nelvil, 
 she blushed, her hand dropped, and with 
 the other she covered her face to hide her 
 tears. 
 
 " Corinne ! 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 
 1 deserved to suffer thus for you 1" " No, 
 no," iie answered ; " but I cannot deem, myself 
 free if my heart be filled by regret and fear, 
 
 why should I involve you in its tortures * 
 Why 1" " It is too late to ask," interrupted 
 Corinne ; " grief is already in my breast ; 
 ' bear with me !" " Grief!" repeated Oswald ; 
 " in the midst of so brilliant a career, with so 
 hrely a genius !'' " Hold," she said ; " you 
 know me not. Of all my faculties, the most 
 powerful is that of suffering. I was formed 
 for happiness ; my nature is confiding and 
 animated ; but sorrow excites me to a degree 
 that threatens my reason, nay, my life. Be 
 careful of me ! My gay versatility serves me 
 hut in appearance : within mv soul is an abyss 
 of despair, which I can only avoid by pre- 
 serving 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 an eagerness which she 
 strove in vain to disguise, " I do," he an- 
 swered, and departed. 
 
 BOOK V . 
 
 TH TOMBS, CHURCHES, AND PALACES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE next day Oswald and "Corinne met in 
 great embarrassment She could no longer 
 depend on the love she had inspired. He 
 was dissatisfied with himself, and was con- 
 scious of a weakness of character which made 
 him rebel against kis own sentiments as 
 against a tyranny which enslaved him. Both 
 sought to avoid" the subject of their mutual 
 affection. "To-day," said Corinne, " I pro- 
 pose a somewhat solemn excursion, but one 
 which will be sure to interest you : let us visit 
 the hst asylums of those who lived amor? 
 the edifices we have seen in ruins." " You 
 have divined what would most suit my present 
 disposition," said Oswald, in so sad a tone, 
 that she dared not speak again for some mo- 
 ments ; then gaining courage from her desire 
 to soothe and entertain him, she added, " You 
 know, my lord, that among the ancients, far 
 from the sight of tombs discouraging the liv- 
 ing, they were placed in the high road, to 
 kindle emulation : the young were thus con- 
 stantly reminded of the illustrious dead, who 
 seemed silently to bid them imitate their glo- 
 
 ries." "Ah!" sighed Oswald, "how I envy 
 those whose regrets are unstained by re- 
 morse." " Talk you of remorse ?'' she cried ; 
 " then it is but one virtue the more, the scru- 
 ples of a heart whose exalted delicacy " 
 He interrupted her. " Corinne ! Corinne ! 
 | do not approach that theme : in your blest 
 j land, gloomy thoughts are exhale'd by the 
 brightness of heaven ; but with us grief buries 
 itself in the depths of the soul, and shatters its 
 strength for ever." " You do rne injustice," 
 she replied. " I have told you that, capable 
 j as I am of enjoyment, I should suffer more 
 ! than you, if " she paused and changed the 
 subject ; continuing, ' My only wish, ray lord, 
 is to divert your mind for a while. I ask no 
 more.'" The meekness of this reply touched 
 Oswald's heart ; and, as he marked the me- 
 lancholy beauty of those eyes usually so full 
 of fire, he reproached himself with having 
 thus depressed a spirit so framed for sweet 
 and joyous impressions : he would fain have 
 restored them ; but Corinne's uncertainty of 
 his intentions, as to his stay or departure, en- 
 tirely disordered her accustomed serenity. 
 She led him through the gates to the old
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 37 
 
 Appian Way, whose traces are marked in the 
 heart of the country by ruins on the right and 
 I left, for many miles beyond the walls. The 
 ! Romans did not permit the dead to be buried 
 i within the city. None but the emperors were 
 , there interred, except one citizen named Pub- 
 s' lius Biblius, who was thus recompensed for his 
 i humble virtues ; such as, indeed, his cotem- 
 ! poraries 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 
 1 find, Cicero assures us, are those of Metellus, 
 
 of Scipio, and Servilius. The tornb of the 
 I: Scipio family was found here', and afterwards 
 
 removed to the Vatican. It is almost sacri- 
 i lege to displace such ashes. Imagination is 
 | more nearly allied to mortality than is believed, 
 | and ought not to be offended. Among- so 
 I many tombs names must be strewn at random : 
 ! there is no way of deciding to which such or 
 I such title belongs ; but this very uncertainty 
 i prevents our looking on any of them with in- 
 | difference. It was in SUCTC that the peasants 
 i made their homes ; for the Romans consecrated 
 I quite space enough to the urns of their illus- 
 ! trious fellow-citizens. They had not that 
 ' principle of utility which, for the sake of cul- 
 I rivaling a few feet of ground the more, lays 
 | waste the vast domain of feeling and of thought. 
 
 i At some distance from the Appian Way is a 
 '; temple raised by the republic to Hoaor and 
 ! ! to Virtue ; another to the god who caused the 
 ji return of Hannibal. There, too, is the foun- 
 I j tain of Egeria ; where in solitude Numa con- 
 j versed with Conscience, the divinity of the 
 j good. Xo monument of guilt invades the re- 
 I pose of these great beings : the earth around 
 I is sacred to the memory of worth. The no- 
 j blest thoughts may reign there undisturbed. 
 The aspect of the "country near Rome is re- 
 markably peculiar ; it is but a desert, as boast- 
 ing neither trees nor houses ; but the ground 
 is covered with wild shrubs ceaselessly re- 
 newed by energetic vegetation. The parasi- 
 tic tribes creep round the tombs, and decorate 
 the ruins, as if in honor of their dead. Proud 
 I nature, conscious that no Cincinnatus now 
 j guides the plough that furrows her breast, there 
 i repulses the care of man, and produces plants 
 which she permits not to serve the living. 
 These uncultivated plains may, indeed, dis- 
 please those who speculate on the earth's ca- 
 pacity for supplying human wants ; but the 
 pensive mind, more occupied by thoughts of 
 death than of life, loves to contemplate the 
 Campagna, on which present time has imprint- 
 ed no trace : it cherishes the dead, and fondly 
 covers them with useless flowers, that bask 
 beneath the sun, but never aspire above the 
 ashes which they appear to caress. Oswald 
 
 i admitted that in such a scene a calm might be 
 regained that could be enjoyed nowhere be- 
 side. The soul is there less wounded by ima- 
 ges of sorrow : it seems to partake with those 
 now no more, the charm of that air, that sun- 
 light, and that verdure. Corinne drew some 
 hope from observing the effect thus taken on 
 him ; she wished not to efface the just regret 
 he 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 remains almost entire ; it is not 
 that of a celebrated man, but of a young girl, 
 Cecilia Meteila, 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," re- 
 plied Corinne, with emotion, " happv those 
 who are not orphans. But look ! arms are 
 sculptured here ; the daughters of heroes had 
 a rijrht to bear the trophies of their sires : fair 
 union of innocence and valor ! There is an 
 elegy, by Propertius, which, better than any 
 other writing of antiquity, describes the dig- 
 nity of woman among the Romans ; a dig- 
 nity more pure and more commanding than 
 even that which she enjoyed during the age of 
 chivalry. Cornelia, dying in- her youth, ad- 
 dresses to her husband a consolatory farewell, 
 whose every word breathes her tender respect 
 for all that is sacred in the ties of nature. 
 The noble pride of a blameless life is well de- j 
 picted in the majestic Latin, in poetry august J 
 and severe as the masters of the world. ' Yes,' 
 says Cornelia, ' no stain has sullied rny career, 
 from the hour when Hymen's torch was kin- 
 dled, even to that which lights my funeral 
 pyre. I have lived spotless between the two 
 flames.' (12) 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. " Co- 
 rinne," he cried, " has your delicate mind 
 aught with which to reproach you ? If 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 ?" " I am 
 free," replied Cerinne, "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 1 Is there no di- 
 vine pity in man's heart for the errors which, 
 beneath such illusion, might have been com- 
 mitted V' A modest glow overspread her faco.
 
 38 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 Oswald shuddered, but was silent. There 
 was such timid penitence in the looks of Co- 
 rinne, that he could not rigorously judge one 
 whom a ray from heaven seemed descending 
 to absolve. He pressed her hand to his heart, 
 and knelt before her, without uttering a pro- 
 mise, indeed, but with a glance of love which 
 left her all to hope. 
 
 " Let us form no plan for years to come," 
 said Corinne ; " the happiest hours of life are 
 those benevolently granted us by chance : it is 
 not here, in the midst of tombs, that we should 
 trust much to the future." " No," cried Nel- 
 vil ; " I believe in no future that can part us ; 
 four days of absence have but too well con- 
 vinced me that I now exist but for you." Co- 
 rinne made no reply, but religiously hoarded 
 these precious words in her heart ; she always 
 feared, in prolonging a conversation on the only 
 subject of her thoughts, lest Oswald should de- 
 clare his intentions before a longer habit of 
 being with her rendered separation impossi- 
 ble. She often designedly directed his atten- 
 tion to exterior objects, like the sultana in the 
 Arabian tales, who sought by a thousand va- 
 ried stories to captivate her beloved, and defer 
 his decision of her fate, till certain that her 
 charms must prove victorious. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 NOT far from the Appian Way is seen the 
 Columbarium, where slaves are buried with 
 their lords ; where the same tomb contains all 
 who dwelt beneath the protection of the same 
 master or mistress. The women devoted to 
 the care of Livia's beauty, who contended 
 with time for the preservation of her charms, 
 are placed in small urns beside her. The no- 
 ble and ignoble there repose in equal silence. 
 At a little distance is the field wherein ves- 
 tals, unfaithful to their vows, were interred 
 alive ; a single example of fanaticism in a re- 
 ligion naturally so tolerant. 
 
 " I shall not take you to the catacombs," 
 said Corinne, " though, by a strange chance, 
 they lie beneath the Appian Way, tombs upon 
 tombs ! But that asylum of persecuted Chris- 
 tians 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 enthusiasm, could support that 
 
 subterranean hie for ever 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 luirmony in 
 that of the universe : in the habitual order of 
 fate, violent exceptions may astonish, but they 
 create too much terror to be of service. Let 
 us rather seek the pyramid of Cestius, around 
 which all Protestants who die here find chari- 
 table graves." " Yes," returned Oswald, 
 " many a countryman of mine is amongst them. 
 Let us go there : in one sense at least, per- 
 haps, 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 Roman sports. 
 His name is not found in history, but rendered 
 famous by his tornb. The massive pyramid 
 that enclosed him preserves his death from the 
 oblivion which has utterly effaced his life. Au- 
 relian, fearing that^his pyramid would be used 
 but as a fortress from whence to attack the 
 city, had it surrounded by walls which still 
 exist, not as useless ruins, but as the actual 
 boundaries of modern Rome. It is said that 
 pyramids were formed in imitation of the 
 flames that rose from funeral pyres. Cer- 
 tainly their mysterious shape attracts the eye, 
 and gives a picturesque character to all the 
 views of which they constitute a part. 
 
 In front of this pyramid is Mount Testacio, 
 beneath which are several cool grottoes, where 
 fetes are held in the summer. If, at a dis- 
 tance, the revellers see pines and cypresses 
 shading their smiling land, and recalling a 
 solemn consciousness of death, this contrast 
 produces the same effect with the lines which 
 Horace has written in the midst of verses 
 teeming with earthly enjoyment : 7 
 
 " Moriture Belli, 
 
 Linquenda tellus, et domus, et placena 
 Uxor." 
 
 ' Dellius, remember thou must die leaving the 
 world, thy home, and gentle wife.' The an- 
 cients acknowledged this in their very volup- 
 tuousness : even love and festivity reminded 
 them of it, and joy seemed heightened 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 prophetic, the tutelar divinity of 
 Rome. (13) It may now be said to flow 
 among phantoms, so livid is its hue so deep 
 its loneliness. The finest statues and olher 
 works of art were thrown into the Tiber, and
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 39 
 
 are hidden beneath its tides. Who knows but 
 that in search of them, the river ,may at last 
 be driven from its bed ? But, while we muse 
 on efforts of human genius that lie, perhaps, 
 beneath us, and that some eye, more piercing 
 than our own, may vet see through these waves, 
 we feel that awe which, in Rome, is constant- 
 ly reviving in various forms, and giving the 
 mind companions in those physical objects 
 which are elsewhere dumb. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 RAPHAEL said that modern Rome was al- 
 most entirely built from the ruins of the an- 
 cient city ; Pliny had talked of the " eternal 
 rt-alls," which are still seen amid the works 
 of latter times. Nearly all the buildings bear 
 the stamp of history, teaching you to compare 
 the physiognomies of different ages. From 
 the days of Etruscans (a people senior to the 
 Romans themselves, resembling the Egyptians 
 in the solidity and eccentricity of their designs) 
 down to th>time of Bernini, an artist as guilty 
 of mannerism as were the Italian poets of the 
 seventeenth century, one may trace the pro- 
 gress of the human rnind, in the characters of 
 the arts, the buildings, and ruins. The middle 
 ages and the brilliant day of the de Medici, 
 re-appearing in their works, it is but to study 
 the past in the present to penetrate the se- 
 crets of all time. It is believed that Rome 
 had formerly a mystic name, known but to 
 few. The city has still spells, into which we 
 require initiation. It is not simply an assem- 
 blage of dwellings ; it is a chronicle of the 
 worM, represented by figurative emblems. 
 Corinne agreed with Nelvil, ' that they would 
 now explore modern Rome, reserving for an- 
 other opportunity its admirable collection of 
 pictures and of statues. Perhaps, without 
 confessing it to herself, she wished 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 depart, was everything to her. Where 
 is the pride, some may ask, who would retain 
 those they love by an)' other motive than that 
 of affection 1 I know not, but the more we 
 love, the less we rely on our own power ; and, 
 whatever be the cause which secures us the 
 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 generally admired as Corinne, have one real 
 advantage, it is the right to exult rather in 
 what they feel than in what they inspire. 
 
 Corinne and Nelvil recommenced their ex- 
 cursions, by visiting the most remarkable 
 among the numerous churches of Rome. 
 They are all adorned with magnificent anti- 
 quities ; but these festal ornaments, torn from 
 Pagan temples, have here a strange, sombre 
 effect. Granite and porphyry pillars were 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 columns, that many 
 of them are covered with cement, to form 
 pilasters ; thus indifferent has this profusion 
 of riches rendered its possessors. Some of 
 these pillars belonged to the tomb of Adrian, 
 others to the Capitol ; some still bear on their 
 capital^ the forms of the geese which pre- 
 served the Romans ; others have Gothic and 
 even Arabesque embellishments. The urn of 
 Agrippa 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. 
 Near 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 Caesar, mounted those which led to 
 the temple of Jupiter Capitolinus. Beside 
 St. John's is the font where Constantine is 
 supposed to have been baptized. In the cen- 
 tre of this ground is an obelisk, perhaps the 
 most ancient work of art in the world co- 
 temporary with the Trojan war ; so respected, 
 even by the barbarous Cambyses, that he put 
 a stop to the conflagration 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 its course, that it might 
 be found and carried to the sea. This obelisk 
 is still covered with hieroglyphics, which have 
 kept their secret for centuries, and defy the 
 sages of to-day to decypher them. These 
 signs might reveal the annals of India and of 
 Egypt the antiquities of antiquity ! The 
 wondrous charm of Rome consists not only in 
 the real beauty of her monuments, but in the 
 interest they excite ; the materials for think- 
 ing they suggest ; a charm which grows every- 
 day the stronger from each new study. 
 
 One of the most singular churches in Rome 
 is St. Paul's : its exterior is that of an ill-built 
 barn ; yet it is bedecked within by eighty 
 pillars of such exquisite material and propor- 
 tion, that they are believed to have been 
 transported from an Athenian temple, described 
 by Pausanias. If Cicero said, in his day, 
 " we are surrounded by vestiges of history,"
 
 40 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY- 
 
 what would he say now 1 Columns, statues, 
 and pictures are so prodigally crowded in the 
 churches of modern Rome, that, in St. Agnes', 
 bas-reliefs, turned face downwards, s.erve to 
 pave a staircase, no one troubling himself to 
 ascertain what they might represent. How- 
 astonishing a spectacle were ancient Rome, 
 had its treasures been left where they were 
 found ! The immortal cily, nearly as if, was 
 of yore, were still before us ; but could the 
 men of our days dare to enter it 1 The pala- 
 ces of the Roman lords are vast in the ex- 
 treme, and often display much architectural 
 grace ; but their interiors are rarely arranged 
 in good taste. They have none of those ele- 
 gant apartments invented elsewhere for the 
 perfect enjoyment of social life. Superb 
 galleries, hung with the chefs-foeuvres 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 they to 
 the austere virtues of the Roman republic. 
 The country-houses give one a still greater 
 idea of solitude, and of their owners' indiffe- 
 rence amid the loveliest scenes of nature. 
 One walks through immense gardens, doubt- 
 ing 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 mode 
 that once reigned in France. Strange in- 
 consistency ! this neglect in essentials, and 
 affectation in what is useless! Most Italian 
 towns, indeed, surprise us with this mania, in 
 a people who have constantly before 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 among themselves, they dread not 
 that spirit of ridicule, which, in truth, seldom 
 penetrates the interior of Roman abodes. 
 Contrasting this with what they appear from 
 without, one might say that they were rather 
 built to dazzle the passer-by than for the 
 reception of friends. 
 
 After having shown Oswald the churches 
 and the palaces, Corinne led him to the Villa 
 Mellini, whose lonely garden is ornamented 
 solely by majestic trees. From thence is 
 seen afar the chain of the Apennines, tinted 
 by the transparent air against which their 
 outlines are defined most picturesquely. Os- 
 wald and Corinne remained for some time, to 
 taste the charms of heaven and the tranquillity 
 of nature. No one who has not dwelt in 
 southern climes can form an idea of this stir- 
 less silence, unbroken by the lightest zephyr. 
 The tenderest blades of herbage remained 
 perfectly motionless ; even the animals par- 
 
 take this noontide lassitude. You hear no j 
 hum of insects, no chirp of grasshoppers, no 
 song of birds ; none are agitated, all sleep, till 
 storm or passion waken that vehement nature 
 which impetuously rushes from its profound 
 repose. The Roman garden 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 
 olher 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 Rome : they are in the Monks' Gardens : 
 one is on a height, and may be seen from 
 some distance. In returning towards the city, 
 this representative of Africa, this image of a 
 meridian more burning than that of Italy, 
 awakens a host of agreeable sensations. 
 
 "Do you not find," said Corinne, "that 
 nature here gives birth to reveries elsewhere 
 unknown 1 She is as intimate with the heart 
 of man as if the Creator made her the iuter- 
 pretess between his creatures and himself." 
 " I feel all this," replied Oswald ; " yet it may 
 be but your subduing influence which renders 
 me so susceptible. You reveal to me emo- 
 tions which exterior objects may create.:-," I 
 lived but in my heart ; you have awakened 
 my imagination. But the magic of the uni- 
 verse, which you teach me to appreciate, will 
 never offer me aught lovelier than your looks, 
 more touching than your voice." " May the 
 feeling I 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." 
 They finished their tour by the Villa Borghese. 
 In no Roman palace or garden are the splen- 
 dors of nature and art collected so tastefully. 
 Every kind of tree, superb waterfalls, with an 
 incredible blending of statues, vases, and sar- 
 cophagi, here re-animale the mythology of the 
 land. Naiads recline beside the streams ; 
 nymphs start from thickets worthy of such 
 guests. Tombs repose beneath Elysian 
 shades ; JEsculapius stands in the centre ot 
 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 for ever new. 
 Through its trees may be descried the city, 
 St. Peter's, the Campagna, and those long 
 arcades, ruins of aqueducts, which formerly 
 conducted many a mountain stream into old 
 Rome. There is everything that can 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 summer. This enemy,
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 41 
 
 each year, besieges Rome more and more 
 closely its most charming abodes are de- 
 serted perforce. Doubtless the want of trees 
 is one cause; and therefore, perhaps, 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 j 
 that avarice will forbear its devastation 1 1 
 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 bounda- 
 ries. Its malignant power is betrayed by no 
 : external sign ; you respire an air that seems 
 
 pure ; the earth is fertile ; a delicious fresh- 
 ness atones in the evening for the heat of the 
 day ; and all this is death ! 
 
 " I love such invisible danger." said Os- 
 wald, " veiled as it is in delight. If death, as 
 I believe, be but a call to a happier life, why 
 should not the perfume of flowers, the shade j 
 of fine trees, and the breath of eve, be charged j 
 to tell us of^our fate ? Of course, government j 
 ought, in every way, to watch over human I 
 life ; but nature has secrets which imagination j 
 only can penetrate ; and I easily conceive that 
 neither natives nor foreigners find anything to 
 disgust them in the perils which belong to the j 
 sweetest seasons of the year." 
 
 BOOK VI. 
 
 ON ITALIAN* CHARACTER AND MANNERS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OSWALD'S irresolution, augmented by mis- 
 fortunes, taught him to fear every irrevocable 
 
 engagement. 
 
 He dared not ask Corinne her 
 
 name or story, though his love for her grew 
 every day more strong : he could not look on 
 her without emotion ; hardlv, in the midst of 
 
 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 ren- 
 dezvous of Europeans. When Nelvil learnt 
 that Corinne was going to a ball, he was out 
 of humor ; for some time he had fancied that 
 he detected in her a 
 
 melancholy sympatl 
 ddenly all her thou 
 
 hetic 
 
 society, quit her side for an instant ; she said I with his own ; yet suddenly all her thoughts 
 not a word he did not feel, nor expressed a j seemed occupied with the dance (in which she 
 sentiment, sad or gay, that was not reflected j so much excelled), and the eclat of a fete. 
 
 Corinne was not frivolous ; but feeling every 
 day more subdued by love, she wished to com- 
 bat its force. She knew by experience that 
 reflection and forbearance have less power 
 over impassioned characters than engagements 
 which dissipate thought ; and she thought 
 that, if unable to triumph over herself as she 
 ought, the next best step were to do so as she 
 could. When Nelvil censured her intentions, 
 she replied, " I want to ascertain whether 
 what formerly pleased can still amuse me, or 
 whether my regard for you is to absorb every 
 other interest of mv life." "You would fain 
 
 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 
 herself to whatever could prevent a decisive 
 explanation ; and never possessing much 
 consideration, revelled in the present, such as 
 it was, not dreaming of the inevitable future. 
 She entkely secluded herself from the world 
 in this devotion to hjm ; but, at last, hurt by 
 his silence on their prospects, she resolved to 
 accept a pressing invitation to a ball. No- 
 thing is more common, in Rome, than persons 
 tc _e*ive and return to society by fits : there 
 
 cease to love me," he said. " Not so," she 
 replied ; "but it is only in domestic life that it 
 can be agreeable to feel one's self under the 
 dominion of a single affection. To me, who 
 need my wit and genius to sustain the reputa- 
 tion of the life I have adopted, it is a great
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 misfortune to love as I love you." " You will 
 not sacrifice your glory to me, then ]" cried 
 Oswald. " Of what importance were it to 
 you," she replied, " if I did 1 Since we are 
 'not destined for each other, I must not for 
 ever destroy the kind of happiness with which 
 I ought to content myself." Lord Nelvil said 
 nothing ; conscious that he coujd not now 
 speak without explaining his purposes ; and, 
 in truth, he was ignorant of them himself. 
 He sighed, and reluctantly followed Corinne 
 to the ball. It was the first time, since his 
 loss, that he had gone to such an assembly. 
 Its tumult so oppressed him that he remained 
 for some period in a hall beside the dancing- 
 room, with his head reclined upon his hand ; 
 not even wishing to see Corinne dance. All 
 music, even if its occasion be a gay one, ren- 
 .ders us pensive. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, 
 enchanted with the crowd and amusements, 
 which once more reminded him of France. 
 " I've done my best," he said, " to interest 
 myself in their vaunted ruins, but I see no- 
 thing in them ; 'tis a mere prejudice, this fuss 
 about rubbish covered with briars ! I shall 
 speak my mind when I return to France ; for 
 it is high time that the farce should be ended. 
 There is not a single building of to-dav, in 
 good repair, that is not worth all these trunks 
 of pillars, and mouldy bas-reliefs, which can 
 only be admired through the spectacles of pe- 
 dantry. A rapture which one must purchase 
 by study cannot be very vivid in itself. One 
 needs not spoil one's complexion over musty 
 books, to appreciate the sights of Paris." 
 
 Lord Nelvil was silent, and d'Erfeuil ques- 
 tioned him on his opinion of Rome. " A ball 
 is not the best place for serious conversation," 
 said Oswald ; " and you know that I can afford 
 you no other." " Well, well," replied the 
 Count, " I own I am gayer than you ; but who 
 can say that I am not wiser too ? Trust me, 
 there is much philosophy in taking the world 
 as it goes." " Perhaps you are right," an- 
 swered Oswald ; " but as you are what you 
 are by nature, and not by refaction, your 
 manner of living can belong to no one but 
 yourself." 
 
 D'Erfeuil now heard the name of Corinne 
 from the ball-room, and went to learn what 
 was doing there. Nelvil followed him to the 
 door, and saw the handsome Neapolitan Prince 
 Amalfi soliciting her to dance the Tarantula 
 with him. All her friends joined in this re- 
 quest. She waited for no importunity, but 
 promised with a readiness which astonished 
 D'Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refu- 
 sals with which it is the fashion to precede 
 consent. In Italy these airs are unknown : 
 there, every one is simple enough to believe 
 that he cannot better please society than by 
 
 promptly fulfilling whatever it requires. Co- 
 rinne would have- introduced this natural man- 
 ner, if she had not found it there. The dress 
 she had assumed was light and elegant. Her 
 locks were confined by a silken fillet, and her 
 eyes expressed an animation which rendered 
 her more attractive than ever. Oswald was 
 uneasy ; displeased with his own subjection 
 to charms whose existence he was inclined to j 
 deplore, as, far from wishing to gratify him, | 
 it was almost in order to escape from his 
 power that Corinne shone forth thus enchant- 
 ingly : yet, who can resist the seductions of 
 grace 1 Even in scorn she would have been 
 still triumphant ; bdt scorn was not in her 
 disposition. She perceived her lover ; and j 
 blushed, as she 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 tam- 
 borine, which her partner presented to her, 
 and she beat time as he danced. Her gestures 
 displayed that easy union of modesty and vo- 
 luptuousness, which gave an idea of the power 
 exercised over the imagination of the Indians 
 by the Bayaderes poets of the dance when I 
 they depict the various passions by character- j 
 istic attitudes. Corinne was so well ac- I 
 quainted with antique painting and sculpture, 
 that her positions were so many studies for 
 the votaries of art. Now she held her tam- 
 borine above her head ; sometimes advanced 
 it with one hand, while the other ran over its 
 little bells with a dexterous rapidity that j. 
 brought to mind the girls of Herculaneum.(14) j 
 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. Corinne as 
 thoroughly infected the spectators with her 
 own sensations as she did while extemporizing 
 poetry, playing on her lyre, or designing an 
 expressive group. Everything was language 
 for her. The musicians, in gazing on her, ( 
 felt all the genius of their art ; and every j 
 witness of this magic was electrified by im- 
 passioned joy, transported into an ideal world, 
 there to dream of bliss unknown below. 
 
 There is a part of the Neapolitan dance 
 where the heroine kneels, while her partner 
 marches round her, like a conqueror 1 . How 
 dignified looked Corinne at that moment ! 
 What a sovereign she was on her knees ! and 
 when she rose, clashing her airy tamborine, 
 she appeared animated by such enthusiasm of 
 youthful beauty, that one might have thought 
 she needed no" life but her own to make her 
 happy. Alas, it was not thus ! though Oswald 
 feared it, and sighed, as if her every success J
 
 CORJ.NNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 43 
 
 separated her further 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 skim- 
 ming the floor with the speed of lightning ; 
 and when, shaking her tamborine above his 
 head with one hand, she signed with the other 
 lor him to rise, every man present was tempted 
 to prostrate himself before her, except Lord 
 Nelvil, who drew back some paces, and d'- 
 Erfeuil, who made a step or two forwards, in 
 order to compliment Corinne. The Italians 
 gave way to what they felt, without one fear 
 of making themselves remarked. They were 
 not like men so accustomed to society, and 
 the self-love which it excites, as to think on 
 the effect they might produce : they are never 
 to be turned from their pleasures by vanity, 
 nor from their purposes by applause. 
 
 Corinne, charmed with the result of her 
 attempt, thanked her friends with amiable 
 simplicity. She was satisfied, and permitted 
 her content to be seen, with childlike candor ; 
 her greatest desire was to get through the 
 crowd to the door, against which Oswald was 
 leaning. She reached it at last, and paused 
 for him to speak. " Corinne," he said, en- 
 deavoring to conceal both his delight and his 
 distress, ''you have extorted universal ho- 
 mage ; but is there, among all your adorers, 
 one brave, one trusty friend ; one protector 
 for life ? or can the clamors of flattery suffice 
 a soul like yours V 
 
 CHAPTER H. 
 
 THE press of the company prevented Co- 
 rinne's reply : they were going to supper ; and 
 each cavaliere servenle hastened to seat him- 
 self beside his lady. A fair stranger arrived 
 and found not room ; yet not a man, save Os- 
 wald and d'Erfeuil, rose to offer her his place. 
 j i Not that the Romans were either rude or sel- 
 fish ; but they believed that their honor de- 
 pended on their never quitting their post of 
 duty. Some, unable to gain seats, leaned be- 
 hind their mistresses' chairs, ready to obey 
 the slightest sign. The females spoke but 
 to ineir lovers: strangers wandered in vain 
 around a circle where no one had a word to 
 spare them ; for Italian women are ignorant 
 of that coquetry which renders a love affair 
 nothing more than the triumph of self-con- 
 ceit : they wish to please no eyes save those 
 that are dear to them. The mind is never en- 
 gaged before the heart. The most abrupt 
 
 commencements are often followed by sincere 
 devotion, and even by lasting constancy. In- 
 fidelity is more censured in man than in wo- 
 man. Three or four men, beneath different 
 titles, may follow the same beauty, who takes 
 them with her everywhere, sometimes with- 
 out troubling herself to name them to the mas- 
 ter of the house which receives the party. 
 One is the favorite ; another aspires to be so ; 
 a third calls himself the sufferer (il patito) : 
 though disdained, he is permitted to be of use ; 
 and all these rivals live peaceably together. 
 It is only among the common people that you 
 still hear of the stiletto ; but the whole coun- 
 try presents a wild mixture of simplicity and 
 of vice, dissimulation and truth, good-nature 
 and revenge, strength and weakness : justify- 
 ing the remark, that the best of these quali- 
 ties may be found among those who will do 
 nothing for vanity ; the worst, among such as 
 will do anything for interest, whether the in- 
 terest of love, of avarice, or ambition. 
 
 Distinctions of rank are generally disre- 
 garded in Italy. It is not from philosophy, 
 but from facility of character and familiarity 
 of mannersj that men are here insensible to 
 aristocratic prejudices : constituting them- 
 selves judges of no one, they admit every, 
 body. 
 
 After supper all sit 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 thus 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 : indeed, 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 creature all prudence to-day may 
 be all audacity to-morrow. They are often 
 apathetic, but it is perhaps from just having 
 made, or preparing to make, some great exer- 
 tion. 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 enor- 
 mous sums, without the slightest change of 
 countenance ; yet the same beings could not 
 have related a trivial anecdote without the 
 most lively and expressive gesticulation. But 
 when the passions have attained a certain de- 
 gree of violence, they shrink from sight, and 
 veil themselves in silence. 
 
 Nelvil could not surmount the bitter feelings 
 which this ball engendered : he believed that 
 the Italians had weaned his love from him, at 
 least for a time. He was very wretched ; yet 
 his pride prevented his evincing aught beyond 
 a contempt for the tributes offered her. When
 
 44 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 asked to play he refused, as did Corinne, who 
 beckoned him to sit beside her. He feared to 
 compromise her name by passing a whole 
 evening alone with her before the eyes of the 
 world. '' Be at ease on that head," she re- 
 plied : " no one thinks about us. Here no 
 established etiquette exacts respect ; a kindly 
 politeness is all that is required ; no one wish- 
 es to annov or be annoyed. 'Tis true we have 
 not here what in England is called liberty ; 
 but our social independence is perfect." 
 " That is," said Oswald, *' that no reverence 
 is paid to appearances." " At least, here is 
 no hypocrisy," she answered " Rochefou- 
 cault says, ' The least among the defects of a 
 woman of gallantry is that of being one ;' but 
 whatever be the faults of Italian women, de- 
 ceit does not conceal them ; and if marriage 
 vows are not held sufficiently sacred, they are 
 broken by mutual consent." " It is not sin- 
 cerity that causes this kind of frankness," re- 
 plied Oswald, " but indifference to public 
 opinion. I brought hither an introduction to 
 a princess, and gave it to thfe servant I had 
 hired here, who said to me, ' Ah, Sir, just now, 
 this will do you no service, the princess sees 
 no one ; she is innamorata.'' Thus was the 
 fact of a lady's being in love proclaimed like 
 any other domestic affair. Nor is this publi- 
 j city excused by fidelity to one passion : many 
 ' attachments succeed each other, all equally 
 well known. Women have so little mystery 
 in these ties, that they speak of them with 
 less embarrassment than our brides could t;ilk 
 of their husbands. It is not easy to believe 
 that any deep or refined affection can exist 
 with this shameless fickleness. Though noth- 
 ing is thought of but love, here can be no ro- 
 mance : adventures are so rapid, and so open, 
 that nothing is left to be developed ; and, just- 
 ly to describe the general taethod of arranging 
 these things, one ought to begin and end in the 
 first chapter. Corinne, pardon me if I give 
 you puin. You are an Italian ; that should dis- 
 arm me : but one reason why you are thus in- 
 comparable is, that you unite thebest charac- 
 teristics of our different nations. I know not 
 where you were educated, but you certainly 
 cannot "have passed all your life here : perhaps 
 it was in England. Ah, if so, how could you 
 leave that sanctuary of all that is modest, for 
 a land where not only virtue, but love itself, is 
 so little understood. It may be breathed in 
 the air, but does it reach the heart 1 ? The 
 poetry, here, in which love plays so great a 
 part, is full of brilliant pictures, indeed ; but 
 where will you find the melancholy tender- 
 ness of our bards ? What have you to com- 
 pare with the parting of Jaffier and Belvidera. 
 with Romeo and Juliet, or with the lines in 
 Thomson's Spring, depicting the happiness 
 
 of wedded life ? Js there "any such life in 
 Italy? and, without homefelt felicity, how can 
 love exist ' Is not happiness the aim "of the 
 heart, as pleasure is that of the senses 1 
 Would not all young and lovely women be 
 alike to us, did not mental qualities decide our 
 preference ? Whal, then, do these qualities 
 teach us to crave ! an intercourse of thought 
 and feeling, permanent and undivided ! This 
 is what we mean by marriage. Illegitimate 
 loi e, when, unhappily, it does occur among 
 us, is still but the reflex of marriage. The 
 same comfort is sought abroad which cannot 
 be found at home ; and even infidelity in Eng- 
 land is more moral than Italian matrimony." 
 
 This severity so afflicted Corinne that she 
 rose, her eyes filled with t^ars, and hurried 
 home. Oswald was in despair at having of- 
 fended her ; but the irritation this ball had 
 dealt him found a channel in the censure be 
 had just pronounced. He followed her, but 
 she would not see him. Next morning he 
 made another attempt ; but her door was still 
 closed. This was out of character in Co- 
 rinne ; but she was so dismayed by his opi- 
 nion of her countrywomen, that she was re- 
 solved, if possible, to conceal her affection 
 from him for ever. Oswald, on his PF rt, was 
 confirmed by this unusual conduct in the dis- 
 content this unlucky fete had engendered ; he 
 was excited to struggle against the sentiment 
 whose empire he dreaded. His principles 
 were strict, and the mystery which enveloped 
 the past life of her he loved caused him se- 
 vere pain. 
 
 Corinne's manners somewhat evinced a too 
 universal wish to please ; her conduct and car- 
 riage were noble and reserved ; but her opi- 
 nions were over-indulgent. In fact, though 
 dazzled and enervated, something still com- 
 bated his weakness. Such a state often em- 
 bitters our language ; we are displeased with 
 ourselves and others : we suffer so much, that 
 we long to brave the worst at once, and, by 
 open war, ascertain which of our two formi- 
 dable emotions is to triumph. It was in 'this 
 mood that he wrote to Corinne. He knew his 
 letter was angry and unbecoming ; yet aeon- 
 fusion of impulses urged him to send it. He 
 was so miserable in his present situation, that 
 he longed, at any price, for some change ; and 
 was reckless how his doubts were answered, 
 so that they came to a termination. A rumor, 
 brought him by Count oVErfeuil, though he be- 
 lieved it not, contributed, perhaps, to vender 
 his style still more unkind. It was said that 
 Corinne was about to marry Prino* Amalfi. 
 Oswald knew that she did not love this man, 
 and ought to have been sure that this report 
 sprung merely from her having danced with 
 him ; but he persuaded himself that she had
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 4S 
 
 received Amain when denied to him : there- 
 fore, though too proud to confess his persona 
 jealousy, he vented it on the people in whose 
 favor he knew her to be so prepossessed. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " TO CORINNE. 
 
 "January 24, 1795. 
 
 " You refuse to see me : you are offended 
 by my last conversation, and no douht intend 
 henceforth to admit none but your country- 
 men, and thus expiate your recent deviation 
 from that rule. Yet, fa'r from repenting the 
 sincerity with which I spoke to you, whom, 
 perhaps, chimerically, I would fain consider 
 an Englishwoman, I will dare to say still more 
 plainly, that you can preserve neither your 
 own dignity nor your own peace, by choosing 
 a husband from your present society. I know 
 not one Italian who deserves you ; not one 
 who could honor you by his alliance, what- 
 ever were the title he had to bestow The 
 men are far less estimable here than the 
 women, to whose errors they add worse of 
 their own. Would you persuade me that 
 these sons of the South, who so carefully 
 avoid all trouble, and live but for enjoyment, 
 can be capable of love ? Did you not, last 
 month, see at the Opera a man who had not 
 eight days before lost a wife he was said to 
 adore ? The memory of the dead, the thought 
 of death itself, is here, as much as possible, 
 thrown aside. Funeral ceremonies are per- 
 formed by the priests, as the duties of iove 
 led by cavalieres serventcs. 
 
 are fulfille 
 
 has prescribed all rite 
 
 Custom 
 beforehand : regret 
 
 and enthusiasm are nothing. But what, above 
 all, must be destructive to love, is the fact, 
 that your men cannot be respected : women 
 give them no credit for submission, because 
 
 tary glory nor free institutions, how should 
 men acquire strength or majesty of mind ? 
 Their wit degenerates into a kind of clever- 
 ness, with which they play the game of life 
 like a match of chess, wherein success is 
 everything-. All that remains of their love 
 for antiquity, consists in exaggerated expres- 
 sions and external grandeur ; but, beside this 
 baseless greatness, you often find the most 
 vulgar tastes, the most miserably neglected 
 homes. Is this, then, Corinne, the country 
 you prefer? Is its boisterous applause so es- 
 sential to you, that every other kind of destiny 
 would seem dull, compared with those re- 
 echoing bravoes ? Who could hope to make 
 you happy, in tearing you from this tumult T 
 you are an incomprehensible person : deep in 
 feeling, light in taste ; independent by . pride 
 of soul, enslaved by a desire for dissipation ; 
 capable of loving but one, yet requiring the 
 notice of all the world. You are a sorceress, 
 who alternately disturb and reassure me ; who, 
 when most sublime, can at once descend from 
 the s region where you reign alone, to lose your- i I 
 self among the herd. Corinne, Corinne ! in j ! 
 loving you, it is impossible to avoid fearing and 
 doubting too. " OswALp." 
 
 Indignant as Corinne felt at Nelvil's an- 
 tipathy to her country, she was glad to per- 
 ceive that the fete and her refusal to receive 
 him, had touched him. She hesitated, or 
 believed herself hesitating, for some time, as 
 to the line of conduct she ought to pursue. 
 Love made her sigh for his presence : yet 
 she could not brook his supposing that she 
 wished to be his wife; though in fortune, at 
 least, his equal, and no way beneath him in 
 name, if she deigned to reveal it. The un- 
 controlled life she had chosen might have 
 given her some aversion to marriage ; and 
 certainly she would have rejected the idea, 1 
 had not her attachment blinded her to all the 
 pangs she must endure in espousing an Eng- 
 lishman, and renouncing Italy. A woman 
 may forget her pride in all that concerns the 
 heart : but when worldly interest appears the 
 
 they found them originally weak, and destitute | obstacle to inclination ; when the person be 
 of all serious employment. It is requisite, for | loved can be accused of sacrificing himself 
 
 in his union, she can no longer abandon her- 
 
 the perfection of natural and social order, thit 
 men should protect, and women be protected ; 
 but by guardians adoring the weakness they 
 defend, and worshipping the gentle divinity 
 which, like the Penates of the ancients, calls 
 down good fortune on the house. 'Here one 
 might almost say that woman is the sultan, 
 and men her seraglio : it is they who have 
 most pliancy and softness. An Italian pro- 
 verb says, ' Who knows not how to feign, 
 knows not how to live.' Is not that a femin- 
 ine maxim ? but where you have neither mili- 
 
 self to her feelings before him. Corinne. 
 however, unable to break with her lover, 1 
 trusted that she still might meet him, yet i 
 conceal her affection. It was in this belief ! 
 that she determined on replying only to his 
 accusations of the Italians, and reasoning on 
 them as if interested in no other subject, j 
 Perhaps the best way in which such a woman 
 can regain her coldness and her dignity, is 
 that of entrenching herself in the fortress of 
 her mental superiority.
 
 46 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 " TO LORD NELVIL. 
 
 " January 25, 1795. 
 
 " IF your letter concerned no one but me, 
 my Lord, I should not attempt to justify my- 
 self. My character is so easily known, that 
 he who cannot comprehend it intuitively, 
 would not be enlightened by any explanation 
 I could give. The virtuous reserve of Eng- 
 lishwomen, and the more artful graces of 
 the French, often conceal one-half of what 
 passes in their bosoms : and what you are 
 pleased to call magic in me, is nothing but an 
 unconstrained disposition, which permits my 
 varying, my inconsistent, thoughts to be heard, 
 without my taking the pains of bringing them 
 into tune. Such harmony is nearly always 
 factitious ; for most genuine characters are 
 heedlessly confiding. But it is not of my- 
 self that I would speak to you ; it is of the 
 unfortunate nation whom you attack so cruelly. 
 Can my regard for my friends have instilled 
 this bitter malignity ? You know me too well 
 to be jealous of them ; nor have I the vanity 
 to suppose that any such sentiment has ren- 
 dered you thus unjust. You say but what all 
 foreigners say of the Italians, what must 
 strike every one at first ; but you should look 
 deeper ere you thus censure a people once so 
 great. Whence came it that in the Roman 
 d;iy they were the most military men in the 
 world ; during the republics of the middle 
 ages, the most tenacious of their freedom ; 
 and, in the sixteenth century, the most illus- 
 trious for literature, science, and the arts ? 
 Has not Italy pursued fame in every shape 1 
 If it be lost to her now, blame her political 
 situation ; since, in other circumstances, she 
 showed herself so unlike all she is. I may 
 be wrong, but the faults of the Italians only 
 enhance my pity for their fate. Strangers, 
 from time to time, have conquered and dis- 
 tracted this fair land, the object of their per- 
 petual ambition ; yet strangers for ever re- 
 proach her natives with the defects inevitable 
 to a vanquished race. 
 
 " Europe owes her learning, her accomplish- 
 ments, to the Italians ; and having turned 
 their own gifts against them, would gladly 
 deny them the only glory left to a people de- 
 prived of martial power and public liberty. 
 It is true that governments form the charac- 
 ters of nations ; and, in Italy herself, you 
 will find remarkable distinctions between the 
 inhabitants of different states. The Pied- 
 montese, who once formed a small national 
 corps, have a more warlike spirit than the 
 rest. The Florentines, who have mostly 
 possessed either freedom or liberal rulers, are 
 well-educated and well-mannered. The 
 Venetians and the Genoese evince a capacity 
 
 for politics, because they have a republican 
 aristocracy. The Milanese are more sincere, 
 thanks to their long intercourse with northern 
 nations. The Neapolitans, are prompt to re- 
 bel, having for ages lived beneath an imper- 
 fect government, but still one of their own. 
 The Roman nobles have nothing to do, either 
 diplomatic or military, and may well remain 
 idly ignorant ; but the ecclesiastics, whose 
 careers are definite, have faculties far more 
 developed ; and, as the papal law observes no 
 distinction of birth, but is purely elective in 
 its ordinance of the clergy, the result is, a 
 species of liberty, not in ideas, but in habits, 
 which renders Rome 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 climate induces a languor 
 favorable to resignation, and nature offers 
 enough to console man for the advantages 
 society denies. Undoubtedly there is much 
 corruption in Italy ; its civilisation is far 
 from refinement. There is a savage wildness 
 | beneath Italian cunning ; it is that of a hunter 
 lying in wait for his prey. Indolent people 
 easily become sly and shifting ; their natural 
 gentleness serves to hide even a fit of rage ; 
 for it is by our habitual manner that an acci- 
 dental change of feeling may be best con- 
 cealed. Yet Italians have both truth and 
 constancy in their private connections. In- 
 terest may sway them, but not pride. Here 
 is no ceremony, no fashion ; none of the little 
 every day tricks for creating a sensation. 
 The usual sources of artifice and of envy 
 exist not here. Foes and rivals are deceived j 
 by those who consider themselves at war j 
 with them ; but, while in peace. '-hey act with i 
 honesty and candor. This is Lie very cause j 
 of your complaint. Our women hear of no- I 
 thing but love ; they live in an atmosphere of ! 
 seduction and dangerous example ; yet their 
 frankness lends an innocence to gallantry it- 
 self. They "have no fear of ridicule : many 
 are so ignorant that' they cannot even write, 
 and confess it without scruple. They engage 
 a Paglletto to answer letters for them, which 
 he does on paper large enough for a petition. 
 But on the othor hand, among the educated, 
 you will find some who are professors in the 
 academies, giving public lectures 'in their |, 
 black scarfs ; and if you are inclined to laugh 
 at them, they ask you, ' Is there any harm in 
 understanding Greek, or living by your own 
 exertions ! How can you deride "so" simple a 
 proceeding ]' 
 
 " Dare I, my Lord, touch on a more delicate 
 subject ] the reason why our men so seldom 
 display a military spirit. They readily ex-
 
 JT 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 47 
 
 I po?e their lives for love or hate : in such 
 ! causes, the wounds given and received neither 
 astonish nor alarm their witnesses. Fearless 
 ! of death, when natural passions command 
 them to defy it, they still, I must confess, 
 i value life above the political interests which 
 I slightly affect those who can scarcely be 
 | said to have a country. Chivalrous honor 
 j has little influence over a people among 
 j whom the opinions that nourish it are dead ; 
 I naturally enough, in such a disorganization of 
 I public affairs, women gain a great ascenden- 
 j cy ; perhaps too much so for them te respect 
 i or admire their lovers, who, nevertheless, 
 j treat them with the most delicate devotion. 
 | Domestic virtue constitutes the welfare and 
 | the pride of Englishwomen ; but in no land, 
 i where love dispenses with its sacred bonds, is 
 the happiness of women watched over as in 
 j Italy. If our men cannot make a moral code 
 i for immorality, they are at least just and gen-. 
 i erous in their participation of cares and du- 
 I ties. They consider themselves more culpa- 
 : ble than their mistresses when they break 
 ; their chains : they know that women make 
 ! the heaviest sacrifice ; and believe that, be- 
 | fore the tribunal of the heart, the greatest 
 criminals are those who have done most 
 wrong. Men err from selfishness ; women 
 because they are weak. Where society is at 
 once rigorous and corrupt, that is, most mer- 
 i ciless to the faults that are followed by the 
 i worst misfortunes, women of course are used 
 j| with more severity ; but where so little social 
 ; ; organization exists as with us, natural charity 
 I has a greater power. Spite of all that has 
 | been said of Italian perfidy, I will assert, that 
 ! there is as much real good nature here as in 
 j any other country of tfye world ; and that, 
 i slandered as it is by strangers, they will no- 
 where meet with a kinder reception. Italians 
 I are reproached as flatterers ; it is with no 
 ! premeditated plan, bat in mere eagerness to 
 i please, that they lavish expressions of affec- 
 tion, not often belied by their conduct. Would 
 they be ever-faithful friends, if called on to 
 prove so in danger or adversity 1 A very 
 small number, I allow, might be capable of 
 such friendship ; but it is not to Italy alone 
 that this observation is applicable. 
 
 " The Italians have an indolence almost Ori- 
 ental, in their habits of life ; but there are 
 no men more active and persevering when 
 once their passions are excited. The women, 
 too, whom you see as indolent as the Oda- 
 lisques of the seraglio, are capable upon oc- 
 casion of the most energetic efforts. There 
 are great mysteries in the character and 
 spirit of the Italians ; you meet in turn un- 
 looked-for traits of generosity and friendship, 
 and dark and fearful proofs of hatred and 
 
 vengeance. You do not see here a restless 
 emulation about nothing. Life is, to them, a 
 dreamy sleep under a cloudless sky ; but give 
 to these men an object, and in six months you 
 will find that they will learn everything and 
 comprehend everything necessary to its ac- 
 complishment. So with the women ; Why 
 should they instruct themselves when but few 
 of the other sex could understand them? 
 They would isolate their hearts in cultivating 
 their minds. But those very women would 
 soon become worthy of a superior man, should 
 such a man ever become the object of their 
 attachment. There is a general repose here : 
 but in a country where all great interests are 
 suppressed, repose and indifference are more 
 noble than a vain agitation about trifles. 
 
 " Literature itself must languish where 
 thoughts are not renewed by vigorous and va- 
 ried action. Yet in what land have arts and 
 letters been more worshipped ? History 
 shows us, that the popes, princes, and people 
 have at all times done homage to distinguish- 
 ed painters, sculptors, poets, and other writ- 
 ers. (15) This enthusiasm was, I own, my 
 Lord, one of the first motives which attached 
 me to this country. I did not find here those 
 sacred imaginations, that discouraging spirit, 
 nor that despotic mediocrity, which, else- 
 where, can so soon gall and stifle innate 
 ability. Here a felicitous phrase takes fire, 
 as it were, among its auditors. As genius is 
 the gift which ranks highest amongst us, it 
 inevitably excites much envy. Pergolesi 
 was assassinated for his Stabat : Giorgione 
 wore a cuirass, when obliged to paint in any 
 public place ; but the violent jealousy to 
 which talent gives birth here, is such as in 
 other realms is created by power ; it seeks 
 not to degrade its object ; it can hate, pro- 
 scribe, kill, yet always mingled with the 
 fanaticism of admiration, it excites genius 
 even while it persecutes it. Finally, when 
 we see so much life in a circle so contracted, 
 in the midst of so many obstacles and op- 
 pressions, we can hardly forbear from a vivid 
 solicitude for those who respire with such 
 avidity the little air that imagination breathes 
 through the boundaries which confine them. 
 These are so limited, that the Italians of our 
 day rarely acquire the pride and firmness, 
 which mark the character of freer and more 
 military nations. I will even confess, if you 
 desire it, my Lord, that such a character 
 must inspire a woman with more enthusiasm ; 
 but is it not possible that a man may be brave, 
 honorable, nay, unite all the attributes which 
 can teach us to love, without possessing those 
 that might promise us content 1 
 
 " CORINNE."
 
 48 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THIS letter of Corinne revived all Oswald's 
 remorse at having even thought of dot- 
 himself from her. The intellectual dignity 
 and mildness of its reproof affected him deep- 
 ly. A superiority so vast, so real, yet so 
 simple, appeared to him above all ordinary 
 rules. He was sensible that this was not the 
 tender creature, timid and yielding in every- 
 thing but her principles and her duties, which 
 his fancy had chosen for the partner oi' his 
 life : all he remembered of Lucy Edgarraond, 
 at twelve years of age, better accorded with 
 that ideal. But who could he compared with 
 Corinne "? She was a miracle formed by na- 
 ture, in his heUah', he dared believe ; since he 
 might flatter himself that he was dear to her. 
 But what was her name, what her history, 
 what would be his prospects if he declared his 
 inclination to make her his wife ? Such, he 
 thought, would be his decision ; yet the idea 
 that her past life might not have been entire- 
 ly irreproachable, and that such an union would 
 assuredly have been condemned by his father, 
 ' again overwhelmed him with painful anxiety. 
 I He was not so subdued by grief, as he had 
 | been ere he met Corinne; but he no Jonger 
 felt the calm which may accompany repent- 
 ance, 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 se- 
 crets of his heart. He was preparing to seek 
 Corinne, to thank her for her letter, and ob- 
 tain pardon for his own, when his apartment 
 was suddenly entered by Mr. Edgarmond, the 
 young Lucy's near relation. 
 
 This gentleman had lived chiefly on his es- 
 tate in Wales : he possessed just the princi- 
 ples and the prejudice.that serve to,keep things 
 as they are ; and this is' an advantage where 
 things are as well arranged as human reason 
 permits. In such a case, the partisans of es- 
 tablished order, even though stubbornly bigot- 
 ed to their own way of thinking, deserve to be 
 regarded as rational and enlightened men. 
 
 Lord Nelvil shuddered as this name was an- 
 nounced. All the past seemed to rise before 
 him in an instant; and his next idea was, that 
 Lady Edgarmond, the mother of Lucy, had 
 charged her kinsman with reproaches. This 
 thought restored his sslf-command ; he re- 
 ceived his countryman with excessive cold- 
 ness ; though not a single aim of Mr. Ed- 
 garmond's journey concerned our hero. He 
 was travelling for his health, exercising him- 
 self in the chase, and drinking ' ; Success to 
 King George and old England !' He was 
 one of the best men in the world, with more 
 wit and education than would have been sup- 
 
 posed ; ultra-English, even on points where it 
 would have ho en advisable to be less so ; keep- 
 ing up, in aii conn-tries, the habits of his own, 
 and avoiding their natives, not from contempt, 
 but a reluctance to speak in foreign tongues, 
 and a timidity which, at the age of fifty, ren- 
 dered him extremely shy of ntw acquaint- 
 ance. 
 
 '' 1 am delighted to see you," he said to 
 Nelvil. " I go to Naples in a fortnight : shall 
 I iiiiti you there 1 I wish I may ! having but 
 little tune to stay in Italy, as my regiment em- 
 :barks 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 Corinne might banish 
 even duty from his mind. " Your corps,'' 
 continued Mr. Edgarmond, " will leave yon 
 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 
 interested : she is a charming girl ! and, by 
 the time you return, next year. I don't doubt 
 that she will be the finest woman in England." 
 Nelvil was silent, and Mr. Edgarrnohd too. 
 For some time after this, they addressed each 
 other very laconically, though with kinJ po- 
 liteness, and the guest rose to depart ; but, 
 turning from the door, said, abruptly, " Apro- 
 pos, my Lord, you can do me a favor. I am 
 told that you know the celebrated Corinne : 
 and, though 1 generally shrink from foreign- 
 ers, I am really curious to see her." " I will 
 ask her permission to take you to her house, 
 then,'' replied Oswald. " Do, I beg : let me 
 see her some day when she extemporises, 
 dances, and sings." " Corinne," returned 
 Nelvil, " does not thus display her accom- 
 plishments before strangers; she is every way 
 your equal and mine." ' Forgive my mis- 
 take,'' cried his friend ; " but as she is merely 
 called Corinne, and, at six-and-twenty, lives 
 unprotected by any one of her family, I thought 
 that she subsisted by her talents, and might i 
 gladly seize any opportunity of making them 
 known." " Her fortune is independent," re- 
 plied Oswald, hastily ; " her mind still more 
 so." Mr. Edgarmond regretted that he had 
 mentioned her, seeing that the topic interest- 
 ed Lord Nelvil. x 
 
 No people on earth deal more considerately !' 
 with true affections than do the English. He j 
 departed : Oswald remained alone, exclaim- ' 
 ing to himself, " I ought to marry Corinne ! I 
 must secure her against future misinterpreta- 
 tion. I will offer her the little I can, rank and 
 name, 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 reaa-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 49 
 
 suring himself with conversation on indifferent 
 themes : among them was the request of Mr. 
 Edgarmond. She was evidently discomposed 
 by that name, and, in a trembling voice, re- 
 fused his visit. Oswald was greatly astonish- 
 j ! ed. " I should have thought that with you, who 
 | receive so much company," he said, " the title 
 i of my friend would be no motive for exclu- 
 sion." " Do not be offended, my Lord," she 
 '. said ; " believe me, I must have powerful rea- 
 | sons for denying any wish of yours." " Will 
 ! you tell me those reasons 1" he asked. " Im- 
 ! possible !" she answered. " Be it so, then," 
 I he articulated. The vehemence of his feel- 
 i ings checked his speech ; he would have left 
 || her, but Corinne, through her tears, exclaim- 
 ed in English. " For God's sake stay, if you 
 would not break my heart !" 
 
 These words and accents thrilled Nelvil to 
 the soul ; he reseated himself at some distance 
 from her, leaning his head against an alabas- 
 ter vase, and murmuring, " Cruel woman ! 
 you see I love you, and am at any moment 
 , ready to offer you my hand ; yet you will not 
 tell me who you are, Corinne ! Tell me now !'' 
 li 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 T' " Noth- 
 ing that rendefs me unworthy of you ; but do 
 not exact it. Sjome dav, perhaps, when you 
 love me better if ah ! I 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 yoube- 
 j lieve he wcnuld consent, say so, and I shall 
 : surmount this anguish. I will one day tell 
 you the sad story of my life ; but now, be- 
 hold the state to which you have reduced 
 : me !" 
 
 Cold dews stood on his pale brow : his 
 trembling lips could utter no more. Corinne 
 seated herself beside him ; and, holding his 
 j hand in hers tenderly, recalled him to himself. 
 I; My. dear Oswald !" she said, " ask Mr. Ed- 
 ! garmond if he was ever in Northumberland, 
 } or, at least, if he has been there only within 
 i 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. Se- 
 cluded in his chamber, he exhausted his con- 
 jectures on the secrets of Corinne. It ap- 
 : peared evident that she had passed some time 
 j in England, and that her family name must be 
 ; known there : but what was her motive for 
 concealment, and why had she left his coun- 
 try ? He was convinced that no stain could 
 attach to her life ; but he feared that a combi- 
 
 nation of circumstances might have made her 
 seem hlamable in the eyes of others. He was 
 armed against the disapprobation of every 
 country save England. The memory of his 
 father was so entwined with that of his native i 
 land, that each sentiment strengthened the I 
 other. Oswald learned from Edgarmond that 
 he had visited Northumberland for the first 
 time a year ago ; and therefore promised to 
 introduce him at Corinne's that evening. He 
 was the first to arrive there, in order to warn 
 her against the misconceptions 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 every one else. If 
 he wishes to hear the improvisatrice, he shall ; 
 I will show myself to him such as I am; for 
 I think he will as easily perceive my rightful 
 pride through this simple conduct, as if I be- 
 haved with an affected constraint." " You are 
 right, Corinne," said Oswald : " how wrong 
 were he who would attempt to change you 
 from your admirable self!" The rest of the 
 party now joined them. Nelvil placed him- 
 self near Corinne with a marked air of defe- 
 rence, rather to command that of others than 
 to satisfy himself ; he had soon the joy of find- 
 ing this effort needless. She captivated Ed- 
 garmond, not only by her charms and conver- 
 sation, but by inspiring that esteem which 
 sterling characters, however contrasted, nalu- 
 rally feel for each other ; and when he ven- 
 tured on asking her to improvisate for him, he 
 solicited this favor with the most respectful 
 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 Nelvil, 
 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, anxious lest they should not 
 appear to advantage before an Englishman, 
 turned away his eyes, in obvious embarrass- 
 ment ; and Corinne, thinking 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 my- 
 self; 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 identi- 
 fied did he feel himself with her glory, that 
 he suffered beneath this failure, instead of en- 
 joying it. Certain, however, that she would 
 excel on a future interview with his friend, he
 
 50 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 gave himself up to the sweet pledge of his 
 own power which he had just received ; and 
 
 the image of his beloved reigned more secure- 
 ly in his heart than ever. 
 
 BOOK VII. 
 
 ITALIAN LITERATURE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LORD NELVIL was very desirous that Mr. 
 Edgarmond should enjoy the conversation of 
 Corinne, which far surpassed her improvised 
 verses. On the following day, the same^party 
 assembled 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 Me- 
 tastasio ; 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 intro- 
 duce 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 superiority 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 sad- 
 ness ; for reflection calls for metaphysical ex- 
 pressions ; 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 joyous for the 
 gloomy ideas they would recall ; we yield to 
 the charm of our soft phrases, as |o the mur- 
 mur of waves or the tints of flowers. What 
 more would you exact of poetry ? If you ask 
 the nightingale the meaning of his song, he 
 can explain but by recommencing" it : we cao 
 only appreciate its music by giving way to the 
 impression it makes on us. Our measured 
 lines, with rapid terminations, composed of 
 two brief syllables, glide along as their name 
 (Sdruccioli) denotes, sometimes imitating trie 
 
 light steps of a dance ; sometimes, with graver 
 tone, realizing the tumult of a tempest, or the 
 clash of arms. Our pSetry is a wonder of 
 imagination ; you ought not there to seek for 
 every species of pleasure." "I admit," re- 
 turned Nelvil, " that you account as well as 
 possible for the beauties and defects of your 
 national poetry ; but when these faults, with- 
 out these graces, are found in prose, how can 
 you defend it 1 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 served up cold 
 in your prose, with the most fatiguing perti- 
 nacity. The greatest portion of your present 
 prose writers use a language so declamatory, 
 so diffuse, so abounding in superlatives, that 
 one would think they all dealt out the same 
 accepted phrases by word of command, or by 
 a kind of convention. Their style is 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, madam, is all that yourself?' 
 Now, how much is real beneath this pomp of 
 words, which one true expression mi-ght dis- 
 sipate like an idle dream ?" " You forget," 
 interrupted Corinne, " first, Machiavel and 
 Boccaccio, then Gravina, Filangieri, and 
 even, in our own days, Cesarotti, "Verri, Bet- 
 tinelli, 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 
 ^ny way. The result is, a habit of resting 
 content with words, and never daring to ap- 
 proach 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 concluding with no wit at all ; for it 
 is only by directing our efforts to a nobly
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 51 
 
 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. Their 
 eloquence, so vivid in conversation, chills as 
 they work ; besides this, the Southerns feel 
 hampered by prose, and can only express 
 themselves fully in verse. It is not thus with 
 French literature," added Corinne to d'Er- 
 feuil ; " your prose writers are often more 
 poetical than your versifiers." "That is a 
 truth established by classic authorities," re- 
 plied the Count. " Bossuet, La Bruyere, 
 Montesquieu, and Buffon, can never be sur- 
 passed ; especially the first two, who belonged 
 to the age .of Louis XIV. : they 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 desirable for distinct countries to lose 
 their peculiarities ; and I dare to tell you, 
 Count, that in your own land, the national 
 orthodoxy which opposes all felicitous innova- 
 tions must render your literature very barren. 
 Genius is essentially creative : it bears the 
 character of the individual who possesses it. 
 Nature, who permits no two leaves to-be ex- 
 actly alike, has given a still greater diversity 
 to human minds. Imitation, then, is a double 
 murder ; for it deprives both copy and original 
 of their primitive existence." " Would you 
 wish us" asked d'Erfeuil, " to admit such 
 Gothic barbarisms as Young's ' Night 
 Thoughts,' or the Spanish and Italian Con- 
 cetti ? What would become of our tasteful 
 and elegant style afte* such a mixture V The 
 Prince of Castel Forte now remarked, " I think 
 that we are all in want of each other's aid. 
 The literature of every country offers a new 
 sphere of ideas to those familiar with it. 
 Charles Y. said, ' The man who understands 
 four languages is worth four men.' What 
 that great genius applied to politics is as true 
 in the state of letters. Most foreigners un- 
 derstand French ; their views, therefore, are 
 more extended than those of Frenchmen, who 
 know no language but their own. Why do 
 they not oftener learn other tongues T They 
 would preserve what distinguishes themselves, 
 and might acquire some things in which they 
 are still wanting." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " You will confess, at least," replied the 
 Count, "that there is one department in which 
 we have nothing to learn from any one. Our 
 theatre is decidedly the first in Europe. I 
 cannot suppose that the English themselves 
 would think of placing their Shakspeare above 
 us." " Pardon me, they do think of it," an- 
 swered Mr. Edgarmond ; and having said this, 
 resumed his previous silence. " Oh !" ex- 
 claimed the Count, with civil contempt, " let 
 every man think as he pleases ; but I persist 
 in believing that, without presumption, we 
 may call ourselves the highest of all dramatic 
 artists. As for the Italians, if I may speak 
 frankly, they are scarcely aware that there is 
 such an art in the world. Music is everything 
 with them, the piece nothing ; if a second act 
 possesses a better scena than a first, they be- 
 gin with that ; nay, they will play portions of 
 different operas on the same night, and be- 
 tween them an act from some prose comedy, 
 containing nothing but moral sentences, such 
 as our ancestors turned over to the use- 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 tfee word Felicita be intro- 
 duced ; the tenor demands his Tomba ; a third 
 can't shake unless it be upon Catene. The 
 poor poet must do his best to harmonize these 
 varied, tastes with his dramatic situations. 
 Nor is this the worst : some of them will not 
 deign to walk on the stage ; they must appear 
 surrounded by clouds, or descend from the 
 top of a palace staircase, in order to give their 
 entrance due effect. Let an air be sung in 
 ever so tender or so furious a passage, the 
 actor must needs bow his thanks for the ap- 
 plause it draws down. In Semiramis, the 
 other night, the spectre of Ninus paid his 
 respects to the pit with an obsequiousness 
 quite neutralizing the awe his costume should 
 have created. 
 
 " In Italy, the theatre is looked on merely 
 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 the chef-d'oeuvre of bad taste ; ex- 
 cept its grotesques, who are true caricaturists 
 of dancing, 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 up 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 Curtius, in three acts, full of di- 
 vertisements the hero, dressed like an Ar-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 cadian 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 abridgment of the Roman 
 history, turned jnto ballets, from Romulus 
 down ^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 consid- 
 ered the dramatic theatre." " Oh, it is still 
 worse when they represent tragedies, or dra- 
 mas not included under the head of those 
 with happy catastrophes ; they crowd more 
 horrors into five acts than human imagination 
 ever conceived. In one of these pieces a 
 lover kills his mistress's brother, and burns 
 her brains before the audience. The fourth 
 act is occupied by the funeral, and ere the 
 fifth begins, the lover, with the utmost com- 
 posure, gives out the next night's harlequin- 
 ade ; then ^resumes his character, in order to 
 end the play by shooting himself. The tra- 
 gedians are perfect counterparts of the cold 
 exaggerations ia which they perform, com- 
 mitting the greatest atrocities with the most 
 exemplary indifference. If an actor becomes 
 impassioned, he is called a preacher, so much 
 more emotion is betrayed in the pulpit than 
 on the stage ; and it is lucky that these he- 
 roes are so peaceably pathetic, since, as there 
 is nothing interesting in your plays, the more 
 fuss they made, the more ridiculous they 
 would become : i^ were well if they ' were 
 divertingly so-, but 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 guar- 
 dian are the materials. You will own that 
 such inventions cost no very great efforts, 
 and that the ' Tartuffe' and the ' Misanthrope' 
 called for some exertion of genius." 
 
 This attack displeased the Italians, though 
 they laughed at it. In conversation the Count 
 preferred displaying his wit to his good-hu- 
 mor. Natural benevolence prompted his 
 actions, but self-love his words. Castel 
 Forte and others longed to refute his accusa- 
 tions, but they thought the cause would be 
 better defended by Corinne ; and as they 
 rarely sought to shine themselves^ they were 
 content, after citing such names as Maffei, 
 Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, and Monti, with 
 begging her to answer Monsieur d'P^rfeuil. 
 Corinne agreed with him that Italy had no 
 national theatre ; but she sought to prove 
 that circumstances, and not want of talent, 
 had caused this deficiency. " Comedy," she 
 said, " as depending on observation of man- 
 ners, can only exist in a country accustomed 
 
 to a great and varied population. Italy is 
 animated but by violent passions or effeminate 
 enjoyments. Such passio.is give birth to 
 crimes that confound all shades of character. 
 But the ideal comedy, so to speak, the come- 
 dy of the imagination, which suits all times, 
 all countries, was invented 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 rnodern au- 
 thors found these parts all mada 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 child- 
 ish, surely give the Italians some claim on j 
 the art of comedy. 
 
 " Observation of the human heart is an in- 
 exhaustible source of literature ; but nations 
 rather romantic* than reflective yield them- 
 selves more readily to the delirium of joy 
 than to philosophic satire. Something of 
 sadness lurks beneath the pleasantry founded 
 on a knowledge of mankind ; the most truly 
 inoffensive gaiety is that which is purely im- 
 aginative. 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 re- 
 luctant to generalize and to publish J,heir dis- 
 coveries. Prudence may forbid their wasting 
 on mere plays what may serve to guide their 
 behavior, or converting into witty fictions j. 
 that which they find so useful in real life. 1 1 
 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, intro- 
 duced more observation into his works than 
 is commonly found. Yet his numerous come- 
 dies want variety both of character and situa- 
 tion. They seem modelled not on life, but on 
 the generality 1 of theatrical pieces. Irony is 
 not the true character of Italian wit. It is 
 Ariosto, and not Moliere, who can amuse us 
 here. 
 
 " Gozzi, the rival of Goldoni, had much 
 more irregular 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 the boundaries of this world. 
 He had a prodigious success in his day, and 
 perhaps is the best specimen of Italian comic 
 fancy ; but to ascertain what our tragedy and 
 comedy might become, they must be allowed
 
 CORINNE , OR, ITALY. 
 
 53 
 
 a theatre, and a company. A host of small 
 towns dissipate the few resources that might 
 be collected. That division of states, usually 
 so favorable to public welfare, is destructive 
 of it here. We want a centre of 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 among themselves, 
 in separate provinces, and, by awakening em- 
 ulation, 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 of con- 
 versation, which insists on nothing ; and ob- 
 served that thoughtfulness which gives to 
 each a consequence in his turn, though she 
 frequently abandoned herself to the talent 
 which had rendered her so celebrated 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. Edgarrnond, above all, 
 could never have wearied of seeing and hear- 
 ing her; he hardly dared to 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. " Ma- 
 dame," he said, " it appears to me that trage- 
 dies 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, if light, is genuine ; while 
 your serious dramas are so stilted and un- 
 natural, that they stifle all emotion. Am I 
 not right, my lord 1" he added, turning his 
 eyes towards Nelvil, with an appeal for assist- 
 ance, and astonished at himself for having 
 dared to say so much before so large a party. 
 " I think just as you do," returned Oswald : 
 " Metastasio, whom they vaunt as the bard of 
 love, gives that passion the same coloring in 
 all countries and situations. His songs, in- 
 deed, abound with grace, harmony, and lyric 
 beauty, especially when detached from the 
 dramas to which they belong ; but it is im- 
 possible for us, whose Shakspeare is indispu- 
 tably the poet *ho has most profoundly fa- 
 thomed the dop!h of human 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 re- 
 
 spect for Alfieri that I venture a few com- 
 ments on his works, their aim is so noble ! 
 The sentiments of the author so well accord 
 with the life of the man. that his tragedies 
 ought always to be praised as so many great 
 actions, even though they may be criticised 
 in a literary sense. It strikes rne, that some 
 of them have a monotony in their vigor, as 
 Metastasio's have in their sweetness. Alfieri 
 gives us such a profusion of energy and worth, 
 or such an exaggeration of violence and guilt, 
 that it is impossible to recognize one human 
 being 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 these contrasts lack the grada- 
 tions 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. Sen- 
 eca 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 j 
 harangue or read in a dissertation ; but is this ! 
 the way to give an idea of tyranny 1 instead | 
 of investing it with terror, to set it up as a | 
 block against which to tilt with wordy wea- ' 
 pons ! Had Shakspeare represented Nero 
 surrounded by trembling slaves, who scarce 
 dare answer the most indifferent question, 
 himself vainly endeavoring to appear at ease, 
 and Seneca at his side, composing the apolo- 
 gy for Agrippina's murder, would not our hor- 
 ror have been a thousand times more great 1 \ 
 and, for one reflection made by the author, 
 would not millions have arisen, in the specta- ' 
 tor's mind, from the silent rhetoric of so true 
 a picture ?" 
 
 Oswald might have spoken much -longer 
 ere Corinne would have interrupted him, so 
 fascinated was she by -the sound of his voice, 
 and the noble grace 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 by 
 addressing herself to Nelvil. " My lord, I 
 so entirely agree with you, that it is not as a 
 disputant "l reply ; but to make some excep- 
 tions to your, perhaps,- too general rules. It j 
 is true that Metastasio is rather a lyric than a ; 
 dramatic poet ; and that he depicts love rather | 
 as one of the fine arts that embellish life, than 
 as the secret source of our deepest joys and 
 sorrows. Although our poetry has been
 
 54 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 chiefly devoted to love, I will hazard the as- 
 sertion that we have more truth and power in 
 our portraitures of every other passion. For 
 amatory themes, a kind of conventional style 
 has been formed amongst us ; and poets are 
 inspired by what they have read, not by their 
 own feelings. Love, as it is in Italy, bears 
 not the slightest resemblance to love such as 
 our authors describe. I know but one ro- 
 mance, the ' Fiemmetta ' of Boccacio, in 
 which the passion is attired in its truly na- 
 tional colors. Our poets subtilize and exag- 
 gerate the sentiment, but Italian love is a deep 
 and rapid impression, more frequently betray- 
 ed by silent and passionate actions, than by 
 ingenious and highly-wrought language.' 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, it might 
 be said, transplanted from antiquity into mod- 
 ern times. He was born for action ; yet per- 
 mitted but to write : his style resented -this 
 restraint. He wished by a literary road to 
 reach a political goal ; a noble one, but such 
 as spoils all works of fancy. He was impa- 
 tient of living among learned writers and en- 
 lightened readers, who, nevertheless, cared 
 for nothing serious ; but amused themselves 
 with madrigals and novellettes. Alfieri 
 sought to give his tragedies a more austere 
 character. He retrenched everything that 
 could interfere with the interest of his dia- 
 logue ; as if determined to make his country- 
 men do penance for their natural vivacity. 
 Yet he was much admired ; because he was 
 truly great, and because the inhabitants of 
 Rome applaud all praise bestowed on the an- 
 cient Romans, as if it belonged to themselves. 
 They are amateurs of virtue, as of the pic- 
 tures their galleries possess ; but Alfieri has 
 not created anything that may be called 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 select- 
 ed. His ' Pazzi,' ' Virginia,' and ' Philip II.' 
 are replete with powerful and elevated 
 thought ; but you everywhere find the impress 
 of Alfieri, not that of the scene nor of the 
 period assumed. Widely as he differs from 
 all French authors in most respects, he re- 
 sembles them in the habit of painting every 
 subject he touches with the hues of his own 
 mind." 
 
 At this allusion d'Erfeuil observed : " It 
 would be impossible for us to brook or. our 
 stage either the insignificance of the Gre- 
 cians, or the monstrosities of Shakspeare. 
 The French have too much taste. Our 
 
 drama stands alone for elegance and deli- 
 cacy : to introduce anything foreign, were 
 to plunge us into barbarism." " You would 
 as soon think of surrounding France with 
 the great wall of China !" 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, b'y con- 
 fining ourselves to rules that must confer 
 on us less honor than constraint. The na- 
 tional character ought to form the national 
 theatre. We love the fine arts, music, 
 scenery, even pantomime ; all, in fact, that 
 strikes our senses. How, then, can a dra- 
 ma, of which eloquence is the best charm, 
 content us ? In vain did Alfieri. strive to re- 
 duce us to this ; he himself felt that his sys- 
 tem was too rigorous. (18) His ' 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 ' the action is simple, but 
 the language glorious ; why should such style 
 be interdicted in our plays 1 Verse becomes 
 so magnificent in Italian, that we ought to be 
 the last people to renounce its beauty. Al- 
 fieri, who, when he pleased, could 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 David. We pos- 
 sess such delicious music, as may well ine- 
 briate all mental power ; we ought, therefore, 
 instead of separating, to unite these attributes ; 
 not by making the heroes sing, which 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 the Italian drama 
 less imaginative, I think we ought in every 
 way to increase the illusive pleasure of the 
 audience. Our lively taste for musip, ballet, 
 and spectacle, is a proof of powerful fancy, 
 and a necessity to interest it incessantly, even 
 by thus sporting with serious images, instead 
 of rendering them more severe than they 
 need be, as did Alfieri. 
 
 " 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, so it be embellished by that variety 
 which the English and Spaniards so 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
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 55 
 
 he could have adapted it to the stage : he 
 kne.w 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; it is like a 
 public event, a whole nation constitutes its 
 judges." 
 
 " Since the time of Dante," said Oswald, 
 " Italy has played a great political part ere 
 it can boast a national tragic school, great 
 events must call forth, in real life, the jemo- 
 tions which become the stage. Of all literary 
 chefs-cTceuvres a tragedy most thoroughly be- 
 longs to a whole people : the author's genius 
 is matured by the public spirit of his audience ; 
 by the government and manners of his coun- 
 try ; by all, in fact, which recurs each day to 
 the mind, forming the moral being, even as 
 the air we breathe invigorates our physical 
 life. The Spaniards, whom you resemble in 
 climate and in creed, have, nevertheless, far 
 more dramatic talent. Their pieces are 
 drawn from their history, their chivalry, and 
 religious faith : they are original and animated. 
 Their success in this way may restore them 
 to their former fame as a nation ; but how can 
 we found in Itaky a style of tragedy which 
 she has never possessed !" " I have better 
 hopes, my lord," returned Corinne, " from the 
 soaring spirits that are amongst us, though 
 unfavored as yet by circumstances ; but what 
 we most need is histrionic ability. Affected 
 language induces false declamation ; yet there 
 is no tongue in which a great actor could 
 evince more potency than in our own ; for 
 melodious sounds lend an added charm to just 
 accentuation, without robbing ft of its force." 
 "If you would convince us of this," inter- 
 rupt^d Castel Forte, " do so, by giving us the 
 inexpressible pleasure of seeing you in trage- 
 dy : 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 in it), you 
 can have no superior on earth." 
 
 Corinne secretly.desired to perform in tra- 
 gedy before Oswald, and thus appear to the 
 best advantage ; but she could not consent 
 without his approval : her looks requested it. 
 He understood them ; and, ambitious that she 
 should charm Mr. Edgarmond 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 understand English, and 
 
 love Shakspeare V " As a friend," she re- 
 plied. *" And you will play Juliet in Italian ? 
 and I shall hear you ] and you, too, dear Nel- 
 vil ! How happy you will be !" Then, in- 
 stantly repenting his indiscretion, he blushed 
 The blush of delicacy and kindness is at all 
 ages interesting. " How happy we shall be," 
 he added, with embarrassment, " if we may 
 be present at such a mental banquet !" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ALL was arranged in a few days; parts 
 distributed, the night fixed on, and the palace 
 of a relative of Prince Castel Forte selected 
 for 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 he alone had 
 a right to be aware. He would have had 
 Corinne reserve her charms for him, and ap- 
 pear to others as timid as an Englishwoman. 
 However distinguished a man may be, he 
 rarely feels unqualified pleasure in the supe- 
 riority of a woman. If he does not love her, 
 his self-esteem takes offence ; if he does, his 
 heart is alarmed by it. Beside Corinne, Os- 
 wald was rather intoxicated than happy ; the 
 admiration she excited increased his passion, 
 without giving stability to his intents. She 
 was a phenomenon every day new ; but the 
 very wonder she inspired seemed to lessen his 
 hopes of domestic tranquillity. She was, 
 notwithstanding, so gentle, so easy to live 
 with, that she might have been beloved for 
 her common qualities, independent of those 
 more brilliant. Lord Nelvil, with all his ad- 
 vantages, thought himself so much her inferior 
 that he doubted the duration of their attach- 
 ment. In vain did she make herself his slave ; 
 the conqueror was too much in awe of his 
 captive to enjoy his realm in peace. 
 
 Some hours before the performance, Nelvil 
 led her to the house of the Princess, where 
 the theatre had been fitted up. The sun shone 
 beautifully ; and at one of the staircase win- 
 dows, which commanded a view of Rome and 
 the Campagna, he paused a moment, saying, 
 " Behold, this fine sky it is to light you to 
 victory !" " Ah, if it were so," she replied, 
 "it is to you that I owe such protection." 
 " Tell me," he added, " do the pure emotions 
 kindled by the swee.tness of nature suffice to
 
 56 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 please you 1 Remember, this is a ver,y diffe- 
 rent pleasure from that you will enjoy in the 
 tumultuous 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 will touch my heart ? If I display any 
 talent, is it not my love for you that inspires 
 me ? Poetry, religion, ali enthusiastic feel- 
 ings, are in harmony with nature ; and while 
 gazing on the azure sky, while 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!" thought Nelvif; 
 " this jealous wish to be alone with thee in the 
 universe, is, I own, a weakness. Go ! receive 
 the homage of the world ! but be thy love, 
 which is more divine even than thy genius, 
 directed to none but me !" They parted, and 
 Oswald took his place, awaiting her appear- 
 ance on the stage. 
 
 Romeo and Juliet is an Italian story ; the 
 scene was at Verona, and the tomb of the two 
 lovers is still shown there. Shakspeare has 
 written this play with a truly southern imagi- 
 nation, at once impassioned and vivacious ;. 
 triumphant in delight, and yet 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 soil is not light, though 
 the vegetation be rapid ; and Shakspeare, 
 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 sensations of 
 young hearts. In Ossian one chord constantly 
 replies to the thrill of sensibility ; but in 
 Shakspeare nothing is cold nor same. A 
 sunbeam, divided and reflected in a thousand 
 varied ways, produces endlessly multiplied 
 tints, all telling of the light and heat from 
 whence they are derived. Thus " Romeo and 
 Juliet," translated into Italian, seems but re- 
 suming 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 
 fir*. Unanimous applause 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 
 happiness too great to last on earth. But was 
 
 it for Corinne to realize such a presentiment t 
 When Romeo drew near, to whisper his ho- 
 mage to her grace and beauty, in lines so 
 glowing in English, so magnificent in Italian, 
 the spectators,~transported at having their own 
 feelings thus interpreted, fully entered into the 
 passion whose rapid dawn appeared more than 
 excusable. Oswald became all uneasiness ; he 
 felt as if every man was ready to proclaim her 
 an angel among women, to challenge him on 
 what he felt for her, to dispute his rights, and 
 tear her from his arms. A dazzling cloud 
 passed before his 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 unknown, and known too late !" 
 
 that he trembled as if she applied these words 
 to their personal situation. There were no 
 bounds to his admiration of her dignified and 
 natural gestures, her countenance which spoke 
 more than words could tell, those mysteries of 
 the heart which must ever remain inexplica- 
 ble, 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 al- 
 ways mingles with these revelations ; the har- 
 mony of verse and the charm of attitude lend- 
 ing to passion the grace and majesty it so often 
 wants in real life it is here seen through the 
 medium of imagination, without losing aught 
 of its truth. 
 
 In the second act, Juliet has an interview 
 with Romeo from a balcony in her garden. Of 
 all Corinne's ornaments, none but the flowers 
 were left ; and even they were soon to disap- 
 pear ; the theatre was faintly illumined in imi- 
 tation of moonlight, and the countenance of 
 Corinne was 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 invok- 
 ing them, as alone worthy of her confidence ; 
 and when she repeated, " Oh, Romeo, Romeo !" 
 certain as Oswald felt thar it was of him she 
 thought, he was jealous that any other name 
 than his own should be breathed by tones so 
 delicious. 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 those entrancing 
 lines : 
 " In truth, fair Montngue ! I am too fond, 
 
 An?, therefore thou may'st think my 'harior light; 
 
 Bu .list me, gentleman, I'll prove more true 
 
 Than those who have more cunning to be strange." 
 
 "Therefore pardon me !" 
 At those words, " Pardon me !" for loving.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 57 
 
 for having allowed thee to know it, so tender 
 an appeal filled the eyes of Corinne, such re- 
 spect for her lover, such pride in her choice 
 wlien she said, noble Romeo ! fair Montague ! 
 that Oswald raised his head, and believed him- 
 self the monarch of the world, since he reigned 
 over a heart enclosing all the treasures of love 
 and life 
 
 Corinne, perceiving this effect, became 
 doubly animated by that enthusiasm of the 
 heart which, of itself, can work such mira- 
 cles ; and when, at the approach of day, Ju- 
 liet fancies that she hears the lark, the signal 
 for Romeo's departure, the accents of Corinne 
 acquired a super-human power ; they told of 
 IOTB, indeed, but a religious mystery was now 
 mingled with it ; recollections of heaven a 
 presage of returning thither the celestial grief 
 of a soul exiled on earth, and soon to be re- 
 claimed by its diviner home. Ah, how happy 
 was Corinne, while playing this noble part 
 before the lover of her choice ! How few 
 lives can bear a comparison with one such 
 night ! Had Oswald himself been the Romeo, 
 her pleasure could not have been so complete. 
 She would have longed to break through the 
 greatest poet's verse, and speak after her own 
 heart ; or perhaps the diffidence of love would 
 have enchained her genius ; truth carried to 
 such a height would have destroyed illusion ; 
 but how sweet was the consciousness of his 
 presence, while she was influenced by the 
 exalted impulses which poetry alone can awak- 
 en, giving us all the excitement, without the 
 anguish, of reality ; while the affections she 
 portrayed were .neither wholly personal nor 
 entirely abstract, hut seemed saying to her 
 Oswald, " Behold,- how capable I am of lov- 
 ing !" It was impossible for her to be per- 
 fectly at ease in her own situation. Passion 
 and modesty alternately impelled and restrain- 
 ed her, now piquing herfpride, Jjpw enforcing 
 its submission ; but thus to display her perfec- 
 tions 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 to lay 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 ecsta- 
 sies for which, till then, thou hadst vainly 
 sighed, and must henceforth for ever deplore. 
 
 Juliet secretly becomes the wife of Romeo. 
 Her parents command her to espouse another, 
 and she obtains from a friar a sleeping-draught, 
 which gives her the appearance of death. Co- 
 rir.ne'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 ances- 
 tors, and the brave fidelity which bade, her 
 young soul triumph over so natural a dread. 
 Once she raised her eyes to heaven, with an 
 ardent petition for that aid with which no hu- 
 man being can dispense ; at another time Os- 
 wald fancied thart she spread her arms towards 
 him : he longed to fly to her aid ; he rose in 
 a kind of delirium, then sunk on his seat, re- 
 called to himself 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 black locks dishevelled, her 
 head gracefully resting on his bosom ; but with 
 an air of death so sadly true, that Oswald's 
 heart was torn by contending sensations. He 
 could not bear to see her in another's embrace ; 
 he shuddered at the sight of her inanimate 
 beauty, and fell, like Romeo, that cruel union 
 of despair and love, voluptuousness and death, 
 which renders this scene the most heart-rend- 
 ing on the stage. At last, when Juliet wakes 
 in the grave, beside which her lover has just 
 sacrificed himself, her first words beneath 
 those funeral vaults, partake not of the fear 
 they might occasion, but she cries, 
 
 " Where is my lord ? where is my Romeo 1" 
 
 Nelvil replied by a deep groan ; and was hur- 
 ried by Mr. Edgarmond out of the theatre. 
 
 At the conclusion of the piece, Corinne was 
 overpowered by fatigue and excitement. Os- 
 wald was the first to seek her room, where, 
 still in the shroud of Juliet, she lay half- 
 swooning in the arms of her women. In the 
 excess of his dismay, he could no longer dis- 
 tinguish fiction from reality ; but, throwing 
 himself at her feet, exclaimed, in the words of 
 Romeo, 
 
 "Eyes, look your last! Anns, take your last embrace !" 
 
 Corinne, . whose Senses still wandered, 
 shrieked, " Great God ! what say you ? 
 Would you leave me '?" " No, no, I swear !" 
 he cried. At that instant a crowd of admiring 
 friends broke in upon them ; she anxiously de- 
 sire3 to hear what he had meant to say, but 
 they were not left alone together for an in- 
 stant, and could not speak to each other again 
 that evening. 
 
 Never had any drama produced such an ef- 
 fect in Italy. The Romans extolled the piece, 
 the translation, and the actress ; asserting that 
 this was the tragedy which represented them 
 to the life, and gave an added value to their
 
 58 
 
 CORINNE ; OR. ITALY. 
 
 language, by eloquence at once inspired and 
 natural. Corinne received all these eulogiums 
 with gracious sweetness ; but her soul hung 
 
 on these brief words, " I swear !" believing 
 that they contained the secret of her destiny. 
 
 BOOK VIII. 
 
 THE STATUES AND PICTURES. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AFTER such an evening, Oswald could not 
 close his eyes all night. He had never been 
 so near sacrificing everything to Corinne. 
 He wished not even to learn her seqret, until 
 he had solemnly consecrated his life to her ; 
 all indecision seemed banished, as he mentally 
 composed the letter which he intended to 
 write the next morning ; but this resolved and 
 happy confidence was not of long duration. 
 His thoughts again strayed towards the past, 
 reminding him that he had loved before ; and 
 though far less than he adored Corinne, nay, 
 an object not to be compared with her, yet it 
 was this passion that had hurried him into 
 rashness that had broken his father's heart. 
 
 How know I," he cried, " that he does not 
 
 susceptible alike of passion and of conscience ! 
 He paced his chamber in cruel agitation ; 
 sometimes pausing to gaze on the soft and 
 lovely moonlight of Italy. Nature's fair smile 
 may render us resigned to everything: but 
 suspense. Day rose and when d'Erfeuil and 
 Edgarmond entered his room, so much had 
 one night changed him, that both were alarmed 
 for his health. The Count first broke silence. 
 " I must confess," he said, " that I was charm- 
 ed last evening. What a pity that such capa- 
 bilities should be lost in a woman of fortune ! 
 Were Corinne but poor, free as she is, she 
 might take to the stage, and be the glory of 
 Italy." Oswald was grieved by this speech, 
 yet knew not how to show it ; for such was 
 d'Erfeuil's peculiarity, that one could not 
 legitimately object to aught he said, however 
 
 It is 
 
 once more fear his son may forget his duty to I great the pain and anger he awakened. 
 
 his native land "? Oh thou, the best friend I j only for feeling hearts to practise reciprocal 
 
 shall ever know on earth !" he continued, ad- indulgence. Self-love, so sensitive in its own 
 
 dressing the miniature of his parent, " I can 
 no longer hear thy voice, yet teach me by that 
 silent look, still still so powerful over me, 
 how I should act, that thou mayest gaze from 
 heaven with some satisfaction on thy son. 
 Yet, yet remember the thirst for happiness 
 
 cause, has rarely any sympathy to spare for 
 others. Mr. Edgarrqond spoke of Corinne in 
 the most pleasing manner ; and Nelvil replied 
 in English, to defend this theme from the un- 
 congenial comments of d'Erfeuil, who ex- 
 claimed, " So, it seems, I am one too many 
 
 which consumes humanity ; be but as indulgent j here : well, I'll to the lady; she must be 
 in thy celestial home as late thou wert on ; longing for my opinion of her Juliet. I have 
 earth. I should become more worthy of thee, j a few hints to give her, for future improve- 
 were my heart content ; did I live with thatjment; they relate merely to detail, but details 
 angelic creature, had I the honor of protecting do much towards a whole ; and she is really 
 
 saving such a woman ! Save her ?" he 
 added suddenly, " and from what ? from the 
 
 so astonishing a woman that I shall neglect 
 nothing that can brinjj her to perfection? In- 
 
 life she loves a life of triumph, flattery, and i deed," he added, confidentially addressing Nel- 
 freedom !" This reflection of his own agitated | vil, " I must encourage her to play frequently ; 
 him as if it had been spoken by the spirit of i it is the surest way of catching some foreigner 
 his sire. of rank. You and I, dear Oswald, are too 
 
 In situations like Oswald's, who has not felt j accustomed to fine women for any one of them 
 the secret superstition which makes us regard i to lead us into such an absurdity ; but a Ger- 
 our thoughts and sufferings as warpings from ! man prince, now, or a Spanish grandee who 
 on high ! Ah, what struggles beset the soul i knows, eh ?" At these words Oswald started
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 up, beside himself; and there is no telling 
 what might hav occurred had the Count 
 guessed his impulse ; but he was so satisfied 
 with his own concluding remark, that he trip- 
 ped from the room, without a suspicion of 
 having offended Lord Nelvil : had he dreamt 
 of such a thing, he would assuredly have re- 
 mained where he was, though he liked Oswald 
 as well as he could like any one. His bril- 
 liant valor contributed even more than his 
 conceit to veil his defects from himself. With 
 so much delicacy in all affairs of honor, he 
 could not believe himself deficient in that of 
 feeling ; and having good right to consider 
 himself brave and gentlemanly, he took no 
 account of any deeper qualities than his 
 own. 
 
 Not cne cause of Oswald's agitation had 
 escaped the ear of Edgarmond. As soon as 
 they were alone, he said, " My dear Nelvil, I 
 leave you! I'm off for Naples." "So soon V 
 exclaimed his friend. " Yes, it is not good 
 for me to stay here ; for even at fifty I am 
 not sure that I should not go mad for Corinne." 
 " And what then V " Why, then, such a wo- 
 man is not fit to live in Wales : believe me, 
 dear Oswald, none but English wives will do 
 for England. It is not for me to advise, and 
 I scarce need say that I shall never say a 
 word on what I have witnessed here ; but 
 Corinne, all-charming as she is, makes me 
 think, with Walpole, ' Of what use would she 
 be in the house V Now the house is every- 
 thing with us, you know, at least to our wives. 
 Can you fancy your lovely Italian remaining 
 quietly at home, while fox-hunts or debates 
 took you abroad 1 or leaving you at your wine, 
 to make tea against your rising from the ta- 
 ble ! Dear Oswald, the domestic worth of our 
 women you will never find elsewhere. Here 
 men have nothing to do but to please the la- 
 dies ; therefore, the more agreeable they find 
 them, the better ; but with us, -where the men 
 lead active lives, the women should bloom in 
 the shade, to which it were a thousand pities 
 if Corinne were condemned. I would have 
 her on the throne of England, but not beneath 
 my humble roof. My lord ! I knew your 
 mother, whom your respected father so much 
 regretted : just such a woman will be my 
 young cousin ; and that is the wife I would 
 choose, were I still of an age to be beloved. 
 Farewell, my dear Nelvil ; do not take what 
 I have said amiss, for no one can admire Co- 
 rinne more than I do ; nay, perhaps, at your 
 years, I should not be able to give up the hope 
 of winning her." He pressed his young 
 friend's hand very cordially, and left him, ere 
 Oswald could utter a word ; but Edgarmond 
 understood the cause of this silence, and con- 
 tent with the grasp which replied to his, was 
 
 glad to conclude a conversation which had 
 cost him no slight pain. 
 
 The only portion of what he had said, that 
 reached the heart of Oswald, was the mention 
 of his mother, and the deep affection his fa- 
 ther felt for her. She had died ere their child 
 was fourteen ; yet he revenngly recalled the 
 retiring virtues of her character. " Madman 
 that I am !" he cried, " I desired to know what 
 kind of wife my father had destined me, and 
 am I not answered by the image of his own, 
 whom he adored ? What would I more, then 1 
 why deceive myself] why pretend an igno- 
 rance of what he would think now, could I yet 
 onsult him 1" Still it was with terror that 
 be thought of returning to Corinne, without 
 giving her a confirmation of the sentiments he 
 had testified. The tumult of his breast became 
 at last so uncontrollable, that it occasioned a 
 recurrence of the distressing accident against 
 which he now believed his lungs secure. One 
 may imagine the frightful scene his alarmed 
 domestics calling for help, as he lay silently 
 hoping that death would end his sorrow. " If 
 I could die, once more looking on Corinne," 
 he thought, " once more called ' her Romeo.' " 
 A few tears fell from his eyes, the first that 
 any grief, save the loss of his father, had cost 
 him since that event. 
 
 He wrote a melancholy line, accounting for 
 his absence, to Corinne. She had begun the 
 day with fond delusive hopes. Believing 
 herself loved, she was content ; for she knew 
 not very clearly what more on earth she 
 wished. A thousand circumstances blended 
 the thought of marrying Oswald with fear ; 
 and, as it was her nature to enjoy the present, 
 not to dwell on the future, this day which cost 
 him so much suffering, rose to her like the 
 purest, calmest of her life. 
 
 On receiving his note, how were her feel- 
 ings changed! She deemed him in great 
 danger, and instantly,, on foot, crossed the 
 then crowded Corso, and entered his abode 
 before the eyes of all Rome. She had not 
 given herself time to think, but walked so 
 rapidly, that when she reached the chamber 
 she could neither speak nor breathe. He 
 comprehended all she had risked for his sake, 
 and overrated the consequences of an act 
 which in England would have ruined a wo- 
 man's fame, especially if unwed : transported 
 by generosity and gratitude, he raised himself, 
 weak as he was, pressed her to his heart, and 
 murmured, " Dear friend, can I leave thee 1 
 now that thou hast compromised thyself 1 no, 
 no ! let my reparation " She read his 
 thoughts, and gently disengaging herself from 
 his arms, first ascertained that he was better 
 than she expected, then said gravely " You 
 mistake, my lord 1 in coming to you I have
 
 60 
 
 j| done no more than the greatest number of wo- 
 j| men in Rome would have done in my place. 
 Here you know none but me. I heard you were 
 ill ; it is my duty to take care of you. Cere- 
 mony should be obeyed, indeed, when it sacri- 
 fices but one's self, yet ought to yield before 
 the higher feelings due to the sufferings or 
 danger of a friend. What would be the lot of 
 a woman, if the same laws which permitted 
 her to love forbade ker to indulge the resistless 
 impulse of riying to the aid of those most dear 
 to her ? I repeat, my lord, fear nothing from 
 me ! My age and talents give me the freedom 
 of a married female. I do not conceal from 
 my friends that I am here. 1 know not if they 
 blame me for loving you ; but surely, as I do, 
 they cannot blame my devotion to you now." 
 This sincere and natural reply filled Oswald's 
 heart with most contrasted emotions : touched 
 as he was by its delicacy, he was half disap- 
 pointed. He would have found a pretext in 
 her peril a necessity for terminating his own 
 doubts. He mused with displeasure on Itali- 
 an liberty, which prolonged them thus, by 
 permitting him so much favor, without im- 
 posing any bonds in return. He wished that 
 honor had commanded him to follow inclina- 
 tion. These troublous thoughts caused him 
 a severe relapse. Corinne, though suffering 
 the most intense anxiety, lavished the fondest 
 cares on his revival. Towards evening he 
 was still more oppressed ; she knelt beside 
 his couch, supporting his head upon her bo- 
 som, though far more pitiable than himself. 
 Oft as he gazed on her, did a look of rapture 
 break through all his pangs. " Corinne," he 
 whispered, " here are some papers you shall 
 read to me written by my father on death. 
 Think not," he added, as he marked her dis- 
 may, "that I believe myself dying; but when- 
 ever I am ill I reperuse these consolations, 
 and seem again to hear them from his lips ; 
 besides, my dearest, I wish you to know what 
 a man he was ; you will the better compre- 
 hend my regret, his empire over me, and all 
 that I intend some day to confide to you." 
 Corinne took the papers, which Oswald always 
 carried with him, and in a faltering voice be- 
 gan : 
 
 " Oh, ye just ! beloved of the Lord ! ye 
 peak of death without a fear ; to you it is 
 but the change of homes ; and this ye leave 
 may be the least of all. Innumerable worlds 
 that shine through that infinitude of space ! 
 unknown communities of His creatures of 
 His children ! strewn through the firmament, 
 ranged beneath its concave, let ,our praises 
 rise with yours ! We know not your condi- 
 tion, nor your share of God's free bounty ; 
 but, in thinking over life and death, the past 
 and the future, we participate in the interests 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 of all intelligent, all sentient beings, however 
 distant be their dwelling places. Assembled 
 spheres ! wide scattered families ! ye sing 
 with us, Glory to the Lord of Heaven ! the 
 King of earth ! the Spirit of the universe ! 
 whose will transforms sterility to harvest, 
 darkness to light, and death to life eternal. 
 
 " Assuredly the end of the just man de- 
 serves our envy ; but few of us, few of those 
 that have gone before us, have looked on such 
 a death. Where is he who shall meet the 
 eye of Omnipotence unawed ? Where is he 
 who hath loved God without once wavering, 
 or who has served him from his youth up, 
 and, in his age, finds nothing to remember 
 with remorse ? Where is the man, in all his 
 actions moral, who has not been led by flat- 
 tery, or scared by slander ? So rare a model 
 were worthy of imitation ; but where exists 
 it ] If such be amongst us, how ought our 
 respect to follow him ! Let us beg to be 
 present at his death, as at the loveliest of hu- 
 man spectacles. Take courage and approach 
 that bed whence he will rise no more ! He 
 knows it, yet is all serene : a heavenly halo 
 seems to crown his brow. He says, with the 
 Apostle, ' I know in whom I have believed ;' 
 and this reliance, as his strength decays, lights 
 up his features still. Already he beholds his 
 celestial home, but without forgetting the one 
 he leaves. He is God's own ; but turns not 
 stoically from. the ties that lent a charm to his 
 past life. His faithful partner, by the law of 
 nature, will be the first to follow him. He 
 dries her tears, and tells her they shall meet 
 in heaven ! Even there unable to expect 
 felicity without her. Next he reminds her 
 of the happy days that they have led together ; 
 not to afflict the heart of so dear a friend, but 
 to increase their mutual confidence in divine 
 goodness. He recalls the tender love he 
 ever bore his life's companion, not to aggra- 
 vate her regret, but to bid her revel in the 
 sweet idea that their two beings were as plants 
 growing from the same stem ; and that this 
 union may prove one defence, one guarantee 
 the more, against the terrors of that dark fu- 
 turity wherein God's pity is the sole refuge 
 of our startled thoughts. But how conceive 
 the thousand feelings that pierce a constant 
 heart, when one vast solitude appears before 
 it, and all the interests that have filled past 
 years are vanishing for ever T O thou, who 
 must survive that second self, which Heaven 
 lent for thy support ! who was thine all, and 
 whose looks now bid thee a sad adieu, thou 
 wilt not shrink from laying thy hand upon the 
 fainting heart, whose latest pulse, after the 
 death of words, speaks in thine own. Shall 
 we then blame you, faithful friends, if you 
 wish your d us i might mingle? All-gracious
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 61 
 
 Deity ! awaken them together. Or, if but 
 one deserves thy favoring call to number with 
 the elect, let but the other learn these blissful 
 tidings ; read them in angel light one fleeting 
 instant, and he will sink back resigned to per- 
 petual gloom. Perhaps I err in this essay to 
 paint the last hours of such a man, who sees 
 the advancing strides of death, and feels that 
 he must part from all he holds most dear. 
 He struggles for a momentary strength, that 
 his last words may serve to instruct his chil- 
 dren. ' Feai- not,' he says ; ' to watch your 
 sire's release, to lose your oldest friend ; it is 
 by God's ordinance he goes before you, from 
 a world into which he came the first. He 
 would fain teach you courage, though he 
 weeps to say farewell : he could have-wished 
 to stay and aid you longer, by experience to 
 have led you some steps farther on the way 
 surrounded by such perils for your youth ; but 
 life has no defence against its Giver's man- 
 date. You will proceed alone in a wide 
 wffrld, where I shall be no more. May you 
 ibundantly reap all the blessings that Provi- 
 dence has sown there ! But never forget 
 that this world is only a land through which 
 we only journey to our home. Let us hope 
 to meet again. May our Father accept the 
 sacrifice I tender, in your cause, of all my 
 vows and tears ! Cling to religion ! Trust 
 its promises ! Love it, as the last link be- 
 twixt child and parent ; betwixt lile and death ! 
 Draw near me, that I may see you still. The 
 benediction of a servant of God rest with you 
 all !' He dies ! Angels, receive his soul, and 
 leave us here the memory of his deeds, his 
 faith, his chastened hope." (19) 
 
 The emotions of Oswald and Corinne had 
 frequently interrupted their progress : at last 
 they were obliged to give up the attempt. 
 She trembled lest he should harm himself by 
 weeping, unconscious that her tears flowed 
 fast as his. " Yes," sobbed Nelvil ; " yes, 
 dear friend of my soul, our tears have mingled ; 
 you have mourned with me that guardian saint 
 whose last embrace yet thrills my breast, 
 whose nohrle countenance I still behold. Per- 
 aps he has chosen thee for my solace." 
 " No, no," exclaimed Corinne, " he did not 
 think me worthy." "\Yhatsay you 1 ?" inter- 
 rupted Oswald ; and alarmed, lest she had 
 betrayed herself, she replied, " He might not 
 have thought me worthy of you." The slight 
 change of phrase dissipated his uneasiness, 
 and he fearlessly continued speaking of his 
 father. 
 
 The physicians arrived, and slightly re- 
 assured him ; but absolutely forbade his at- 
 'empting to converse, until his internal hurt 
 v as healed. Six whole days passed, during 
 Wl ^ch Corinne never left him. With gentle 
 
 firmness she enjoined him silence, yet con- 
 trived to vary the hours by reading, music, 
 and sometimes by a sportive dialogue, in which 
 she sustained both parts : serious or gay, it 
 was for his sake that she supported herself, 
 veiling beneath a thousand graceful arts the 
 solicitude which consumed her ; she was never 
 off her guard for an instant. She perceived 
 what Oswald suffered, almost before himself; 
 the courage he assumed deceived her not ; 
 she did, indeed, " anticipate the asking' eye," 
 while her chief endeavor was that of diverting 
 his mind, as much as possible, from the value 
 of these tender offices. If he turned pale, the 
 rose fled from her lip, and her hand trembled 
 as she brought him a restorative : even then 
 would she smile through her tears, and press 
 his hand to her heart, as if she would fain 
 have added her stock of life to his. 
 
 At last her efforts succeeded : he recovered. 
 " Corinne," he said, as soon as permitted to 
 speak, " why has not my friend Edgarmond 
 witnessed your conduct ? he would have seen 
 that you" are not less good than great ; that 
 domestic life with you would be a perpetual 
 enchantment ; that you differ from our women 
 only in adding charms to virtue. It is too 
 much ! here must end the combat that has so 
 nearly reduc'ed me to the grave. Corinne ! 
 you, who conceal your own secrets, shall hear 
 all mine, and pronounce our doom." " Our 
 doom," she replied, "if you feel as I do, is 
 not to part ; yet believe me, till now, at least, 
 I have never dared to wish myself your wife : 
 the scheme of my existence is entirely disor- 
 dered by the love that every day enslaves me 
 more and more ; yet I know not if we ought 
 to marry." "Corinne," he cried, "do you 
 despise me for having hesitated ? Can you 
 attribute my delay to contemptible motives ? 
 Have you not guessed that the deep remorse, 
 to which I have been for two years a prey, 
 alone has been the cause * "I know it," she 
 answered. " Had I suspected you of con- 
 siderations foreign to those of the heart, you 
 would not have beeH dear to me. But life, I 
 know, belongs not all to love ; habit and me- 
 mory weave such nets around us that even 
 passion cannot quite destroy ; broken for a 
 moment, they will grow again, as the ivy 
 clasps the oak. 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 inces- 
 santly pursues me. You are a stranger here ; 
 no ties detain you ; if once you go, all is over'; 
 nothing will be left to me of you, but my owu 
 grief. Nature, the arts, poetry, all that 1 
 have shared with you, lately, alas ! with you 
 alone, will speak no longer to my soul ! I 
 never wake without trembling. I ask the fair
 
 62 
 
 CORIXNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 day if it has still a right to shine ; if you, the 
 sun of my being, are near me yet ! Oswald, 
 remove this fear, and I will not look beyond 
 the present's sweet security." " You know," 
 replied he, " that no Englishman should re- 
 nounce his country : war may recall me." 
 " Oh God !" she cried, " would you prepare 
 my mind 1" Her limbs quivered, as if at the 
 approach of the most terrific danger. " If it 
 be even so," she added, " take me with you 
 as your wife your slave !" Then suddenly 
 regaining her spirits, she continued, " Os- 
 wald, you will never depart without warning 
 me ? Never ! will you 1 Listen ! in no coun- 
 try is a criminal led to torture without being 
 allowed to collect his thoughts. It must not 
 be by letter : you will come yourself, to tell 
 me to hear me ere you fly 1 How ! you 
 hesitate to grant my prayer V " No," re- 
 turned he, " you wish it ; and I swear, if my 
 departure be necessary, I will apprise you of 
 t, and that moment shall decide our fate." 
 She left him. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CORINNE now carefully avoided all explana- 
 tions. She wished to render her lover's life 
 as calm as possible. Their every interview 
 had tended to convince her that the disclosure 
 of what she had been, and sacrificed, was but 
 too likely to make an unfavorable impression ; 
 she, therefore, sought again to interest him 
 in the still unseen wonders of Rome, and 
 thus retard the instant that must clear all 
 doubts. Such a situation would be insup- 
 portable beneath any other feeling than love, 
 which sheds such spells over every minute, 
 that, though still desiring some indefinite futu- 
 rity, we receive a day as a century of joy, or 
 of pain. Love is the emblem of eternity : it 
 confounds all notion of time ; effaces all me- 
 mory of a beginning, all fear of an end : we 
 fancy that we have always loved the object of 
 our affection, so difficult is it to imagine how 
 we could have lived without it. The more 
 terrible separation seems the less probable it 
 becomes : like death, it is the evil we rather 
 name than believe, as if the inevitable were 
 impossible. Corinne, who, in her innocent 
 artifices for varying Oswald's amusements, 
 had hitherto reserved the statues and paint- 
 ings, now proposed taking him to see them, 
 as his health was sufficiently re-established. 
 " It is shameful," she said, with a smile, " that 
 
 you should still be ignorant of these riches of 
 art ; therefore to-morrow we will commence 
 our tour through the galleries and museums." 
 " As you will," returned Nelvil ; " but, in- 
 deed, Corinne, you want not the aid of such 
 resources to keep me with you ; on the con- 
 trary, I make a sacrifice to obey you, in turn- 
 ing my gaze to any other object, be it what it 
 may." 
 
 They went first to the Vatican, that palace 
 of sculpture, where the human form shines 
 deified by paganism, as are the virtues by 
 Christianity. In those silent halls are assem- 
 bled gods and heroes ; while beauty, in eter- 
 nal sleep, seems dreaming of herself. As we 
 contemplate these admirable forms and fea- 
 tures, the design of the Divinity, in creating 
 man, seems revealed by the noble person he 
 has deigned to bestow on him. The soul is 
 elevated by hopes full of chaste enthusiasm ; 
 for beauty is a portion of the universe, which, 
 beneath whatever guise presented, awakes re- 
 ligion in the heart of man. What poetry in- 
 vests a face where the most sublime expres- 
 sion is fixed for ever, where the grandest 
 thoughts are enshrined in images so worthy 
 of them ! Sometimes an ancient sculptor 
 completed but one statue in his life ; that 
 constituted his history. He daily added to 
 its perfection : if he loved or was beloved ; if 
 he derived .fresh ideas from art or nature, 
 they served but to embellish the features of 
 this idol. He translated into looks all the 
 feelings of his soul. Grief, in modern times, 
 in a state of society cold and oppressive as 
 the present, ennobles its victim ; and the being 
 who has not suffered can never have thought 
 or felt. But with the ancients there was 
 something even more noble than grief, an 
 heroic composure, a sense of internal strength, 
 developed by the influences of free institu- 
 tions. The loveliest Grecian statues were 
 mostly expressive of repose. The Laocoon 
 and the Niobe are among the few stamped by 
 sorrow ; but it is the vengeance of heaven 
 and not of human passion that they both ex- 
 press. The moral being was so well organ- 
 ized of old, the air circulated so freely in 
 those manly breasts, and political order so 
 harmonized with the faculties, that there did 
 not exist that discontentedness of spirit which 
 indeed leads to the development of much re- 
 finement of thought, but which does not furnish 
 to the fine arts, and especially sculpture, the 
 primitive elements of the feelings which can 
 alone be well represented by the eternal mar- 
 ble. Hardly can a trace of melancholy be 
 found in their statues. A head of Apollo, in 
 the Justinian palace, and one of the dyirV 
 Alexander, indeed, betray both thoughtfulne 58 
 and pain ; but they belonged to the perio* *
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 03 
 
 Grecian slavery, which banished the tranquil 
 pride that usually pervaded both their sculp- 
 ture and their poetry. 
 
 Thought, unfed from without, preys on 
 itself, digging up and analysing its own trea- 
 sures ; but it has not the creative power 
 which happiness alone can give. Even the 
 antique sarcophagi of the Vatican teem but 
 with martial or joyous images : the comme- 
 moration of an active life they thought the 
 best homage they could pay the dead. No- 
 thing weakened or discouraged the. living. 
 Emulation was the reigning principle in art 
 as in policy : there was room for all the vir- 
 tues, as for all the talents. The vulgar prided 
 in the ability to admire, and genius was wor- 
 shipped even by those who could not aspire 
 to its palm. Grecian religion was not, like 
 Christianity, the solace of misery, the wealth 
 of the poor, the future of the dying : it re- 
 quired glory and triumph ; jt formed the apo- 
 theosis of man. In this perishable creed even 
 beauty was a religious dogma : artists, called 
 on to represent base or ferocious passions, 
 shielded the human form from degradation, by 
 blending it with the animal, as in the satyrs 
 and centartrs. On the contrary, when seeking 
 to realise an unusual sublimity, they combined 
 the charms of both sexes ; as in the warlike 
 Minerva, and the Apollo Musagetes ; felicitous 
 union, of vigor and sweetness, without which 
 neither q-iality can attain perfection ! Corinne 
 delayed Oswald some time before the sleeping 
 figures that adorn the tombs, in a manner most, 
 favorable! to the art. She observed that statues 
 representing an action suspended at its height, 
 an impulse suddenly checked, create, some- 
 times, a painful astonishment ; but an attitude 
 of complete repose offers an image that tho- 
 roughly accords with the general influence of 
 the soui hern clime. The arts there seem but 
 the peaceful spectators of nature ; .and genius 
 itself, vhich agitates a northern breast, there 
 appears but one harmony the more. Oswald 
 and Ccrinne entered the court in which the 
 sculptured animals are assembled, with the 
 statue of Tiberius in the midst of. them : this 
 arrangement was made without premeditation ; 
 the creatures seem to have ranged themselves 
 around their master. Another such hall con- 
 tains the gloomy works of the Egyptians, 
 whose statues resemble mummies more than 
 men. This people, as much as possible, as- 
 similated life with death, and lent no animation 
 to their human effigies ; they excelled more in 
 the art of imitating animals than men ; it was 
 ths provinces of the soul which appeared to be 
 to them inaccessible. About the porticoes of 
 this museum each step presents new wonders : 
 vases, altars, ornaments of all kinds, surround 
 the Apollo, the Laocoon, and the Muses. 
 
 Here may one learn to appreciate Homer and 
 Sophocles, attaining a knowledge of antiquity 
 that cannot be elsewhere acquired. 
 
 Amid these porticoes are fountains, whose 
 incessant flow gently reminds you of the hours 
 which pass now as they passed two thousand 
 years since the artists of these chefs-d'ceuvres 
 existed. But the most melancholy sights -here 
 are the broken statues, the torso of Hercules, 
 heads separated from their trunks ; the foot of 
 a Jupiter, which it is supposed must have be- 
 longed to the largest and most symmetrical 
 statue ever known. We seem to be on the bat- 
 tle-field whereon Time has contended with 
 Glory ; these mutilated limbs attesting the 
 tyrant's victory, and our own losses. 
 
 After leaving the Vatican, Corinne led Os- 
 wald to the colossal figures on Monte Cavallo, 
 said to be those of Castor and Pollux. Each 
 of these heroes governs a foaming steed with 
 one hand : this struggle of man with brute, 
 like all the works of the ancients, finely ex- 
 emplifying the physical powers of human na- 
 ture, which had then a dignity it no longer 
 possesses. Bodily exercises are generally 
 abandoned to our common people : personal 
 vigor, in the antique, appeared so intimately 
 connected with the moral qualities of those 
 who lived in the heart of war, a war of single 
 combats, that generosity, fierceness, command, 
 and height of stature, seemed inseparable, ere 
 an intellectual religion had throned man's 
 potency in his soul. As the gods wore our 
 shape, every attribute appears symbolical : the 
 " brawns of Hercules" suggest no recollec- 
 tions of vulgar life, but of divine, almighty 
 will, clothed in supernatural grandeur. 
 
 Corinne and Oswald finished their day by 
 visiting the studio of the great Canova. The 
 statues gained much from being seen by torch- 
 light, as the ancients must have thought, who 
 placed them in their Thermes, inaccessible to 
 the day. A deeper shade thus softens the 
 brilliant uniformity of the marble : its pale- 
 ness looks more like that of life. At that 
 time Canova had just achieved an exquisite 
 figure, intended for a tomb ; it represented 
 the genius of Grief leaning on a Lion. Co- 
 rinne detected a resemblance to Nelvil, with 
 which the artist himself was struck. Oswald 
 turned away his head, to avoid this kind of 
 attention, yet whispered to his beloved, " Co- 
 rinne, I believed myself condemned to this 
 eternal grief ere I met you, who have so 
 changed me, that sometimes hope, and always 
 a delicious agitation, pervades the heart that 
 ought to be devoted to regret."
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 IN painting, the wealth of Rome surpasses 
 that of the rest of.the world. Only one point 
 of discussion can exist on the effect which 
 her pictures produce does the nature of the 
 subjects selected by Italy's great masters ad- 
 mit the varied originality of passion which 
 painting can express ? The difference of 
 opinion between Oswald and Corinne on this 
 point, as on others, sprung but from fche differ- 
 ence of their countries and creeds. Corinne 
 affirmed that Scripture subjects were those 
 most favorable to the painter ; that sculpture 
 was the Pagan's art, and painting the Chris- 
 tian's ; that Michael Angelo, the painter' of 
 the Old, and Raphael, that of the New Tes- 
 tament, musl have been gifted with sensibility 
 profound as that of Shakspeare or Racine. 
 " Sculpture," she sairf, " can present but a 
 simple or energetic life to the eye, while 
 painting displays the mysteries of retirement 
 and resignation, and makes the immortal spirit 
 speak through the fleeting colors. Historical 
 facts, or incidents drawn from the poets, are 
 rarely picturesque. One had need, in order 
 to understand them, to keep up the custom of 
 writing the speeches of their personages on 
 ribands rolling from their mouths. But reli- 
 gious pieces are insvintly comprehended by 
 the whole world : and our attention is not 
 turned from the art in order to divine their 
 meaning. t 
 
 " The generality of modern painters are too 
 theatrical. They bear the stamp of an age 
 in which the unity of existence and natural 
 way of life, familiar to Andrew Mantegne, 
 Perugin, and Leonardo da Vinci, is entirely 
 forgotten. To this antique repose they were 
 wont to add the depth of feeling which marks 
 Christianity. For this I admire the composi- 
 tions of Raphael, especially in his early works. 
 All the figures tend towards the main object, 
 without being elaborately grouped to create a 
 sensation thjs honesty in the arts, as in all 
 things else, characterizes true genius ; for ar- 
 tifices for effect usually destroy enthusiasm. 
 There is a rhetoric in painting as in poetry ; 
 and those who have it not seek to veil the 
 defect in brilliant but delusive auxiliaries, rich 
 costume, and remarkable postures, while an 
 unpretending virgin, with her infant at her 
 breast, an old man attending the mass of Bol- 
 sena, a young one leaning on his staff, in the 
 school of Athens, or St. Cecilia raising her 
 j eyes to heaven, hy the mere expression of the 
 ' countenance alone, act much more powerfully 
 on the mind. These natural beauties grow on 
 us each day, while of works done for effect 
 our first sight is always the most striking." 
 (20) Corinne fortified these reflections by an- 
 
 other it was the impossibility of our sympa- 
 thizing with the mythology of the Greeks and 
 Romans, or inventing on their ground. " We 
 may imitate them by study," she said ; " but 
 the wings of genius cannot be restrained to 
 flights for which learning and memory are so 
 indispensable, and wherein it can but copy 
 books or statues. Now in pictures alluding 
 to our own history and faith the painter is 
 personally inspired ; feeling what he depicts, 
 retracing what he has seen, he draws from the 
 life. Portraitures of piety are mental bless- 
 ings that no others could replace : as they 
 assure us that the artist's genius was animated 
 by the holy zeal which alone can support us 
 against the disgusts of life and the injustice 
 of man." 
 
 Oswald could not, in all respects, agree with 
 her : he was almost scandalised at seeing that 
 Michael Angelo had attempted to represent 
 the Deity himself in mortal shape ; he thought 
 that we should not dare embody Him ; and 
 that we could scarcely call up from the very 
 depths of the soul one conception sufficiently 
 ethereal to raise towards the Supreme Being ; 
 and as to subjects taken from Scripture, he felt 
 that the expressions and images of his kind 
 of painting, leave us much to desire. He be- 
 lieved, with Corinne, that religious meditation 
 is the most heartfelt sentiment we can expe- 
 rience, and that which supplies a painter with 
 the grandest physiognomical mysteries ; but 
 as religion represses all movements of the 
 heart to which she has not given birth, the 
 faces of saints and martyrs cannot be much 
 varied. Humility, so lovely in the sight of 
 heaven, weakens the energy of earthly pas- 
 sion, and necessarily monotunises the gene- 
 rality of scriptural subjects. When the ter- 
 rible Angelo dealt with them, he almost 
 changed their spirit, giving to his prophets 
 that formidable air more suitable to heathen 
 gods than to saints. Oft, too, like Dante, he 
 mixed Pagan attributes with those of Chris- 
 tianity. One of the most affecting truths in 
 its early establishment is the lowly station of 
 the apostles who preached it. the slavery of 
 the Jews, so long the depositaries of the 
 promise that announced the Saviour. This 
 contrast between insignificance of means and 
 greatness of result is morally beautiful. Yet, 
 in painting, where means alone can be dis- 
 played, Christian subjects must needs prove j 
 less attractive than those derived from the 
 times of heroic fable. Of all arts, none save 
 music can be purely religious. Painting can- 
 not be content with an expression indefinite as 
 that of sound. It is true that a happy combi- 
 nation of colors and of clair-obscure, is har- 
 mony to the e\e; but as it shows us life, it 
 should give foith. life's strong and varied pas-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 sions. Undoubtedly such passages of history 
 ought to be selected as are too well known to 
 .be unintelligible : facts must flash on us from 
 i canvass, for all the pleasures the fine arts be- 
 i stow are thus immediate : but with this equali- 
 I ty provided, historical pictures have the ad- 
 vantage of diversified situation and sentiments. 
 Nelvil asserted, too, that a preference should 
 be given to scenes from tragedies, or the most 
 j . touching poetic fictions, so that all the plea- 
 sures of imagination might thus unite. Co- 
 rinne contended against this opinion, seducing 
 as it was ; convinced that the encroachment 
 of one art upon another would be mutually in- 
 jurious. For sculpture loses by attempting 
 the groups that belong to painting, painting by 
 aspiring to dramatic animation. The arts are 
 limited, not in their powers but in their means. 
 Genius seeks not to vanquish the fitness of 
 things which its glory consists in divining. 
 " You, my dear Oswald," said Corinne, " love 
 not the arts for themselves, but as they accord 
 with your own feelings ; you are moved merely 
 when they remind you of your heart's afflic- 
 tions. Music and poetry better suit such a 
 disposition than those which speak to the eye, 
 however ideally ; they can but please or inte- 
 rest us while our minds are calm and our fancy 
 is free. We need not the gaiety which so- 
 ciety confers in order to enjoy them, but the 
 composure born of soft and radiant climes. 
 We ought, in the arts that represent exterior 
 objects, to feel the universal harmony of na- 
 ture, which, while we are distressed, we have 
 not within ourselves/' " I know not," an- 
 swered Oswald, '' if I have sought food for 
 my sorrows in the arts, but at least 1 am sure 
 that I cannot endure their reminding me of 
 physical suffering. My strongest objection 
 against Scripture pictures is the pain I feel in 
 looking on blood and tortures, however exalted 
 the faith of their victims. Philocletus is, per- 
 haps, the only tragic subject in which such 
 agonies can be admitted ; but with how much 
 of poetry are his cruel pangs invested ! They 
 are caused by the darts of Hercules ; and 
 surely the son of Esculapius can cure them. 
 His wounds are so associated with the moral re- 
 sentment they stir in that pierced breast, that 
 they can excite no symptom of disgust. But 
 the Possessed in Raphael's Transfiguration is 
 disagreeable and undignified. We would fain 
 discover the charm of grief, or fancy it like 
 the melancholy of prosperity. It is the ideal 
 cf human fate that ought to appear. Nothing 
 is more revolting than ensanguined gashes or 
 muscular convulsions. In such pictures we 
 at once miss and dread to find exactitude of 
 imitation. What pleasure could such attempt- 
 ed fidelity bestow 1 it is always either more 
 horrible or less lovely than nature herself.". 
 
 " You are right, my Lord," said Corinne, " in 
 wishing that these blots should be effaced from 
 Christian pictures ; they are unnecessary. 
 Nevertheless, allow that soul-felt genius can 
 triumph over them all. Look on the death of 
 St. Jerome by Domenichino ; that venerable 
 frame is livid, emaciated ; but life eternal fills 
 his aspect ; and the miseries of the w'orld are 
 here collected "but to melt before the hallowed 
 rays of devotion. Yet, dear Oswald, though 
 I am not wholly of your mind, I wish to show 
 you that, even in differing, we have always 
 some analogy. I have attempted a realization 
 of your ideal in the gallery to which my 
 brothers in art have contributed, and where I 
 have sketched a few designs myself: you 
 shall see the advantages and defects of the 
 styles you prefer in my house at Tivoli. The 
 weather is fine ; shall we go there to-mor- 
 row ?" " My friend, can you doubt my reply ]" 
 he exclaimed. " Have I another blessing in 
 the world but you 1 The life I have too much 
 freed from all other occupations and all other 
 interests is now filled by the felicity of seeing 
 and of hearing you !" 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 OSWALD himself drove the four horses that 
 drew them next day towards Tivoli : he de- 
 lighted in their rapid course, which seemed to 
 lend fresh vivacity to the sense of existence 
 an impression so sweet when enjoyed be- 
 side those we love. He was cautious, even 
 to fear, lest the slightest accident should befal 
 his charge, exercising protecting care which 
 Is such a link betwixt man and woman ! Co- 
 rinrie, though less easily alarmed than the rest- 
 of her sex, observed his solicitude with such 
 pleasure, as made her almost wish she could 
 be frightened, that she might claim the re-as- 
 surance of Oswald. What gave him so great 
 an ascendency over her, was the occasional 
 unexpected contrasts with himself that lent a 
 peculiar charm to his whole manner. -Every 
 one admired his mind and person ; but both 
 were particularly interesting to a woman at 
 once thus constant and versatile. Though 
 occupied by nothing but Corinne, this same 
 interest perpetually assumed a new character : 
 sometimes reserve predominated ; then he 
 abandoned himself to his passion ; anon he 
 was perfectly amiable and content ; then by a 
 gloomy bitterness, he betrayed the sincerity 
 of his distress. Agitated at heart, he strove
 
 66 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY." 
 
 to appear serene, and left her to guess the se- 
 crets of his bosom. This kept her curiosity 
 for ever on the alert. His very faults set off 
 his merits ; and no man, however agreeable, 
 who was devoid of these contradictions and 
 inconsistencies, could thus have captivated 
 Corinne : she was subdued by a certain fear 
 of him. He reigned in her heart by a gcod 
 and by an evil power by his own qualities, 
 and by the anxiety their ill-regulated state in- 
 spired. There was no safety in the happiness 
 he bestowed. This, perhaps, accounts for the 
 exaltation of her love ; she might not have 
 thus adored aught she did not fear to lose. A 
 mind of ardent yet delicate sensibility may 
 weary of all save a being whose own, for 
 ever in motion, appears like a heaven, now 
 clear and smiling, now shadowed in threaten- 
 ing clouds. Oswald, ever truly, deeply at- 
 tached, "was not the less 6ften on the brink of 
 abjuring the object of his tenderness, because 
 long habit had persuaded him that he could 
 find nothing but remorse in the too vivid feel- 
 ings of the heart. 
 
 On their way to Tivoli, they passed the^ru- 
 ins of Adrian's palace, and the immense gar- 
 den that surrounded it. Here were collected 
 the rarest productions of the realms conquer- 
 ed by Rome. There are still seen the scat- 
 tered stones called Egypt, India, and Asia. 
 Farther off is the retreat where Zenobia end- 
 ed her days. The queen of Palmyra sus- 
 tained not, in adversity, the greatness of her 
 doom : she knew neither how to die for glory, 
 like a man, nor how, like a woman, to die 
 rather than .betray her friend. At last they 
 beheld Tivoli, once the abode of Brutus, Au- 
 gustus, Maecenas, Catullus, but, above all, 
 Horace, whose verses have immortalized 
 these scenes. Corinne's villa stood near the 
 loud cascade of Teverone. On the top of 
 the hill, facing her garden, was the Sibyl's 
 temple. The ancients, by building these 
 fanes on heights like this, suggested the due 
 Superiority of religion over all other pursuits. 
 They bid you " look from nature up to nature's 
 God," and tell of the gratitude that successive 
 generations have paid to heaven. The land- 
 scape, seen from whatever point, includes this 
 its central ornament. Such ruins remind one 
 not of the work of man. They harmonize 
 with the fair trees and lonely torrent, that 
 emblem of the years which have made them 
 what they are. The most beauteous land 
 that awoke no memory of great events, would 
 be uninteresting, compared to the spots that 
 history sanctifies. What place could more 
 appropriately have been selected as the home 
 of Corinne than that consecrated to the Sibyl, 
 a woman divinely inspired ? The house v?as 
 charming ; decked in all the elegance of mo- 
 
 dern taste, yet evidently by a classic hand 
 You saw that its mistress understood felicity 
 in its highest signification ; that which implies 
 all that can ennoble, while it excites our 
 minds. A sighing melody now stole on Os- 
 wald's ear, as if the nodding flowers and wav- 
 ing shrubs thus lent a voice to nature. Co- 
 rinne informed him that it proceeded from the 
 ^Eolian harps, which she had hung in her 
 grottoes, adding music to the perfume of the 
 air. Her lover was entranced. " Corinne," 
 he cried, throwing himself at her feet, " till 
 to-day I have censured mine own bliss beside 
 thee ; but now I feel as if the prayers of 
 mine offended parent had vfon me all this fa- 
 vor : the chaste repose I here enjoy tells me 
 that I am pardoned. Fearlessly, then, unite 
 thy fate with mine : there is no danger now !" 
 " Well," she replied, " let us not disturb this 
 peace by naming Fate. Why strive to gain 
 more than she ever grants 1 Why seek for 
 change while we are happy ?" He was hurt 
 by this reply. He thought she should have 
 understood his readiness to confide, to promise, 
 all. This evasion, then, offended and afflict- 
 ed him : he appreciated not the delicacy 
 which forbade Corinne to profit by his weak- 
 ness. Besides, where we really love, we 
 often dread more than we desire the solemn 
 moment that exchanges hope for certainty. 
 Oswald, however, concluded that, much as 
 she loved him, she preferred her independence, 
 and therefore shunned an indissoluble tie. 
 Irritated by Ihis impression, he followed her 
 to the gallery in frigid silence She guessed 
 his mood, but knew his pride too well to tell 
 him so ; yet, with a vague design of soothing 
 him, she lent even to general and indifferent 
 topics the softest tones of affection. 
 
 Her gallery was composed of historical, 
 poetic, religious subjects, and landscapes. 
 None of them contained any great number of 
 figures. Crowded pictures are, doubtless, ar- 
 duous tasks ; but their beauties are mostly 
 either too confused or too detailed. Unity of 
 interest, that vital principle of art, as of all 
 things, is necessarily frittered away. The 
 first picture represented Brutus, sitting lost 
 in thought, at the foot of the statue of Rome, 
 while slaves bore by the dead bodies of the 
 sons he had condemned : on the other side, 
 their mothers and sisters stood in frantic de- 
 spair, fortuuately excused, by their sex, from 
 that courage which sacrifices the affections. 
 The situation of Brutus, beneath the statue 
 of Rome, tells all. But how, without expla- 
 nation, can we know tlut this is Brutus, or 
 that those are his children, whom he himself 
 has sentenced 1 and yet the event cannot be 
 better set forth by any painting. Rome fills 
 its back-ground, as yet unornamented as a
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 67 
 
 city, grand only as the country that could in- 
 spire such heroism 4i Once hear the name," 
 said Corinne, " and doubtless your whole soul 
 . is given up to it ; otherwise might not uncer- 
 | tainty have converted a pleasure which ought 
 to be so plain and so easy into an abstruse 
 enigma i I chose the subject, as recalling 
 the most terrible deed a patriot ever dared. 
 The next is Marius, taken by one of the Cim- 
 bri, who cannot resolve to kill so great a man. 
 Marius, indeed, is an imposing figure ; the 
 costume and physiognomy of the Cimbrian 
 leader extremely picturesque : it marks the 
 second era of Rome, when laws were no more, 
 but when genius still exerted a vast control. 
 Next come the days in which glory led but to 
 misfortune and insult. The third picture is 
 | Belisarius, bearing his young guide, who had 
 | expired while asking alms for him ; thus is 
 the blind hero recompensed by his master ; 
 and in the world he vanquished hath no better 
 office than that of carrying to the grave the 
 sad remains of yon poor boy, his only faithful 
 friend. Since the old school, I have seen no 
 truer figure than that : the painter, like the 
 poet, has loaded him with all kinds of mise- 
 ries too many, it may be, for compassion. 
 But what tells us that it is Belisarius ? what 
 : fidelity to history is exacted both of artist 
 h and spectator! a fidelity, by the way, often 
 ,| ruinous to the beautiful. In Brutus we look 
 |j on virtues that resemble crime ; in Marius, 
 o-i fame causing but distress ; in Belisarius, 
 on services requited by the blackest persecu- 
 tion. Near these I have hung two pictures 
 that console the oppressed spirit by reminding 
 it of the piety that can cheer the broken heart, 
 ! when all around is bondage. The first is 
 i Albano's infant Christ asleep on a cross. 
 j Does not that stainless, smiling face convince 
 j us that heavenly faith hath naught to fear 
 I from grief or death ] The following one is 
 Titian's Jesus bending under the weight of 
 the cross. His mother on her knees before 
 him : what a proof of reverence for the unde- 
 served oppressions suffered by her Divine Son ! 
 What a look of resignation is his! yet what 
 an air of pain, and therefore sympathy, with 
 ! us ! That is the best of all my pictures ; to 
 i that I turn my eyes with rapture iivexhausti- 
 j ble ; and now come my dramatic chefs -d'czu- 
 j vres drawn from the works of four great poets. 
 1 1 There is the meeting of Dido and ^3Lneas in 
 the Elysian fields : , her indignant shade 
 a voids him ; rejoicing to be freed from the fond 
 heart which yet would throb at his approach. 
 The vaporous color of the phantoms, and the 
 pale scenes around them, contrast the air of 
 | life in jEneas, and the Sibyl who conducts 
 I him ; but in these attempts the bard's descrip- 
 tion must far transcend all that the pencil 
 
 reaches ; in this of the dying Clorinda oui 
 tears are claimed by the remembered lines cf 
 Tasso, where she pardons the beloved Tan- 
 cred, who had just dealt her the mortal wound. 
 Painting inevitably sinks beneath poetry 
 when devoted to themes that great authors 
 have already treated. One glance back at 
 their words effaces all before us. Their fa- 
 vorite situations gain force from impassioned 
 eloquence ; while picturesque effect is most 
 favored by moments of repose, worthy to be 
 indefinitely prolonged, and too perfect for the 
 eye ever to weary of their grace. Your ter- 
 rific Shakspeare, my Lord, afforded me the 
 ensuing subject. The invincible Macbeth, 
 about to fight Macduff, learns that the witches 
 have equivocated with him ; that Birnam wood 
 is coming to Dunsinane, and that his adver- 
 sary was not of woman born, but torn from 
 his dying mother. Macbeth is subdued by 
 his fate, not by his foe ; his desperate hand 
 still grasps its" glaive, certain that he must 
 fall, yet to the last opposing human strength 
 against the might of demons. There is a 
 world of fury and of troubled energy in that 
 countenance : but how many of the poet's 
 beauties do we lose ! Can we paint Macbeth 
 hurried into crime by the dreams of ambition, 
 conjured up by the powers of sorcery 1 How j 
 express a terror compatible with intrepidity ; 
 how characterize the superstition that op- j 
 presses him ? the ignoble credulity, which, 
 even while he feels such scorn of life, forces 
 on him such horror of death ! Doubtless the 
 human face is the greatest of all mysteries ; 
 vet, fixed on canvass, it can hardly tell of 
 more than one sensation ; no struggle, no suc- 
 cessive contrasts accessible to dramatic art, 
 can painting give, as neither time nor motion 
 exists for her. 
 
 " Racine's Phedra forms the fourth picture. 
 Hippolitus., in all the beauty of youth and in- 
 nocence, repulses the perfidious accusations 
 of his stepmother. The heroic Theseus still 
 protects his guilty wife, whom his conquering 
 arms surround. Phedra's visage is agitated 
 by impulses that we freeze to look on ; and 
 her remorseless nurse encourages her in guilt. 
 Hippolitus is here even more lovely thar k 
 Racine ; more like to Meleager, as no love 
 for Aricia here seems to mingle with his 
 tameless virtue. But could Phedra have sup- 
 ported her falsehood in such a presence ? No, 
 she must have fallen at his feet : a vindictive 
 woman may injure him she loves in absence, 
 but, while she looks on him, that love must 
 triumph. The poet never brings them to- 
 gether after she has slandered him. The 
 painter was obliged to oppose them to each 
 other ; but is not the distinction between 
 the picturesque and the poetical pr>ved by
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 tbe fact, that verse copied from paintings is 
 worth all the paintings that have imitated po- 
 etry ? Fancy must ever precede contempla- 
 tion, as it does in the growth of the human 
 mind." 
 
 While Corinne spoke thus, she had fre- 
 quently paused, hoping that Oswald would add 
 his remarks ; but wounded as his feelings 
 were, by what had occurred, he uttered not a 
 word, only when she expressed some touch- 
 ing thought, he would sigh and turn away his 
 
 rude winds war on their lifeless and withered 
 arms, strew their sear leaves to the gale, and 
 herald the course of the storm." Oswald, till 
 now, had cherished his resentment ; but at 
 the sight of this picture, the tomb of his fa- 
 ther, the mountains of Scotland rose to his 
 view, and his eyes filled with tears. Corinne 
 took her harp, and sung one of those simple 
 Scotch ballads whose notes seem fit to be 
 borne on the wailing breeze. It was the sol- 
 dier's farewell to his country and his love, in 
 
 head, that she might not see that in his pre- which recurred that most melodious and ex- 
 sent disposition he could be easily moved, pressive of English phrases, "No more."* 
 Corinne, at last discouraged by this silence, ! Corinne pronounced it so touchingly, that Os- 
 sut down and hid her face in her hands. Os- j wald could resist no longer ; and they wept 
 wald hastily paced the apartment, and was j together. "Ah, Corinne!" he cried, "does 
 just about to give his emotions way, when, 'then my country affect your heart] Could 
 with a sudden check of pride, he turned to- j you go with me to the land peopled by my re- 
 
 wards' the pictures, as if expecting her to fin-. j collections ? Would you theie be the worthy 
 ish the account of them. She had great hope ! partner of my life, as you are here its enchan- 
 in the last ; and, making an effort to compose j tress !" " I believe I could," she answered, 
 
 herself, rose, saying, " My Lord, there remain j " for I love you." " In the name of love and 
 but three landscapes for me to show you ; two j pity then, have no more secrets from me." 
 possess some interest. I do not like rural j " Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald : I pro- 
 scenes that bear no allusion to fable or his- : mke it on onefcondition, that you a-sk not its 
 tory : they are insipid as the idols of our po- : fulfilment before the termination of our ap- 
 ets. I prefer Salvator Rosa's style here, i preaching religious solemnities. Is not the 
 which gives you rocks, torrents, and trees, > support of Heaven more than ever necessary 
 with not even the 
 mind you of life ! 
 the midst of nature 
 
 tions. What is this deserted scene, so vainly j think so," she rejoined : " but I have no such 
 
 confidence, therefore indulge my weakness." 
 Oswald sighed, without granting or refusing 
 
 wing of a bird visible to re- I at the moment which must decide iny fate ?" 
 ! The absence of man, in j" Corinne," he said, " if thy fate depends on 
 re, excites profound reflec- jme it shall no longer be a sad one." "You 
 
 beautiful, whose mysterious charms address 
 but the eye of their Creator ] Here, on the 
 contrary, history and poesy are happily united 
 in a landscape. (21) This represents the mo- 
 ment when Cincinnatus is invited by the con- 
 suls to quit his plough, and take command of 
 the Roman armies. All the luxury of the 
 South is seen, in this picture, abundant vege- 
 tation, burning sky, and an universal air of 
 joy, that pervades even the aspect of the 
 plants. Seewhatacontrastisbeside.it. The 
 son of Cairbar sleeps upon his father's tomb. 
 Three nights he awaited the bard, who comes 
 to honor the dead. His form is beheld afar, 
 he descends the mountain's side. On the 
 clouds floats the shade of the chief. The 
 land is hoary with ice ; and the trees, as the 
 
 the delay she asked. " Let us return to 
 Rome now," she added. " I should tell you 
 all in this solitude ; and if what I have to say 
 must drive you from me, need it be so soon 1 
 Come, Oswald ; you may revisit this scene 
 when my ashes repose here." Melted and 
 agitated, he obeyed. On their road they 
 scarcely spoke a word, but now and then ex- 
 changed looks of affection ; yet a heavy mel- 
 ancholy oppressed them both, as they re-en- 
 tered Rome. 
 
 * I presume the " Adieu to Lochaber," though in that 
 it ia " nae mair " TT*.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITAI^Y. 
 
 BOOK IX. 
 
 ON THE CARNIVAL AND ITALIAN MUSJC 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE last day of the carnival is the gayest 
 in the year. The Roman populace carry their 
 rage for amusement to a perfect fever, unex- 
 ampled elsewhere. The whole town is dis- 
 guised ; the very gazers from its windows 
 are masked. This begins regularly to the 
 appointed day, neither public nor private af- 
 fairs interfering with its indulgence. It is 
 there that one may judge of the imagination 
 possessed by the mass of the people. Italian 
 sounds sweetly even from their mouths. Al- 
 fieri said he went to the market of Florence 
 to learn good Italian. Rome has the same 
 advantage ; and, perhaps, these are the only 
 cities of which all the natives speak so well 
 that the mind is feasted at every corner of the 
 streets. The kind of gaiety that shines 
 through their harlequinades is often found in 
 the most uneducated men ; and during this 
 festival, while exaggeration and caricature 
 are fair play, the most comic scenes perpetu- 
 ally recur. Often a grotesque gravity con- 
 trasts .the usually vivacious Italian manner, as 
 if their strange dresses conferred an unnatu- 
 ral dignity on the wearers. Sometimes they 
 evince so surprising a knowledge of the my- 
 thology, in the travesties they assume, that 
 one might suppose them still believers in its 
 fictions. Most frequently, however, they ridi- 
 cule the various ranks of society with a plea- 
 santry truly original : the nation is now a 
 thousand times more distinguished by its 
 sports than by its history. Italian lends itself 
 so easily to all kinds of playfulness, that it 
 needs but a slight inflection of voice, a little 
 difference of termination, lengthening or di- 
 minishing the words, to change the entire 
 meaning of a sentence. The language comes 
 with a peculiar grace from the lips of child- 
 hood. The innocence of that age, and the 
 natural archness of the southern tongue, ex- 
 quisitely contrast each other. (22) One may 
 almost call it a language that talks of itself, 
 and always seems more witty than its speak- 
 ers. 
 
 There is neither splendor nor taste in the 
 carnival : its universal tumult assimilates it in 
 the fancy with the bacchanalian orgies ; but 
 in the fancy only ; for the Romans are gene- 
 ' rally sober and serious enough the last days 
 of this fete excepted. Then one makes such 
 varied and sudden discoveries in their charac- 
 ter, as have contributed to give them a reputa- 
 tion for cunning. Doubtless, there is a great 
 habit of feigning among a people who have 
 borne so many yokes ; but we mustnot always 
 attribute their rapid changes of manner to 
 dissimulation. An inflammable imagination 
 is often its cause. Reasoning people may 
 readily preserve their consistency ; but all 
 that belongs to fancy is unpremeditated ; she 
 overleaps gradations ; a trifle may wound her, 
 or that which ought to move her most be past 
 by with indifference ; she is her own world, 
 and in it there is no calculating effects by 
 causes. For instance, we wonder what en- 
 tertainment the Roman nobles find in driving 
 from one end of the Corso to the other for 
 hours together, every day in the year, yet no- 
 thing breaks in on this custom. Among the 
 masks, too, may be found wandering victims 
 to ennui, packed up in the drollest of dresses, 
 sad harlequins, and silent clowns, who satisfy 
 their carnival conscience by merely seeking 
 to divert themselves. 
 
 In Rome they have one kind of maskers, 
 that nowhere else exist, who in their own 
 persons, copy the antique statues, and from a 
 distance perfectly realise their beauty. Many 
 of, the women are losers by renouncing this 
 disguise. Nevertheless, to behold life imitat- 
 ing motionless marble, however gracefully, 
 strikes one with fear. The carriages of the 
 great and gay throng the streets ; but the 
 charm of these festivities is their saturnalian 
 confusion : all classes are mingled ; the gravest 
 magistrates ride among the masks with almost 
 official assiduity. All the windows are deco- 
 rated, and all the world out of doors : the 
 pleasure of the populace consists not in their 
 spectacles nor their feasts ; they commit no 
 excess, but revel solely in the delight of mix-
 
 7C 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 ing freely with their betters, who, on their 
 pirns, are as diverted at finding themselves 
 hrovvn among those beneath them. More re- 
 fined and delicate tastes and more finished 
 education ,can only sustain barriers between 
 different classes. But Italy, as hath been 
 said, is more distinguished by universal talent 
 than by its cultivation among the aristocracy. 
 Therefore, during the carnival, all minds and 
 all manners blend: the shouting crowds that 
 indiscriminately shower their bonbons on the 
 passers by confound the whole nation pell-mell, 
 as if no social order remained Corinne and 
 Nelvil arrived in the midst of this uproar : at 
 first it stunned them ; for nothing appears 
 stranger than such activity of noisy enjoyment, 
 while the soul is pensively retired within her- 
 self. They stopped in the Piazza del Popolo, 
 to ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, 
 thence to overlook the horse-racing : as they 
 alighted from their calash, the Count d'Erfeuil 
 perceived them, and took Oswald aside, say- 
 ing, " How can you show yourself thus pub- 
 licly returning from the country with Corinne 1 
 You will commit her, and then what can you 
 do!" " I think I shall not commit her," re- 
 turned he, " by showing my affection ; if I do, 
 I shall be but too happy, in the devotion of my 
 life "' " Happy !" interrupted d'Erfeuil ; 
 " don't believe it ! one can only be happy in 
 becoming situations. Society, do what we 
 will, has a great influence ; and what society 
 would disapprove ought never to be attempt- 
 ed." "Then," replied Oswald, "our own 
 thoughts and feelings are to guide us less than 
 the words of others. If it were our duty 
 thus constantly to follow the million, what 
 need has any individual of a heart or a soul ? 
 Providence might have spared us such super- 
 fluities." " Very philosophical," replied the 
 Count ; " but such maxims ruin a man ; and 
 when love is ever, he is left to the censure of 
 the world. Flighty as you think me, I would 
 not risk it, on any account. We may allow 
 ourselves the little freedoms and good-natured 
 jests of independent thinkers, but in our ac- 
 tions such liberties become serious." " And 
 are not love and happiness serious considera- 
 tions 1" asked Nelvil. " That is nothing to 
 the purpose : there are certain established 
 forms which you cannot brave without passing 
 for an eccentric ; for a man in fact you 
 understand me unlike other men . " Lord Nel- 
 vil smiled, and without either pain or dis- 
 pleasure rallied d'Erfeuil on his frivolous 
 severity : he rejoiced to feel, for the fifst time, 
 that on a subject which had cost him so much, 
 the Count's advice had not the slightest power. 
 Corinne guessed what had passed, but Oswald's 
 smile restored her composure : and this con- 
 versation tended but to put them both in spirits 
 
 for the fete. Nelvil expected to see a race 
 like those of England ; but was surprised to 
 learn that small Barbary steeds were about to 
 make the contest of speed without riders. 
 This is a very favorite sport with the Romans. 
 When it was about to commence, the crowd 
 ranged themselves on each side of the street. 
 The Place, late so thronged, was emptied in a 
 minute : every one hurried to the stands which 
 surrounded the obelisks ; while a multitude of 
 black heads and eyes were turned towards the 
 barrier from which the barbs were to start. 
 They appeared, without bridle or saddje, their 
 backs covered by bright-hued stuffs : they 
 were led by well-dressed grooms, passionately 
 interested in their success. As the animals 
 reach the barrier, their eagerness for release 
 is almost uncontrollable : they rear, neigh, and 
 paw the earth, as if impatient for the glory 
 they are about to win, without the aid or 
 guidance of man. Their prancing, and the 
 rapturous cry of " Room, room !" as the bar- 
 rier falls, have a perfectly theatrical effect. 
 The grooms are all voice and gesture, as long 
 as their steeds remain in sight ; the creatures 
 are as jealous as mankind of one another ; the 
 sparks fly beneath their feet ; their manes float 
 wildly on the breeze ; and such is their desire 
 to reach the goal, that some have fallen there 
 dead. To look on these free things, all ani- 
 mated by personal passion, is astounding as 
 if one beheld Thought itself flying in that fine 
 shape. The crowd break their ranks as the 
 horses pass, and follow them in tumult. The 
 Venetian palace ends the race ; then may be 
 heard exclamations of disappointment from 
 those whose horses have been beaten ; while 
 he whose darling has deserved the greatest 
 prize throws himself on his knees before the 
 victor, thanking and recommending hhn to St. 
 Anthony, patron of the brute creation, with 
 an enthusiasm as seriously felt as it is comi- 
 cally expressed. The races usually conclude 
 the day. Then begins another kind of amuse- 
 ment, less attractive, but equally loud. The 
 windows are illuminated ; the guards leave 
 their posts, to share the general joy. Every 
 one carries a little torch, called mocolio, and 
 every one tries to extinguish his neighbor's, 
 repeating the word " ammazare" (kill), with 
 formidable vivacity. (" Che la bella princi- 
 pessa sia ammazata ! Che il signore abbala 
 sia arAmazato .'") " Kill the fair princess ! 
 let the Lord Abbot be killed !' The multitude, 
 secure by the interdiction of horses and car- 
 ri s at that hour, pour forth from every 
 quarter : all is turmoil and clamor ; yet, as 
 night advances, this ceases by degrees : the 
 deepest silence succeeds. The remembrance 
 of this evening is like that of a confused vision, 
 which, for awhile, changed eveiy dreamer's
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 71 
 
 existence, and made the people forget their 
 toil, the learned their studied, and the nobles 
 their sloth. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OSWALD, since his misfortunes, had never 
 regained sufficient courage voluntarily to hear 
 music. He dreaded those ravishing sounds, 
 so soothing in melancholy, but which prove 
 so truly painful while we are weighed down 
 by real calamities. Music revives the recol- 
 lections we would appease. When Corinne 
 sang, Oswald listened to the words she pro- 
 nounced ; gazed on her expressive features, 
 and thought of nothing but her. Yet if, of.an 
 evening, in the streets, he heard several voices 
 united to sing the sweet airs of celebrated 
 composers, as is often the case in Italy, though 
 inclined to pause, he soon withdrew, alarmed 
 by the strong yet indefinite emotion which 
 renewed his sorrows. But a concert was 
 about to be given at the theatre of Rome, 
 concentrating the talents of the first singers in 
 Italy. Corinne asked Nelvil to accompany 
 her thither : he consented, hoping that her 
 presence would soften all the pangs he must 
 endure. On entering her box, she was imme- 
 diately recognized ; and a remembrance c/i r.er 
 coronation, adding to the interest she usually 
 created, all parts of the house resounded with 
 applause, and cries of " Viva Corinne .'" The 
 musicians themselves, electrified by this unani- 
 mous sensation, sent forth strains of victory ; 
 for triumph, of whatever kind, awakens in 
 our recollection the pomp and circumstance of 
 war. Corinne was much moved by these 
 testimonies of admiration and good will. The 
 indescribable impression always made by a hu- 
 man mass, simultaneously expressing the same 
 sentiment, so deeply touched her heart, that 
 she could not restrain her tears : her bosom 
 heaved beneath her dress ; and Oswald, with 
 a sense of pique, whispered, " You must not, 
 madame, be withdrawn from such successes ; 
 they outvalue love, since they make your heart 
 beat thus ;" he then retired to the back of the 
 box, without waiting for her answer. In one 
 instant had he swept away all the pleasure 
 which she had owed to a reception prized 
 most because he was its witness. 
 
 The concert commenced : those who have 
 not heard Italian singing can form no idea of 
 music. The human voice is soft and sweet as 
 the iiowers and skies. This charm was made 
 
 but for such a clime : each reflects the other. 
 The world is the work of a single thought, 
 expressed in a thousand different ways. The 
 Italians have ever devotedly loved music. 
 Dante, in his Purgatory, meets the best singer 
 of his day, and asks him. for one of his deli- 
 cious airs. The entranced spirits forget them- 
 selves as they hear it, Wtil their guardian 
 recalls the.ni. The Christians, like the Pa- 
 gans, have extended the empire of music be- 
 yond the grave. Of all the fine arts, none 
 act so immediately upon the soul : the others 
 direct it towards such of such ideas ; but this 
 alone addresses the very source of life, and ( 
 transforms the whole being at once, humanly 
 speaking, as Divine Grace is said to change 
 the heart. Among all our presentiments of 
 futurity, those to which melody gives birth 
 are not the least worthy of reverence. Even 
 the mirth excited by buffo singing is not vul- 
 gar, but fanciful ; beneath it lie poetic reve- 
 ries, such as spoken wit never yet created. 
 Music is so volatile a pleasure, we are so. 
 sensible that it escapes from us even as we 
 enjoy it, that it always leaves a tender im- 
 pression on the mind ; yet, when expressive 
 of grief, it sheds gentleness even over despair. 
 Music is so fleeting a pleasure, one which we 
 lose as we enjoy, that a shade of melancholy 
 is always mingled with the gaiety which it 
 causes. Yet, when it expresses grief, there 
 is still something soothing in it the heart 
 beats quicker as we listen, and the regular 
 rlow of its measures, in reminding us of the 
 brevity of time, calls on us to enjoy it. There 
 is no void, life is full, the current of the blood ' 
 is rapid, we feel all the excitement of active 
 existence, without encountering its obstacles. 
 Music doubles our conception of the faculties 
 of the soul, and makes us feel capable of the 
 noblest efforts ; teaches us to march towards 
 death with enthusiasm, and is happily power- 
 less to express any low sentiment, any artifice, 
 any falsehood. Music lifts from the breast 
 the weight it so often feels beneath serious 
 affections, and which we confound with our 
 very consciousness of existence, so habitual is 
 its pressure ; a,s we listen to pure and delicious 
 sounds, we seem to discover the secret of the 
 Creator, and penetrate the mystery of life 
 No words can explain this ; for words bur 
 copy primitive sensations, as prose translators 
 follow poetry. Looks alone can give an idea 
 of this effect ; the long look 9? love, that 
 gradually penetrates into the heart, till one's 
 eyes fall, unable to support so vast a bliss ; 
 so would a ray from the life to come constims 
 the mortal who should steadily contemplate it. 
 The admirable union of two voices, per- 
 fectly in tune, produces an ecstasy that cannot 
 be prolonged without a degree of pain : it is 3
 
 72 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 blessing too great for humanity, and the heart 
 vibrates as if" to break too perfect a harmony. 
 Oswald had remained perversely apart from 
 Coriime during the first act of the concert ; 
 but when the duets began in low voices, 
 accompanied by the notes of the wind instru- 
 ments, purer even than the voice itself, Co- 
 rinne veiled her face, absorbed by emotion ; 
 she wept without suffering, and loved without 
 dread ; the image of Oswald was in'her bosom ; 
 but a host of thoughts wandered too far to be 
 distinct, even to herself. It is said that a 
 prophet, in one moment, passed through seven 
 regions of heaven. He who thus conceived 
 how much an instant might contain, must 
 have heard sweet music beside the object 
 of his love. Oswald felt its power; his re- 
 sentment decreased : the tenderness of Co- 
 rinne explained and justified everything ; he 
 drew near her ; she heard him breathing near 
 her, at the most enchanting period of this 
 celestial harmony : it was too much ; the most 
 pathetic tragedy could not have so over- 
 whelmed her as did the consciousness of the 
 deep emotion which at the same moment 
 penetrated both their hearts : each fresh tone 
 exalted his consciousness. The words sung 
 contributed little to this emotion ; now and 
 then, the words love and death would reach 
 the ear and give a direction to the thoughts ; 
 but oftener did music alone suggest and realise 
 the formless wish, as doth some pure and tran- 
 quil star, wherein we seem to see the image 
 of all we could desire on earth. " Let us go," 
 sighed Corinne : " I am faint." " What is it ] 
 asked Oswald, anxiously : " you are pale. 
 Come into the air with me, come !" They 
 went together ; her strength returned, as she 
 leaned upon his arm ; and she faltered forth, 
 " Dear Oswald, I am about to leave you for 
 eight days." "What say you?" he cried. 
 " Every year," she answered, " I spend Pas- 
 sion week in a convent, to prepare for Easter." 
 Oswald could not oppose, aware that most of 
 the Roman ladies devoted themselves to pious 
 severities at that time, even if careless of reli- 
 gion during the rest of the year ; but he 
 remembered that Corinne's faith and his own 
 were not the same : they could not pray to- 
 gether. " Why are you not my countrywo- 
 man 1" he exclaimed. " Our souls have but 
 one country," she replied. " True," he said ; 
 "yet I cannot the less feel everything that 
 divides us." And this coming absence so 
 dismayed him, that neither to Corinne, nor the 
 friends who now joined them, could he speak 
 another word that evening. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 OSWALD called at Corinne's house early 
 next day, in some uneasiness : her maid gave 
 him a note, announcing her mistress's retire- 
 ment to the convent that morning, and that 
 she could not see him till after Good Friday. 
 She confessed that she had not the courage to 
 tell him the whole of this truth the night be- 
 fore. Oswald was struck as by an unexpected 
 blow. The house in which he had always 
 found Corinne now appeared sadly lone : her 
 harp, books, drawings, all that she usually had 
 near her were there, but she was gone. A 
 shudder crept through his veins : he thought 
 on the chamber of his father, and oppressed 
 with the recollection, he sunk upon a seat. 
 " It may be," he cried, " that I shall live to 
 lose her too that animated mind, that warm 
 heart, that form so brilliantly fresh : the bolt 
 may strike, and the tomb of youth is mute as 
 that of age. What an illusion, then, is happi- 
 ness ! Inflexible Time, who watches ever o'er 
 his prey, may tear it from us i$ a moment 
 Corinne! Corinne! why didst thou leave me? 
 Thy magic alone could still my memory : 
 gloomy thoughts were scattered when dazzled 
 by the hours of rapture passed with thee, but 
 now I am alone. 1 am again my wretched, 
 wretched self!" He called upon Corinne with 
 a desperation disproportionate to such brief 
 absence, but attributable to the habitual an- 
 guish of his heart. The maid, Theresina, 
 heard his groans, and gratified by this regret 
 for her mistress, re-entered, saying, " My 
 Lord, for your consolation, I will even betray 
 a secret of my lady's : I hope she will forgive 
 me. Come to her bed-room, and you shall 
 see your own portrait !" " My portrait !" he 
 repeated. " Yes ; she drew it from memory, 
 and has risen, for the last week, at five in the 
 morning, to finish it before she went to the 
 convent." The likeness was very strong, and 
 painted with perfect grace. This pledge, in- 
 deed, consoled him : placed as it was opposite 
 an exquisite Madonna, before which was her 
 oratory. This " love and religion mingled," 
 exists in Italy under circumstances far more 
 extraordinary : for the image of Oswald was 
 associated but with the purest hopes of his 
 adorer. 
 
 Yet thus to place it near so divine an 
 emblem, and to prepare herself for a convent 
 by a week of such occupation, were traits that 
 rather characterized Corinne's country than 
 herself. Italian women are devout from sen- 
 sibility, not principle ; and nothing was more 
 hostile to Oswald's opinions than their manner 
 of thinking on this subject ; yet how could he 
 blame Corinne, while receiving so touching a 
 proof of her affection ] IL> looks strayed
 
 CORJNNE ; OR, ITALY 
 
 73 
 
 tenderly through this chamber, where he now 
 stood for the first time. At the head of the 
 bed he beheld the miniature of an aged man, 
 evidently not an Italian : two bracelets hung 
 near it, one formed by braids of black and 
 silver hair, the other of beautifully fair tresses, 
 that, by a strange chance, reminded him of 
 Lucy Edgarmond's, which he had attentively 
 remarked three years since. Oswald did no't 
 speak ; but Theresina, as if to banish any 
 jealous suspicion, told him, " that during the 
 eleven years she had lived with her lady she 
 had always seen these bracelets, which she 
 knew contained the hair of Corinne's father, 
 mother, and sister." " Eleven years !" cried 
 Oswald ; " you were then " he checked him- 
 self, blushing at the question he had begun, 
 and precipitately left the house that he might 
 not be tempted to pursue his inquiries. He 
 frequently turned back to gaze on the win- 
 dows, and when he lost sight of them he felt 
 all the misery of solitude. That evening he 
 went to an assembly, in search of something 
 to divert his thoughts ; for in grief, as joy, 
 reverie can only be indulged by those at peace 
 with themselves ; but society was insupporta- 
 ble : he was more than ever convinced that 
 for him Corinne alone had lent it charms, by 
 the void which her absence rendered it now. 
 He attempted to chat with the ladies, who 
 replied by those insipid phrases which, ex- 
 pressing nothing, are so convenient for those 
 
 who have something to conceal. He saw 
 groups of mer., who, by their voices and ges- 1 
 ! tures, seemed warmly discussing some impor- i 
 tant topic : he drew near, and found the matter 
 of their discourse as despicable as its manner. 
 I He mused over this causeless, aimless, viva- 
 city, so frequently found in large parties : 
 though indeed Italian mediocrity is tolerable 
 1 enough, having but h'ttle jealous vanity, much 
 ; regard for superior minds, and, if fatiguing 
 ; them by dulness, at least never wounding 
 i them by pretence. It was these very assem- 
 j blies that, a few days since, Oswald had found 
 so interesting. The slight" obstacles which 
 I this company opposed to his conversation with 
 ! Corinne ; her anxiety to be near him, as soon 
 | as she had been sufficiently polite to others ; 
 I the intelligence existing between them on 
 ; subjects which society suggested to them ; 
 her pride, in speaking before him, to whom 
 she indirectly addressed remarks, he alone 
 | could fully understand ; all this had varied 
 ! his evenings : every part of these same halls 
 j brought back the pleasant hours which had 
 I made him believe that these assemblies were 
 in themselves agreeable. " Oh !" he sighed, 
 as he left it, " here, as elsewhere, she alone 
 can give me life ; let me fly rather to some 
 desert spot till she returns. I shall less sadly 
 feel her absence, when naught is near me that 
 resembles pleasure.' 
 
 BOOK X . 
 
 PASSION WEEK. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OSWALD passed next day in the gardens of 
 the monasteries, going first to that of the Car- 
 thusians, and paused, ere he entered, to ex- 
 amine two Egyptian lions at a little distance 
 from its gate. There is something in their 
 physiognomy belonging neither to animals nor 
 to man : it is as if two heathen gods had been 
 represented in this shape. This convent is 
 built on the ruins of Diocletian's baths ; and 
 its church is adorned by the granite pillars 
 which were found there. The monks show 
 this place with much zeal : they belong to the 
 
 world but by their interest in its ruins. Their 
 way of life presupposes either very limited 
 minds or the most exalted piety. The mono- 
 tony of their routine recalls that celebrated 
 line, 
 
 "Time o'er wrecked world* sleeps motionless." 
 
 Their life seems but to be employed in con- 
 templating death. Quickness of thought, in so 
 uniform an existence, would be the oruelest of 
 tortures. In the midst of the cloister stand 
 two cypresses, whose heavy blackness tne 
 wind can scarcely stir. Near them is an
 
 74 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 almost unheard fountain, slow and chary ; fit 
 hour-glass for a seclusion in which 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 might have found all the activity 
 of -.var insufficient for their spirits, had they 
 been used to it. What an inexhaustible field 
 for conjecture we find in the combinations 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 study of a life. What, then, 
 is meant by knowledge of mankind 1 Governed 
 they may be by each other, but understood by 
 God alone. 
 
 Oswald next went to the monastery of 
 Bonaventure, built on the ruins 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 duty. 
 " Our only hope," said one, " is, that, when 
 we die, our faults will not have exceeded our 
 penances." Nelvil, as he entered, stumbled 
 over a trap, and asked its purpose. " It is 
 through that we are interred," answered one 
 of the 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 per- 
 petual mementos : yet nature is often fasci- 
 nated by what she dreads ; and such an intoxi- 
 cation fills the soul exclusively. 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 downcast eyes and stealthy 
 pace show that they have forgotten the use o'f 
 free will, and abdicated the government of 
 self, an empire which may well be called a 
 ' heritage of woe !' This retreat, however, 
 acted but feebly on the mind of Oswald. Im- 
 agination 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 Rome. 
 What a site for such an asylum! The recluse 
 consoles himself for his nothingness, in con- 
 templating the wrecks of ages past away. 
 Oswald walked long benealh the shady trees, 
 so rare in Italy : sometimes they intercepted 
 TJS view of the city, only to augment the 
 pleasure of his next glimpse at it. All the 
 steeples now sounded the Ave Maria, 
 
 * * * "squilladelontano 
 Che paja il giorno pianger, che si muore. 
 
 " The bell frcm far mourneth the dying day." 
 This evening prayer serves to reckon the 
 hours by. " I will meet you an hour before, 
 or an hour after Ave Maria," say the Italians, 
 so devoutly are the eras of night and day dis- 
 tinguished. Oswald then enjoyed the specta- 
 cle of sunset, as the luminary sunk slowly 
 amid ruins, and seemed submitting to decline, 
 even like the works of man. This brought 
 back all his wonted thoughts. The image of 
 Corinne appeared too promfsing, too hopeful, 
 for such a moment. His soul sought for his 
 father's, in the home of heavenly spirits. His 
 affection sought to animate the clouds on which 
 he gazed, and to lend them the sublime aspect 
 of his immortal friend ; he seemed to hope 
 that his prayers at last might call down some 
 breath of pity, resembling a father's bene- 
 diction. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OSWALD, in his anxiety to study the religion 
 of the country, resolved to hear some of its 
 preachers, during Passion-week. He heavily 
 counted the days that must elapse ere his 
 reunion with Corinne : while she was away 
 he would visit no objects of art ; nothing 
 which owed its charm to the imagination ; he 
 could forgive himself for being happy only 
 while beside her ; but all that charmed him 
 then would have redoubled 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 com- 
 memorate the death of Jesus : there is some- 
 thing 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, but the preacher too often dissipates 
 all this in an instant. His pulpit is a some- 
 what long tribunal, from one end to the other 
 of which he walks, with a strangely mechani- 
 cal agitation. He fails not to start with some 
 phrase to which, at the end of the sentence, 
 he returns, like a pendulum ; though, by liis 
 impassioned gestures, you would think him 
 very likely to forget it : but this is a syste- 
 matic fury, " a fit of regular and voluntary 
 distraction," often seen in Italy, and indicating
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 75 
 
 none but superficial or artificial feelings. A 
 crucifix is hung in the pulpit ; the preacher 
 takes it down, kisses, presses it in his arms, 
 and then hangs it up again, with perfect cool- 
 ness, as soon as the pathetic passage is got 
 thnugh. Another method for producing effect 
 is pulling off and pitting on his cap, with in- 
 conceivable rapidity. One of these men at- 
 tacked Voltaire and Rousseau on the scepticism 
 of the age. He threw his cap into the middle 
 of the pulpit, as the representative of Jean 
 Jacques, and then cried, " Now, philosopher 
 of Geneva, what 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 ter- 
 minated the discourse by adding, " Well, 
 since I've convinced you, let us say no more 
 about it." These uncouth scenes are frequent 
 in Rome, where real pulpit oratory is ex- 
 tremely rare. Religion 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 creates a disturb- 
 ance in minds at once so ardent and so lan- 
 guid, that they need uniformity to calm them ; 
 and love it for the repose it brings. There is 
 an etiquette in these sermons, by which words 
 take precedence of ideas ; and this order would 
 be deranged, if the preacher spoke from his 
 own heart, or searched his soul for what he 
 ought to say. Christian philosophy, which 
 finds analogies between religion and humanity, 
 is as little understood in Italy, as philosophy 
 of any other sort. To speculate on religion 
 is deemed almost as scandalous as 
 against it ; so wedded are all men to mere 
 forms and old usages, The worship of the 
 Virgin is particularly dear to southern people ; 
 it seems allied to all that is most chaste and 
 tender in their love of woman ; but every 
 preacher treats this subject with the same 
 exaggerated rhetoric, and one can hardly con- 
 ceive how it is that their gestures and their 
 language do not constantly turn the most seri- 
 ous subject into ridicule. There is scarcely 
 to be heard, from one Italian pulpit, a single 
 specimen of correct accent, or natural de- 
 livery. 
 
 Oswald fled from this most fatiguing of in- 
 flictions that of affected vehemence and 
 sought the Coliseum, where a Capuchin was 
 to preach in the open air, at the foot of an 
 altar, in the centre of the enclosure which 
 marks the road to the cross. What a theme 
 was this arena, where martyrs succeeded 
 gladiators : but there was no hope of hearing 
 
 it dilated on by the poor capuchin, who knew 
 nothing of the history of man, save in his own 
 life. Without, however, coming there to hear 
 his bad sermon, Oswald felt interested by the 
 objects around him. The congregation was 
 principally composed of the Camaldoline fra- 
 ternity, at that time attired in grey gowns 
 that covered both head and body, leaving but 
 two little openings for the eyes, and having a 
 most ghostly air. Their unseen faces were 
 prostrated to the earth ; they beat their 
 breasts ; and when their preacher threw him- 
 self on his knees, crying ' Mercy and pity !" 
 they followed his example. As this appeal 
 from wretchedness to compassion, from earth 
 to Heaven, echoed through the classic porti- 
 coes, it was impossible not to experience a 
 deeply pious feeling in the soul's inmost sanc- 
 tuary. Oswald shuddered ; he remained 
 standing, that he might not pretend to a faith 
 which was not his own ; yet it cost him an 
 effort 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 be more tolerant than the Romans. They 
 are accustomed to persons who come amongst 
 them but as sight-seers ; and, either from 
 pride or indolence, never seek to make stran- 
 gers participate in their opinions. It is a still 
 more extraordinary fact, that at this period 
 especially, there are many who take on them- 
 selves the strictest punishments ; yet, while 
 the scourge is in their hands, the church-door 
 is still open, and every stranger welcome to 
 enter as usual. They do nothing for the sake 
 of being looked at, nor are they frightened 
 from anything because they happen to be seen ; 
 they proceed towards their own aims, or plea- 
 sures, without knowing that there is such a 
 thing as vanity, whose only aim and pleasure 
 consists in the applause of others. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MUCH has been said of Passion-week in 
 Rome. A number of foreigners arrive during 
 Lent, to enjoy this spectacle ; and as the mu- 
 sic at the Sixiine Chapel, and the illumination 
 of St. Peter's are unique of their kinds, they 
 naturally attract much curiosity, which is not 
 
 scheming- enter as usual.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 always satisfied. The dinner served by the 
 Pope to the twelve representatives of the 
 
 : Apostles, whose feet he bathes, must recall 
 solemn ideas ; yet a thousand inevitable cir- 
 cumstances often destroy their dignity. All 
 the contributors to these customs are not 
 equally absorbed by devotion ; ceremonies so 
 oft repeated become mechanical to most of 
 their agents ; the young priests hurry over 
 the service with a -dextrous activity anything 
 but imposing. All the mysteries that should 
 veil religion are dissipated, by that 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 indifference of the other to their prayer? 
 and genuflections, deprive the whole of its due 
 sublimity. 
 
 The ancient costumes still worn by the ec- 
 clesiastics ill accord with their modern heads. 
 The bearded Patriarch of the Greek Church 
 is the most venerable figure left for such offi- 
 ces. The old fashion, too, of men curtesying 
 like women is dangerous to the gravity of the 
 spectator. The past and the present, indeed, 
 rather jostle than harmonize ; little care is 
 taken to strike the imagination, and none to 
 
 I prevent its being distracted. A worship so 
 brilliantly majestic in its externals is certainly 
 well fitted to elevate the soul ; but more cau- 
 tion 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 pray- 
 ing ; when to kneel, and when to rise. Court 
 rules introduced into 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 plea- 
 sure in these sacred fetes. It is a peculiarity 
 in Italian character, that their versatility of 
 Uste leads not to inconstancy ; and that their 
 vivacity removes all necessity for variety. 
 The Italians, penitent and persevering even 
 in their amusements, let imagination embellish 
 what they possess, instead of bidding them 
 crave what they have not : they deem every- 
 thing more grand, more beautiful than it really 
 is ; and as elsewhere vanity teaches men to 
 seem fastidious, in Italy, warmth of tempera- 
 ment makes it a pleasure to admire. 
 
 After all the Romans had said to Nelvil of 
 their Passion-week, he had expected much 
 more than he had found. He sighed for the 
 august simplicity of the English Church, and 
 returned home discontented with himself, for 
 not having been affected by that which he 
 ought to have felt. In such coses we fancy 
 that the soul is withered, and fear that we 
 have lost that enthusiasm, without which rea- 
 
 son itself would but serve to disgust us with 
 life. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY restored all the religious emo- 
 tions of Lord Nelvil ; 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 Judgment, treated by a 
 genius worthy so terrible a subject. Dante 
 had infected this painter with the bad taste of 
 representing mythological beings in the pre- 
 sence of Christ ; but it is chiefly as demons 
 that he has characterized these Pagan crea- 
 tions. Beneath the arches of the roof are 
 seen the prophets and heathen priestesses, 
 called as witnesses by the Christians (tests 
 David cum Sybilla) ; a host of angels around 
 them. The roof is painted as if to bring 
 heaven nearer to us ; but that heav-en is 
 gloomy and repulsive. Day scarcely pene- 
 trates the windows, which throw on the pic- 
 tures more shadows than beams. This dim- 
 ness enlarges the already commanding figures 
 of Michael Angelo. The funejeal 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 ihat part 
 of the chapel devoted to females, and sepa- 
 rated by a grating from the rest. She was 
 in black ; pale with abstinence, and so tremu- 
 lous, 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 in- 
 stant rendered the chapel darker. The music 
 seemed to float in the air ; no longer in the 
 voluptuously impassioned strains which the 
 lovers had heard together a week since, but 
 such as seemed bidding them renounce all 
 earthly things. Corinne knelt before the ^ 
 grate. Oswald himself was forgotten. At j 
 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 i; 
 
 , . ! I
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 77 
 
 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 har- 
 mony of one is answered by murmured reci- 
 tative, heavy and even harsh, like the reply of 
 ^orldlings to the appeal of sensibility, or the 
 realities of life defeating the vows of generous 
 souls. When the soft choir reply, hope springs 
 again, again to be frozen by that dreary sound 
 which inspires not terror, but utter discourage- 
 ment ; yet the last burst, most reassuring of 
 all, leaves just the pure and exquisite sensa- 
 tion in the soul which we would pray to be 
 accorded when we die. The lights are ex- 
 tinguished ; night advances ; the pictures 
 gleam like prophetic phantoms through the 
 dusk ; the deepest silence reigns ; speech 
 would be insupportable in this state of self- 
 communion ; every one steals slowly away, 
 reluctant to resume th vulgar interests of the 
 world. 
 
 Corinne followed the procession to St. 
 Peter's, as yet illumined by a cross of fire ; 
 this type of grief shining alone through the 
 immense obscure, is a fine image of Christi- 
 anity 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 effigies of the 
 dead. Around the cross is a space cleared, 
 where the Pope, arrayed in white, with all 
 the cardinals behind him, prostrate themselves 
 to the earth, and remain nearly half an hour 
 profoundly mute. It is impossible to be un- 
 moved at this spectacle. None hear what 
 they request ; none hear their secret groans ; 
 but they are aged, going before us towards 
 the tomb, whither we must follow. Grant us, 
 O God ! the grace so to ennoble our age, that 
 the last days of life may be the first of im- 
 mortality. 
 
 Corinne, too, the young and lovely Corinne, 
 knelt near the priests ; the mild light weak- 
 ened not the lustre of her eyes. Oswald 
 looked on her as an entrancing picture, as 
 an adored woman. Her orison concluded, 
 she rose ; her lover dared not approach, re- 
 vering the meditations in which he believed 
 her still plunged ; but she came to him with 
 all the rapture of reunion : happiness was so 
 shed over her every action, that she received 
 the greetings of her friends with unwonted 
 gaiety. St. Peter's, indeed, had suddenly 
 become a public promenade, where every one 
 made appointments of business or of pleasure. 
 Oswald was astonished at this power of run- 
 ning 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 s< j 
 solemn a day, could be converted into le , 
 Cafe of Rome, where people met for amuse- 
 ment ; and seeing Corinne encircled by ad- 
 mirers, to whom she chatted cheerfully, as if 
 no longer conscious where she stood, he felt 
 some mistrust as to the levity of which she 
 could 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 senti- 
 ments ; let me do so now ; perhaps I may 
 thus disperse the clouds I see rising in your 
 mind." 
 
 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 
 exist between the two ; but here we have no 
 doctrinal dissensions. England has experi- 
 enced many. The result is, that Catholicism 
 here has taken an indulgent character, such 
 as it cannot have where Reformation is armed 
 against it. Our religion, like that of the an- 
 cients, animates the arts, inspires the poets, 
 and makes part of all the joys of life-; while 
 yours, established in a country where reason 
 predominates over fancy, is stamped with a 
 moral sternness that will never be effaced. 
 Ours calls on us in the name of love ; yours 
 in that of duty. Your principles are liberal ; 
 our dogmas bigoted : yet our orthodox despot- 
 ism yields to the circumstances of the indi- 
 vidual, but your religious liberty exacts re- 
 spect 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 betvyeen 
 God and man. Among the secular Catholics 
 here, love, hope and faith, are the chief vir- 
 tues ; all announcing, all bestowing peace. 
 Far from our priests forbidding us to rejoice, 
 they tell us that we thus evince our gratitude 
 for the gifts of Heaven. They enjoin us to 
 practise charity and repentance, as proofs of 
 our respect for our faith, and our desire to 
 please its founder ; but they refuse us not the 
 absolution we zealously implore ; and the 
 errors of the heart meet here a mercy else-
 
 78 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 where denied T)id not our Saviour tell the 
 Magdalene that much should be pardoned to 
 the greatness of her love ? As fair a sky as 
 ours echoed these words : shall we 'then de- 
 spair of our Creator's pity 1" 
 
 " Corinne," returned Nelvil, "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 1 look for a long futurity of 
 content and virtue. The purest religion is 
 that which sacrifices passion to duty, as a con- 
 tinual homage 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 perfection. 
 Paternity, that god-like symbol of faultless 
 sway, seeks but to render its children better 
 and happier. How, then, suppose that God 
 demands of man anything that has not the 
 welfare of man for its object ] what confused 
 notions spring from the habit of attaching 
 more importance to religious ceremony than 
 to active worth 1 You know that it is just 
 after Passion-week the greatest number of 
 murders are committed in Rome. The long 
 fast has, so to speak, put its votaries in , funds, 
 and they spend the treasures of their peni- 
 tence in assassinations. The most blood- 
 stained 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 Divinity were like one of the 
 world's rulers, who preferred flattering sub- 
 mission to faithful service. Is this courtier- 
 like behavior to be substituted for the respect 
 we owe the Eternal, as the source and the 
 recompense of a forbearing and spotless life ] 
 The external demonstration of Italian Catho- 
 licism excuses the soul from all interior piety. 
 The spectacle over, the feeling ends the 
 duty is done ; no one remains, as with us, 
 long occupied by thoughts born of strict and 
 sincere 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 mo- 
 rality, how is it superior to philosophy and 
 reason T And what piety could we truly feel, 
 f our principal end was that of stifling all the 
 feelings of the heart 1 The Stoics knew 
 almost as much as ourselves of austere self- 
 denials ; but that which is due to Christianity 
 alone is the enthusiasm which weds it with 
 all the affections of the soul the power of 
 loving and sympathising. It is the most in- 
 dulgent worship, which best favors the flight 
 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 fulfilment of duty 1 He quitted 
 
 the paternal roof: his brother remained be- 
 neath it ; 'he had plunged into all the pleasures 
 of the world ; his brother had never for an 
 instant broken the regularity of domestic life : 
 but the wandeier returned, all tears, and his 
 beloved father received him with rejoicing ! 
 Ah ! doubtless, among the mysteries of nature, 
 love is all that is left us of our heavenly heri- 
 tage ! Our very virtues are often too com- 
 plicated with circumstances for us always to 
 comprehend what is right, or what is the se- 
 cret impulse that directs us. I ask my God 
 to teach me to adore him. I feel the effect of 
 my petition by the tears I shed. But, to sus- 
 tain this disposition, religious exercises are 
 more necessary than you may think ; a con- 
 stant intercourse with the Divinity ; daily 
 habits that have no connection with the inte- 
 rests of life, but belong solely to the invisible 
 world. External objects are of great assist- 
 ance to piety. The soul would fall back upon 
 herself, if music and the arts reanimated not 
 that poetic genius, which is also the genius of 
 religion. The most vulgar man, while he 
 prays, suffers, or trusts in Heaven, would ex- 
 press himself like Milton, Homer, or Tasso, 
 if education had clothed his thoughts in words. 
 There are but two distinct classes of men 
 born those who feel enthusiasm, and those 
 who deride it ; all the rest is the work of so- 
 ciety. One class have no words for their 
 sentiments ; the other know what they ought 
 to say to hide the void of their hearts : but 
 the stream flowed from the rock at the com- 
 mand 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 con- 
 tinual prayer ; those statues placed on tombs, 
 as if to awaken one day with the dead ; our 
 churches, with their lofty aisles ; all seem 
 ntimately connected with 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 dis- 
 interested. The magnificence of religion 
 cannot be too much increased. I love this 
 prodigality of terrestrial gifts to another 
 world ; offerings from time to eternity ! Suf- 
 ficient for the morrow are the cares required 
 by human economy. Oh ! how I love whut 
 
 ould be useless waste, were life nothing 
 better than a career of toil for despicable 
 gain ! If this earth be but our road to hea- 
 ven, what can we do better than so elevate 
 our souis, that they feel the Infinite, the *n- 
 
 isible, the Eternal, in the midst of the limiw 
 that surronnd them ] Jesus permitted a weak 
 and, perhaps, repentant woman, to steep fau
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 791 
 
 head in precious balms, saying to those who 
 bade her turn them to more profitable use, 
 ' \V hy trouble ye the woman T the poor ye 
 have al \vays with you, but me ye have not 
 always.' Ala? ! whatever is good or sublime 
 on this earth, is ours but for a while ; we 
 have it not always. Age, infirmities, and 
 death soon sully the heavenly dewdrop that 
 only rests on flowers. Dear Oswald,' let us, 
 then, blend love, religion, genius, sunshine, 
 odors, music, and poetry. There is no Athe- 
 ism but cold, selfish baseness. Christ has 
 said, ' When two or three are gathered toge- 
 ther in my name, I will be amongst them ;' 
 and what, Oh God ! is assembling in thy name, 
 if we do not so while enjoying the charms of 
 nature, therein praising and thanking thee for 
 our life ; above all, when some other heart, 
 created by thy hands, responds entirely to our 
 own ?" 
 
 So celestial 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, delight- 
 edly musing over her words, and reading their 
 meaning in her looks : he could not, however, 
 abandon a cause so dear to him as that he had 
 undertaken ; therefore he resumed. " Co- 
 rinne, hear a few words more from your 
 friend : his heart is not seared ; no, no, be- 
 "i3ve me, if I require austerity of principle 
 an i action, it is because it gives our feelings 
 depth and duration ; if I look for reason in 
 religion, that is, if I reject contradictory 
 dogmas, and human means for affecting the 
 soul it is-because I see the Divinity in rea- 
 son as well as in enthusiasm ; if 1 cannot 
 allow man to be deprived of any of his facul- 
 ties, it is because they are all scarce sufficient 
 for his comprehension of the truths, revealed 
 to him as much by mental reflection as by 
 heartfelt instinct the existence of a God, 
 and the immortality of the soul. To these 
 solemn thoughts, so entwined with virtue, 
 what can be added, that, in fact, belongs to 
 them T The poetic zeal to which you lend 
 so many attractions, is not, I dare assert, the 
 most salutary kind of devotion ! Gorinne, 
 how can it prepare us for the innumerable 
 sacrifices that duty exacts 1 There was no 
 revelation, save in the aspirations of the soul, 
 while its future destiny is seen but through 
 clouds. But we, to whom Christianity ren- 
 ders it clear and positive, may deem suchsen- 
 sations our reward, but cannot make them our 
 sole guide. 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 ounown 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 impe- 
 rious duty alone can check his proud excesses. 
 Whatever you may think of exterior pomp, 
 and numerous ceremonies, dearest ! the con- 
 templation of the universe and its Author, 
 will ever be the highest worship, one which 
 fills the imagination without containing any- 
 thing either idle or absurd. The dogmas that 
 offend my reason, also chill my enthusiasm. 
 Doubtless, the world is in itself an incompre- 
 hensible mystery, and he were most unwise 
 who refused to believe whatever he could not 
 explain ; but contradictions are always th 
 work of man. The secrets of God are be- 
 yond our mental powers, but not opposed to 
 them. A German philosopher has said, ' / 
 know but two beautiful 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 passion must else have 
 blighted. Repentance is assuredly commend- 
 able, and I, -more than most men, had need 
 rely on its efficacy ; but repeated penitence 
 wearies the soul ; it is a sentiment that can 
 but once regenerate us. Redemption accom- 
 plished, cannot be renewed : accustomed to 
 the attempt, we lose the strength of love ; for 
 it requires strength of mind to love God con- 
 stantly. 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 !' He wondered at the 
 inflexibility with which the creature of a day 
 dared treat his fellow worm ; and dwelt on 
 the terrible thought of death, which all con- 
 ceive, but none can fully comprehend. In 
 short, he said naught that was not touching, 
 true, 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 na- 
 ture, the only one whose spectacles offend not
 
 80 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 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 balconv of the church, 
 call down Heaven's blessing on the earth : as 
 he pronounced ' Urbi et Orbi ' on the city and 
 the world, the people knelt, and the lovers 
 felt all -reeds alike. Religion links men with 
 each other, unless self-love and fanaticism 
 render it a cause of jealousy and hate. To 
 pray together, in whatever tongue or ritual, 
 is, the most tender brotherhood of hope and 
 sympathy that men can contract in this life. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 EASTER was over, yet Corinne spoke not of 
 accomplishing her promise, by confiding her 
 history to Nelvil. Hurt by this silence, he 
 on^e 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 : he- 
 sides, she thought that he would not take her 
 with him, unless he designed to become hers 
 for life. Her anxious looks supplicated a 
 j| favorable reply. He could not resist, though 
 surprised at the simplicity with which she 
 made this offer; yet he hesitated for some 
 time, till, seeing her bosorn 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 relied on his fidelity. 
 
 The day was fixed, and the sweet perspec- 
 tive of travelling together banished . every 
 other idea. Not aa arrangement they made 
 for this purpose but was a source of pleasure. 
 Happy state of mind ! 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 our waking, and drag on the 
 j day to its close. As Nelvil left Corinne, in 
 |! order to prepare everything for their de- 
 ji parture, the Count d'E'rfeuil called on her, 
 ii and learnt her plan. "You cannot think of 
 j ! it !" he said : " make a tour with a man who 
 | has not even promised to be your husband! 
 I what, will become of you if he turns de- 
 j serterV "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 should do 
 nothing to compromise your name, you would 
 still remain yourself." "Myself!" she re- 
 peated, " when the best feelings of my soul 
 were blighted, and my heart broken V' " 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 eyes 
 of him I love V " We may cease to love," 
 answered the Count, " but we do not cease to 
 live in need of society." " If I could think," 
 she exclaimed, " that the day would come 
 when Oswald's affections were no longer mine 
 all in this world, 1 should have ceased to love 
 already. What is love, if it can calculate and 
 provide against its own decay ? No ; like de- 
 votion, it dissipates all other interests, and 
 delights in an entire sacrifice of self.'' "And 
 can a person of your mind turn her brain with 
 such nonsense ?" asked d'Erfeuil : " it is cer- 
 tainly to the advantage of us men, that women 
 think as you do ; but you must not lose your 
 superiority ; it ought to be in some way use- 
 ful." "Useful!" cried Corinne; "Oh! I 
 shall owe it enough, if it teaches me the 
 better to appreciate the tender generosity of 
 Nelvil." 
 
 " Lord Nelvil is like other men," rejoined 
 the Count ; " he will return to nis country, 
 resume his career there, and be reasonable at 
 last ; you will expose your reputation most 
 imprudently by going to Naples with him." 
 " I know not his intentions," she answered ; 
 " and, perhaps, it would have been better to 
 have reflected ere I loved him ; but now 
 what matters one sacrifice more ? Does not 
 my life depend on his love "? Indeed, I feel 
 some solace in leaving myself without one 
 resource ; there never is any for wounded 
 hearts, but the world may sometimes think 
 that such remains ; and I love to know that 
 even in this respect my misfortune would be 
 complete, if Nelvil abandoned me." "And 
 does he know how far you commit yourself 
 for his sake ?" " No ; I have taken great 
 pains, as he is but imperfectly acquainted 
 with the customs of this country, to exagge- 
 rate the liberty it permits. Give me your 
 word that you will say nothing to him on this 
 head. I wish him to he ever free ; he cannot 
 constitute my felicity by giving up any portion 
 of his own. His love is the flower of my 
 life ; and neither his delicacy nor his good- 
 ness could reanimate it, if once faded. I con- 
 jure you, then, dear Count, leave me to my 
 fate. Nothing that you knoto of the .ieart\$ 
 affections can suit my case : all you sav is 
 right, and very applicable to ordinary persons
 
 IT 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 81 
 
 and situations ; but you innocently do me great 
 wrong in judging me by the generality of per- 
 sons, for whom there are so many maxims 
 ready made. I enjoy, I suffer, in my own 
 way ; and it is myself alone that those should 
 consider who seek to influence my welfare." 
 
 The self-love of d'Erfeuil was a little stung 
 by the futility of his advice : and, by the mark 
 of preference shown to Nelv;l, he knew that 
 he himself was not dear to Corinne, and that 
 Oswald was ; yet that all this should be so 
 publicly evinced was somewhat disagreeable 
 to him. The success of any man, with any 
 woman, is apt to displease even his best friends. 
 " I see I can do nothing here," he added ; 
 " but, when my words are fulfilled, you will 
 remember me ; meantime I shall leave Rome ; 
 without you and Nelvil I should be ennuied to 
 death. I shall surely see you both again in 
 Italy or Scotland ; for I have taken a fancy to 
 travel, while waiting for better things. For- 
 give my counsel, charming Corinne, and ever 
 depend on my devotion to you." She thanked 
 and parted from him with regret. She had 
 known him at the same time with Oswald ; 
 that was a link she liked not to see broken ; 
 but she acted as she had told d'Erfeuil she 
 should do. Some anxiety still troubled Os- 
 wald's joy ; he would fain have obtained her 
 secret, that he might be certain they were not 
 to be separated by any invincible obstacle ; 
 but she declared she would explain nothing 
 till they were at Naples ; and threw a veil 
 over what might be said of the step she was 
 taking. Oswald lent himself to this illusion : 
 love, in a weak, uncertain character, half de- 
 ceives, reason remains half clear, and present 
 emotions decide which of the two halves shall 
 become the whole. The mind of Nelvil was 
 singularly expansive and penetrating ; yet he 
 could only judge himself correctly in the past ; 
 his existing situation appeared to him ever in 
 confusion. Susceptible alike of rashness and 
 remorse, of passion and timidity, he was in- 
 capable of understanding his own state, until 
 events had decided the combat. 
 
 When the friends of Corinne were apprised 
 of her plan, they were greatly distressed, 
 especially Prince Castel 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 ac- 
 quaintance whom he was not wont to meet at 
 I her house ; he visited no other. The society 
 ! she attracted round her must be dispersed by 
 
 Iher departure, so wrecked that it would soon 
 be impossible to restore it. He was little ac- 
 | customed to live ampng his family ; though 
 extremely intelligent, study fatigued him ; the 
 day, would have been too heavy but for his 
 
 morn and evening visit to Corinne. She was 
 going ; he could not guess why ; yet secretly 
 promised himself to rejoin her, not like an 
 exacting lover, but as one ever ready to con- 
 sole 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 ; si e was the cen- 
 tre round which circled all its celebrated art- 
 ists and men of letters perfect freedom had 
 lent charms to her existence : what was she 
 to be now 1 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 1 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 
 forethoughted ; 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. " Will 
 you return no more to Rome]" he asked. 
 " Good God, yes !" she cried ; " we shall be 
 back in a month." " But, if you wed Lord 
 Nelvil, 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 warmly admired, and 
 for friends, Corinne, where will you be be- 
 loved as you are here 1 where find the arts, 
 the thoughts that please you ! Can a single 
 attachment constitute your life 1 Do not lan- 
 guage, customs, and manners, compose that 
 love of country which inflicts such terrible 
 grief on the exile 1" " What say you T' 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 
 windows : and the skv whose smile seemed 
 inviting her to stay ; but at that moment Os- 
 wald 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, and both, 
 impatient to set forth, took their places i the 
 carriage ; yet Corinne paid a kind adieu to 
 Castel Forte ; but it was lost among the shouts 
 of paetilions, the neighing of horses, and all 
 the bustle of departure sometimes sad 
 sometimes intoxicating, just as fear or hope 
 may be inspired by the new chances of coming 
 destiny.
 
 82 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 BOOK XI. 
 
 NAPLES, \N0 THE HERMITAGE OF. ST. SALVADOR 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 OSWALD was proud of bearing off his con- 
 quest ; though usually disturbed in his enjoy- 
 ments by reflections and regrets, he felt less 
 so now: not that he was decided, but that he 
 did not trouble himself to be so ; lie yielded 
 to the course of events, hoping to be borne 
 rewards the haven of his wishes. They 
 crossed the Campagna d'Albano, where still is 
 shown the supposed tomb of the Horatii and 
 Curiatii, (25). 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 the 
 past, and seem. to preserve it in eternal youth. 
 Oswald and Corinne next traversed the Pon- 
 tine marshes, fertile and pestilent at once, un- 
 enlivened by a single habitation. Squalid- 
 looking men put to the horses, advising you to 
 keep awake while ppsing through this air, as 
 sleep is there the herald of death. Buflhloes, 
 of the most stupid ferocity, draw the plough, 
 which imprudent cultivators sometimes em- 
 ploy upon this fatal land ; and the most bril- 
 liant sunshine lights up the melancholy scene. 
 Unwholesome swamps in the north are indi- 
 cated by their frightful aspects ; but in the 
 most dangerous countries of the south nature 
 deceives the traveller by her serenest welcome. 
 If it be true that slumber is so perilous on these 
 fens, the drowsiness which they produce is an- 
 other of the perfidious impressions belonging to 
 the scene. Nelvil watched constantly over 
 Corinne. When she languidly closed her 
 eyes, or leaned her head on the shoulder of 
 Theresina, he awakened her with inexpressible 
 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 
 forgive the heart of woman for the despairing 
 regret with which it clings to the days when 
 
 she was beloved ? when her existence was so 
 essential to that of another, that its every in- 
 stant was protected by his arm ? What isola- 
 tion must succeed that delicious time ! Happy 
 they whom the sacred link of marriage gently 
 leads from love to friendship, without one cruel 
 moment haying 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 
 Campagna 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 spot secret, and therefore ren- 
 dered the roads to it so hazardous. Not far 
 from Terracina is the promontory chosen by 
 poets as the abode of Circe ; behind rises 
 Mount Anxur, where Theodoric, king of the 
 Goths, built one of his strongest castles. 
 There are few traces of these invading barba- 
 rians left, and those, being mere works of de- 
 struction, 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 Au- 
 sonia could not keep the fortifications and 
 citadels that bristle through northern snows. 
 Rarely is a Gothic edifice or feudal castle to 
 be found here. The antique Romans still 
 reign over the memory even of their conque- 
 rors. The whole of the mountain above Ter- 
 racina is covered with orange and lemon trees, 
 that delicately embalm the air. Nothing in 
 our own climes resembles 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 gi- 
 gantic vegetation, almost fearfully ; they seem 
 belonging to a realm of tyranny and violence. 
 Everything 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 child- 
 ren threw into Corinne's carriage immense
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 83 
 
 heaps of flowers, gathered by the wayside, or 
 on the hills, and strewn at random, so confi- 
 dent are they in the prodigality of nature. 
 The wagons that bring the harvest from the 
 field are daily garlanded with roses. One 
 sees and hears, beside these smiling pictures, 
 the waves that rage unlashed by storms against 
 the rocks, eternal barriers - that chafe the 
 ocean's pride. 
 
 " E non udite ancor come risuona 
 II roco ed alto fremito marine 1" 
 
 " And hear you not how still resounds 
 The hoarse and deep roar of the sea 7" 
 
 This endless motion, this aimless strength, 
 renewed eternally, whose cause and end are 
 equally mysterious, draws us to the shore 
 whence so grand a spectacle may be seen, till 
 we feel a fearful desire to come near its waves, 
 and stun our thoughts amid their tumultuous 
 voices. 
 
 Towards evening all was calm. Corinne 
 and Nejvil wandered slowly forth : they step- 
 ped on flowers, and scattered their sweets as 
 they pressed them. The nightingale rests on 
 the rose bushes, and blends the purest music 
 with the richest scents. All nature's charms 
 seem mutually attracted ; but the most en- 
 trancing and inexpressible of all is the mild- 
 ness of the air. In contemplating a fine north- 
 ern view, the climate always qualifies our 
 pleasure. Like false notes in a concert, the 
 petty sensations of cold and damp distract 
 attentiqn ; but in approaching Naples you 
 breathe so freely, feel such perfect ease ; with 
 such bounteous friendship does nature welcome 
 you, that nothing impairs your delight. Man's 
 every relation, in our lands, is with society : 
 in warm climates his affe'ctions overflow 
 among exterior objects. It is not that the 
 south has not its melancholy in what scenes 
 can human destiny fail to awaken if? but here 
 it is unmixed with discontent or anxiety. 
 Elsewhere life, such as it is, suffices not the 
 faculties of man : here those faculties suffice 
 not for a life whose superabundance of sensa- 
 tions 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 light : these insects 
 wanton through the trees, sometimes alighting 
 on their leaves ; and as the wind waves them, 
 the uncertain gleam of these little stars is 
 varied in a thousand ways. The sand also 
 contain^, number of small ferruginous stones, 
 that shine through it, as if the earth cherished 
 in its breast the last rays of the vivifying sun. 
 Everywhere is united a life and a repose that 
 satisfy at once all the wishes of existence. 
 
 Corinne yielded to the charm of such a 
 night with heartfelt joy. Oswald could not 
 conceal his emotion. Oftei he pressed her 
 hand to his heart, then withdrew, returned, 
 retired again, in respect for her who ought to 
 be the companion of his life. She had not 
 thought of her danger : such was her esteem 
 for him, that, had he demanded the gift of her 
 entire being, she would not have doubt-ed that 
 such a prayer was but a solemn vow to make 
 her his wife ; she was glad, however., that he 
 had triumphed over himself, and honored her 
 by the sacrifice : her soul was so replete with 
 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 con- 
 fessing his power, in entreating him not to 
 abuse it, that this humble defence extorted 
 more reverence than any other could have 
 done. 
 
 They saw reflected in the wave a torch 
 which some unknown hand bore along the 
 beach, to a rendezvous at a neighboring house. 
 " He goes to his love," said Oswald. " Yes," 
 answered Corinne ; " and for me," replied 
 Oswald, " the happiness of this day is over." 
 Corinne's eyes, then raised to heaven, were 
 filled with tears. Oswald, fearing that he had 
 offended her, fell at her feet, begging her to 
 pardon the love whi<ih 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 resistless ; it is you, then, who must answer 
 for me ; you, who would refuse 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 
 replied, " I had said to myself that the mo- 
 ments I' have just passed with you were the 
 happiest of my life ; and, as I looked gratefully 
 to heaven, I know not by what chance a child- 
 ish superstition came back upon my mind. 
 The moon was hid by a cloud of fatal aspect. 
 I have always found the sky either paternal 
 or angry ; and I tell you, Oswald, that to- 
 night it condemns our love." " Dearest," 
 cried he, " the only auguries are good or evil 
 actions ; and have I not, this evening, immo- 
 lated my most ardent desires to virtue ?" " It 
 is well," added Corinne, " if you are not in- 
 volved in this presage, it may be that the 
 stormy heaven menaces but myself."
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THEY arrived at Naples by day, amid its 
 immense population of animated idlers. They 
 first crossed the S-trada del Toledo, and saw 
 the Lazzaroni lying on the pavement, or 
 crouch ins in the osier baskets that serve them 
 for dwelling's nigh't 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 'confess anonymous sins, as they know not 
 what to call the offenders. There is a sub- 
 terranean grotto, where thousands of Lazza- 
 roni 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 climates 
 where food and raiment are so cheap, it re- 
 quires a very active government to spread 
 sufficient national emulation : material sub- 
 sistence is so easy there, that they dispense 
 with the industry requisite elsewhere for our 
 daily bread. Idleness and ignorance, com- 
 bined with the volcanic air they imbibe, must 
 produce ferocity when the passions are excited; 
 yet these people are no worse than others : 
 they have an imagination which might prove 
 the parent of disinterested actions, and lead to 
 good results, did their political and religious 
 institutions set them good examples. 
 
 The Calabrese march towards the fields 
 they cultivate with a musician at their head, 
 to whose tunes they occasionally dance by 
 way of variety. Every year is held near 
 Naples a fete to our Lady of the Grotto, at 
 which the girls dance to the sound of tambou- 
 rines and castanets, and they often make a 
 c^use in their ' marriage contracts, that their 
 husbands shall take them annually to this fete. 
 There was an actor of eighty, who for sixty 
 years diverted the Neapolitans, in their na- 
 tional part of Polichinello. What imrnoTtality 
 does the soul deserve of the man who has thus 
 employed a long life ? 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 lias 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 intro- 
 duced among savages, they would demand it 
 in the same way. What the Neapolitans want 
 most is a sense of dignity. They perform 
 generous and benevolent actions rather from 
 impulse than principle. Their theories are 
 worth nothing ; and public opinion has no in- 
 fluence 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 high- 
 est class js 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 govern- 
 ment devoted its powers to their mental and 
 moral improvement. As there is little educa- 
 tion, one finds mor originality of character 
 than of wit ; but the distinguished men of this 
 country, such as the Abbe Galiani, and Carac- 
 cioli, possessed, it is said, both pleasantry and 
 reflection, rare uni6*n, without which either 
 pedantry or frivolity must prevent men from 
 knowing the -true value of things. In some 
 respects the Neapolitans are quite uncivilized ; 
 but their vulgarity is not like that of others ; 
 their very grossness strikes the imagina- 
 tion. 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 rag- 
 ged cloaks, draped so artistically, give some- 
 thing picturesque to the populace, in whom, 
 elsewhere, we can but mark the steps of civil- 
 isation. 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 climate permits all kinds of 
 laborers to work in the streets. Tailors there 
 make clothes, and cooks pastry, these house- 
 hold tasks performed out of doors much aug- 
 ment the action of the scene. Songs, dances, 
 and noisy oports accompany this spectacle. 
 There never was a country in which the dif- 
 ferance between amusement and happiness 
 might be more clearly felt; yet leave the 
 interior of the city for the quays, look on the 
 sea, and Vesuvius, and you forget all that you 
 know of the natives. 
 
 Oswald and Corinne reached Naples while 
 the eruption still lasted. By day it sent forth 
 but a black smoke, which might be confounded 
 witk the clouds ; but in the evening, going to 
 the balcony of their abode, they witnessed a 
 most unexpected scene. A flood of fire rolled 
 j down to the sea, its flaming waves imitating 
 ! the rapid succession, and indefatigable move- 
 ment of the ocean's billows. It might be said 
 that nature, though exhibiting herself in differ-
 
 CORIXNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 ent elements, yet preserved traces of a single 
 and primitiTe thought. This phenomen 
 really makes the heart palpitate. We are 
 familiarized with the works of heaven, that 
 we scarcely notice them with any new sensa- 
 tion in our prosaic realms ; but the wonder 
 which the universe ought to inspire is sudden- 
 ly renewed at the sight of a miracle like this : 
 our whole being is agitated by its Maker's 
 power, from which our social connections 
 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 Vesu- 
 vius, and felt an added delight in thinking of 
 the danger they thus should brave together. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THERE was t that time in the harbor an 
 English ship of war, where divine service 
 was performed every Sunday. The captain 
 and other English persons then at Naples in- 
 vited Lord Nelvil to attend on the morrow. 
 i He promised ; but while thinking whether he 
 should take Corinne, or how she could be pre- 
 sented to his countrywomen, he was tortured 
 by anxiety. As he walked with her near the 
 | port next day, and was about to advise her 
 i not to go on board this vessel, a boat neared 
 j the shore, rowed by ten sailors, dressed in 
 white, wearing black velvet caps, with the 
 Leopard embroidered on them in silver. A 
 young officer stepped on shore, and entreated 
 vCorinne to let him take her to the ship, call- 
 ing her " Lady Nelvil." 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 well-disciplined crew, who, 
 without one supsrfluous word or gesture, rap- 
 idly winged their bark over the element they 
 had so often traversed. Corinne dared not 
 ask Nelvil what she was to anticipate ; she 
 strove to guess his projects, never hitting on 
 what, at all times, was most probable, 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 chaplain to make her his wife : 
 this thought alarmed more than it gratified 
 her. She felt about to leave Italy for Eng- 
 
 land, 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 ! How she 
 would have abjured them ! 
 
 She mounted the vessel's side : it was ar- 
 ranged with the most careful neatness. No- 
 thing was heard from its deck but the com- 
 mands of the captain. Subordination and se- 
 rious regularity here reigned, as emblems of 
 liberty and order, in contrast with the impas- 
 sioned turmoil of Naples. Oswald eagerly 
 watched the impression this made on Corinne, 
 yet he was often diverted from his attention 
 by the love he bore his country. There is no 
 second country for an Englishman, except a 
 ship and the sea. Oswald joined the Britons 
 on board to ask the news, and talk politics. 
 Corinne stood beside some English females 
 who had come to hear prayers. They were 
 surrounded by children, 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 to- 
 wards fair Naples, thought of its flowery 
 shores, its lively habits, and sighed. Happily 
 Oswald heard her not ; on the contrary, see- 
 ing her seated among his countrywomen, her 
 dark eyelashes cast down like their light ones, 
 and in every way conforming with their cus- 
 toms, he felt a thrill of joy. 'Vainly does an 
 Englishman take a temporary pleasure among 
 foreign scenes and people ; his heart invaria- 
 bly flies back to his first impressions. If you 
 find him sailing from the antipodes, and ask 
 whither he is going, he answers " Home," if 
 it is towards England that he steers. His 
 vow, his sentiments, at whatever distance he 
 may be, are always turned towards her. 
 
 They went below for divine service. Co- 
 rinne perceived that her first conjecture was 
 unfounded, and that Nelvil's intentions were 
 ess solemn than she supposed ; then she re- 
 proached herself for having feared, and again 
 felt all the embarrassment of her situation ; 
 for every one present believed her the wife of 
 Lord Nelvil, and she could say nothing either 
 to confirm or to destroy this idea. Oswald suf- 
 fered as cruelly. Such faults as weakness 
 and irresolution are never detected by their 
 possessor, for whom they take new names 
 'rom each fresh circumstance ; sometimes it 
 is prudence, sometimes it is delicacy, that de- 
 'ers the moment of action, and prolongs his 
 suspense. He does not perceive that it is the 
 same character which displays itself under 
 these varying circumstances. 
 
 Corinne, in spite of her painful thoughts, 
 was deeply impressed by all she witnessed. . 
 Nothing speaks more directly to the soul than | 
 
 I
 
 86 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 divine service on board ship, for which the 
 noble simplicity of the Reformed Church seems 
 particularly adapted. A young man acted as 
 chaplain, with a firm, sweet voice : his face 
 bespoke a purity of soul : he stood " severe in 
 youthful beauty," a type of the religion fit to 
 be preached amidst the risks of war. At cer- 
 tain periods the English minister pronounced 
 prayers, the last words of which were re- 
 peated by the whole assembly : these confused, 
 yet softened tones, coming from various dis- 
 tances, re-animated the interest of the whole. 
 Sailors and officers alike knelt to the words, 
 " Lord, have mercy upon us !" The Captain's 
 sword trailed by his side, as he knelt, suggest- 
 ing the glorious union of humility before God 
 and courage among men, which renders the 
 devotion of warriors so affecting. While all 
 these brave men addressed the God of Hosts, 
 the sea was seen through the ports ; the light 
 sound of its now peaceful waves was audible, 
 as if saying, " Your prayers are heard." The 
 chaplain concluded with a petition peculiar to 
 English sailors. " And may God grant 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 uni- 
 formity of their grave toils, is seldom inter- 
 rupted, save ,by danger or death. Sailors 
 often behave with extreme gentleness and 
 pity towards 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 that 
 main where the presence of man seems some- 
 thing supernatural. Nelvil and Corinne were 
 again rowed on shore : they gazed on Naples, 
 built like an amphitheatre, thence to took on 
 the spectacle of nature. 
 
 As Corinne's foot touched the shore, she 
 could not check a sentiment of joy ; had Os- 
 wald guessed this, he would have felt dis- 
 pleased, perhaps excusably ; yet such displea- 
 sure would have been unjust, for he was pas- 
 sionately beloved, though the thought of his 
 country always forced on his adorer the memo- 
 ry of events which had rendered her misera- 
 ble. Her fancy was changeful : talent, espe- 
 cially in a woman, creates a zest for variety 
 that the deepest passion cannot entirely sup- 
 ply. -A monotonous life, even in the bosom 
 of content, dismays a mind so constituted. 
 Without a breeze to fill the sails we may al- 
 ways hug the shore ; but imagination will 
 stray, be sensibility never so faithful, at least 
 till 'misfortunes subdue these irregular im- 
 pulses, and leave us but one thought, one 
 only sorrow. 
 
 Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne 
 solely to the awkward situation of her having 
 been called Lady Nelvil : he blamed himself 
 for not extricating her from it, and feared that 
 she might suspect him of levity. He, there- j 
 fore, began the long desired explanation, by i 
 offering to relate his own history. " I shall | 
 speak first," he said, " and your confidence ' 
 will follow minel" "Doubtless it ought,"' 
 replied Corinne, trembling ; " you wish it at Y 
 what day what hour] when you have spoken, 
 I will tell all." " How sadly you are agitated," 
 said Oswald. " Will you always fear me thus, 
 nor ever learn to trust 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 prefcede yours, I am resolved." 
 " Well," replied Corinne, " you give me to- 
 morrow : I thank you for that one day more. 
 Who can tell if, when I have opened my heart 
 to you, you will remain the same 1 How can 
 I help trembling beneath such doubt ]',' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE lovers commenced their route by the 
 ruins of Pompeii. 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 un- 
 known reality. Pompeii is the most curious , 
 ruin of antiquity. In Rome one scarcely finds j 
 any wrecks, save those of public works, asso- 
 ciated with the political changes of by-gone 
 centuries. In Pompeii you retrace the private 
 life of the ancients. The volcano which buried 
 it in ashes preserved it from decay. No edi- 
 fices, exposed to the air, could thus have 
 lasted. Pictures and bronzes keep their pri- 
 mal beauty, while all domestic implements 
 remain in overawing perfection. The am- 
 phoras are still decked for the morrow's festi- 
 val. The flour that was to have been kneaded 
 into cakes is yet there ; the remains of a 
 female are adorned for this interrupted fete, 
 her fleshless arm no longer filling the jewelled 
 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 stonework of 
 the wells bears the marks of the. cords that 
 had worn away their edges by degrees. On
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 8? 
 
 the walls of the guard-room are seen the ill- 
 formed letters, and the rudely sketched figuies, 
 which the soldiers had scrawled to beguile 
 their time, while Time himself was striding to 
 devour them. When, from the midst of the 
 cross-roads, you see all sides of the town, 
 nearly as it existed of yore, you seem to ex- 
 pect that some one will come from these mas- 
 terless dwellings : this appearance of life ren- 
 ders the eternal silence of the place still more 
 appalling. Most of the houses are built of 
 lava, and fresh lava destroyed them. The 
 epochs of the world are counted from fall to 
 fall. The thought of human beings, toiling by 
 the light that consumed them, fills the breast 
 with melancholy. How long it is since man 
 first lived, suffered and died ! Where can we 
 find the thoughts of the departed T do they 
 still float around these ruins 1 or are they 
 gathered for ever to the heaven of immor- 
 tality T A few scorched manuscripts, which 
 were partly unrolled at Portici, are all that is 
 left of these victims to earthquake and volcano. 
 But in drawing near such relics we dread to 
 breathe, lest we should scatter with their dust 
 the noble ideas perhaps impressed on it. The 
 
 | public buildings, even of Pompeii, which was 
 one of the smallest Italian towns, are very 
 handsome. The splendor of the ancients seems 
 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 the 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 re- 
 markably, 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 : in its centre is a sim- 
 
 I ply elegant cistern. It is evident that the in- 
 habitants 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 porticoes 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 institutions that excite the 
 faculties, and develope the mind, making man's 
 object the perfection of himself and his fellow- 
 creatures. Antiquity inspires insatiable curi- 
 
 j osity. The learned, employed solely on col- 
 lections of names, which they call history, are 
 
 surely devoid of all imagination. But to pene- 
 trate the past, interrogate the human heart 
 through many ages ; to seize on a fact in a 
 word, and on the manners or character of a 
 nation in a fact : to re-enter the most distant 
 time, in order to 3onceive how the earth looked 
 in its youth, and in what way men supported 
 the, life whi*h civilisation has since rendered 
 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 Nel- 
 vil, who often told Corinne that, 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, regret the glory we cannot 
 obtain. Forgetfulness 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 see the mountain!" thus they 
 designate Vesuvius. Has it need of a name ? 
 It is their glory, 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 of travellers. 
 He rode by her side to overlook her bearers ; 
 and the more his heart filled with the gene- 
 rous sentiments such scenes inspire, the more 
 he adored Corinne. 
 
 The country at the foot of Vesuvius is the 
 most fertile and best cultivated of the kingdom 
 most favored by Heaven in all Europe. The 
 celebrated Lacryma Christi vine flourishes 
 beside land totally devastated by lava, as if 
 nature here made a last effort, and resolved to 
 perish in her richest array. As you ascend, 
 you turn to gaze on Naples and on the fair 
 land around it : the sea sparkles in the sun as 
 if strewn with jewels ; but all the splendors ot 
 creation are extinguished by degrees, as you 
 enter the regions of ashes and of smoke, that 
 announce your approach to the volcano. The 
 iron waves of other years have traced their 
 large, black furrows in the soil. At a certain 
 height birds are no longer seen ; further on, 
 plants become very rare, then even insects 
 find no nourishment. At last all life disap- 
 pears ; you enter the realm of death, and the 
 slain earth's dust alone slips beneath your 
 unassured feet. 
 
 " Ne gresei, ne armenti 
 Guida bifolco mai, guida partore" 
 
 " Never doth swain nor cowboy thither lead the fiocka or 
 herds." 
 
 A hermit lives betwixt the confines of life 
 and death. One tree, the last farewell to
 
 88 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 vegetation, stands before his door, and beneath 
 the shade of its pale foliage are travellers wont 
 to await the night ere they renew their course ; 
 for during the day the fires 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 secret's ; and, wishing to encour- 
 age the confidence of Corinne, he said, " You 
 would fain read your unhappy lover to the 
 depth of the soul. Well, I w'ill confess all. 
 My wounds will re-open, I feel it ; but in the 
 presence of immutable nature ought one to 
 fear the changes time can bring 1" 
 
 BOOK XII. 
 
 HISTORY OF LORD NELVIL. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " I WAS educated in my paternal home, with 
 a tenderness and virtue that I admire the more, 
 the more I know of mankind. 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 simple, because 
 he found them so, and that melt me into tears 
 now I can appreciate his worth. Self-reproach 
 on our conduct to a dear object who is no more, 
 gives an idea of what eternal torments would 
 be, if divine mercy deigned not to soothe our 
 griefs. I was calmly happy with my father, 
 but wished to travel ere I entered the army. 
 There is, in my country, a noble career open 
 for eloquence ; but I am even yet so timid, 
 that it would be painful for me to speak in 
 public ; therefore I preferred a military life, 
 and certain danger, to possible disgust ; my 
 self-love is in all respects more susceptible 
 than ambitious. Men become giants when 
 they blame me, and pigmies when they praise. 
 I wished to visit France, where the revolution 
 had just begun, which, old as was the race of 
 man, professed to recommence the history of 
 the world. My father was somewhat pre- 
 possessed against Paris, which he had seen 
 during the last years of Louis XV. ; and could 
 hardly conceive how coteries were to change 
 into a nation, pretence into virtue, or vanity 
 into enthusiasm. Yet he consented to my 
 wishes, for he feared to exact anything, and 
 felt embarrassed by his own authority, unless 
 duty commanded him to exert it, lest it might 
 impair the truth, the purity, of voluntary affec- 
 
 tion ; and, above all, he lived on being loved. 
 In the beginning of 1791, when I had com- 
 pleted my twenty-first year, he gave me six 
 months' leave of absence ; and I departed to 
 make acquaintance with the nation so near in 
 neighborhood, so contrasted in habits, to my 
 own. Methought I should never love it. 1 
 had all the prejudices of English pride and 
 gravity. I feared the French raillery against 
 all that is tender and serious. I detested that 
 art of crushing high impulses and disenchant- 
 ing love. The foundation of this vaunted 
 gaiety appeared to me a sad one, for it wounded 
 the sentiments I most cherished. I had not 
 then met any really great Frenchmen, such as 
 unite the noblest qualities with the most charm- 
 ing manners. I was astonished at the free 
 simplicity which reigned in Parisian parties. 
 The most important interests were discussed 
 without either frivolity or pedantry, as if the 
 highest thoughts had become the patrimony of 
 conversation, and that the revolution of the 
 whole world would but render the society of 
 Paris more delightful. I found men of supe- 
 rior talents and education animated by the 
 desire to please, even more than the wish to 
 be useful ; seeking the suffrages of the salon 
 after those of the senate, and living in female 
 society rather to be applauded than beloved. 
 
 " Everything in Paris is well combined 
 with reference to external happiness. There 
 is no restraint in the minutiae of life ; selfish- 
 ness is at heart, but not in appearance ; ac- 
 tive interests occupy you every day, without 
 much benefit, indeed, but certainly without 
 the least tedium. A quickness of conception 
 enables men to express and comprehend by a 
 word what would elsewhere require a long ex- 
 planation. An imitative spirit, which must,
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 89 
 
 indeed, oppose all true independence, gives 
 their intercourse an accordant complaisance, 
 nowhere to be found besides ; in short, an 
 easy manner of diversifying life and warding 
 off reflection, without discarding the charms 
 of intellect. To all these means of turning 
 the brain, I must add their spectacles, and you 
 will have some idea of the most social city in 
 the world. I almost start at breathing its 
 name in this hermitage, in the midst of this 
 desert, and under impressions the extreme re- 
 
 verse of those which active population create . 
 owe you a description of that place, and 
 
 but 
 
 the effect it took upon myself. 
 
 " Can you believe, Corinne, gloomy and dis- 
 couraged as you have known me, that I per- 
 mitted myself to be seduced by this spirited 
 whirlpool ? I was pleased at having not a 
 moment of ennui , ; it weuld have been well if 
 I could have deadened^ktf power of suffering, 
 and with it that of loving. If I may judge by 
 myself, I should say that a thong^ful and 
 sensitive being may weary of his own inten- 
 j sity ; and that which wooes him fr6m himself 
 ! awhile does him a service. It is by r; 
 me above myself, that you, Corinne, hav 
 sipated my natural melancholy ; it vn 
 depreciating my real value, that a woman of 
 whom I shall have soon to speak, dissipated 
 my internal sadness. Yet, though I was in- 
 fected by Parisian tastes, they would not long 
 have detained me, had I not conciliated the 
 friendship of a man,, the perfect model of 
 French character in its old loyalty, of French 
 mind in its new cultivation. 
 
 " I shall not, my friend, tell you the real 
 names of the persons I must mention ; you 
 will understand why, when you have heard 
 me to the end. Count Raimond, then, was of 
 the most illustrious birth ; he inherited all the 
 chivalrous pride of his ancestors, and his rea- 
 son adopted more philosophic ideas whenever 
 they commanded a personal sacrifice. He 
 had not mixed actively in the revolution, but 
 loved what was virtuous in either party. He 
 admired 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. Not that he was 
 altogether unhappy, but his mind was so con- 
 trasted with the 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 re- 
 serve ; and, for this purpose, embellished our 
 friendship by little artifices perfectly romantic : 
 he knew of no obstacles to his doing a great 
 service or a slight favor : he designed to set- 
 tle for six months of the year in England, 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, ' married richly, 
 so I am free to do what I please with my for- 
 tune. Besides, this revolution will turn out 
 ill, and I may be killed ; let me then enioy 
 what I have in looking on it as yours.' Alas ! 
 the noble Raimond 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 often but judgment in disguise. 
 Sincere even to imprudence, Raimond ' wore 
 his heart upon his sleeve :' such a character 
 was new to me ; in England the treasures of 
 the mind are not thus exposed ; we have even 
 a habit of doubting those who display them ; 
 but the expansive bounty of my friend afforded 
 me enjoyments at once ready and secure. I 
 had no suspicion of his qualities, even though 
 I knew them all at our first meeting. 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 ex- 
 perience but in youth, ere we acquire one sen- 
 timent of rivalry, ere our different careers, 
 irrevocably tracked out, have furrowed and 
 divided the field of the future. 
 
 " One day Count Raimond said to me, ' My 
 sister is a widow. I confess I am not sorry 
 for it. I never liked the match. She ac- 
 cepted the hand of a dying old man, when 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 important 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 like to make discove- 
 ries ; 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 sister I 
 feel a slight restraint.' 
 
 "Madame d'Arbigny arrived: I was pre- 
 sented to her. In features she resembled her 
 brother, and even in voice ; but in both 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 at- 
 tention ; and, without exaggerated politeness, 
 flattered self-love 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
 
 90 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 countrywomen, that I was attracted by it ; I 
 thought, indeed, that she too often betrayed 
 what she pretended to conceal, and that 
 chance did not afford so many occasions for 
 melting moments as actually arose in her so- 
 ciety. This reflection, however, flitted but 
 lightly over my mind ; for what I felt beside 
 her was both novel and delightful. 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 con- 
 fide in her. One day I mentioned to him the 
 effect 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 cir- 
 cumstances, have since convinced rne that he 
 did not wish to see his sister my wife ; that 
 she even then designed to be so, I can have 
 no doubt, though her purposes were not IS 
 plain as in the sequel. My days glided on 
 without a care. She was always of my 
 opinion. If I began a subject, she agreed 
 with it, ere explained ; yet, with all this 
 meekness, her pow r er 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 marrying a French- 
 woman, and I could do nothing without his 
 consent. My silence, I believe, displeased 
 the lady ; for she had now and then fits of ill 
 temper, she called them low spirits, and at- 
 tributed them to very affecting causes, though 
 her countenance, if for a moment off her 
 guard, wore a most irritated aspect. I fan- 
 cied that these little inequalities might arise 
 from the uncertainty of our relations together, 
 with which I was not satisfied myself ; for it 
 does one more harm to love by halves than to 
 love with all one's heart. 
 
 " Raimond and I never spoke of his sister : 
 it was the first constraint that subsisted be- 
 tween us : but Madame d'Arbigny had con- 
 jured me not to make her the theme of my 
 conversations with her brother ; and, seeing me 
 
 astonished at this request, added, ' I know cot 
 if you think with me, but I can endure no third 
 person, not even an intimate friend, to inter- 
 fere with my regard for another. I love the 
 secresy of affection.' The explanation pleased 
 me, and I obeyed. At this time a letter ar- 
 rived from my father, recalling me to Scot- 
 land. The half year had rolled by ; France 
 was every day more disturbed ; and he deem- 
 ed it unsafe for a foreigner to remain there. 
 This pained me much, though I felt its pro- 
 priety. I longed to see him again, yet could 
 not tear myself from the Count and Madame 
 d'Arbigny without regret. I sought her in- 
 stantly, showed her the letter, and, while she 
 read it, was too absorbed by sadness to mark 
 the impression it made. I was merely sensi- 
 ble that she said something to secure my de- 
 lay ; bade me write Jgprd that I was ill, and 
 so evade my father'ssltornmands. I was about 
 to reply, that my d^arture 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, expecting to 
 have been pressed to stay. I would have 
 conquered my own reluctance, but I did not 
 like to have my purposed triumph aided in 
 this manner. For a moment I misinterpreted 
 my friend : he perceived it, and took my hand, 
 saying, ' In three months I shall visit Eng- 
 land ; why, then, should I keep you here 1 I 
 have my reasons,' he added, in a whisper ; 
 but his sister heard him, and said, hastily, that 
 he was right, that no Englishmen ought 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 confirmed her explanation. I was going, 
 and he did not think it necessary to tell me 
 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 principles for 
 which I loved 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 assur- 
 ance of true friendship ! How far above his 
 sister ranked Count Raimond at that moment 
 in my heart ! She guessed it , and the same 
 evening appeared in quite a new character. 
 Some guests arrived ; she did the honors ad- 
 mirably ; spoke of my departure as if it were 
 in her eyes the most uninteresting occurrence. 
 I had previously remarked, that she set a price 
 on her preference, which prevented her ever 
 letting others witness the favor she accorded 
 me : but now this was too much. I was so 
 hurt by this indifference, that I resolved to 
 take leave before the party, and not remain
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 91 
 
 alone with her one instant. She heard me 
 ask her brother to let me take lea?e of him 
 in the morning, ere I started ; and, coining to 
 us, told me that she must 'charge me with a 
 letter for a friend of hers in England ; then 
 added, hastily, and in a low voice, ' You re- 
 gret my brother only you speak but to him : 
 would you break my heart, by flying thus ]' 
 In an instant she stepped back, and reseated 
 herself among her visitants. I was agitated 
 by her words, 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 apartment : he took 
 no notice of them ; but 1 forced him to ascer- 
 tain the 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 compre- 
 hend this want of feeling for a sister, so con- 
 trasted with his invariable kindness to me ; 
 and I left him in an embarrassment which 
 somewhat chilled my farewell. Ah ! had I 
 known the delicacy which would fain have 
 baffled the captivations of a woman he did not 
 believe formed to make rne happy, could I 
 have foreseen the events which were to sepa- 
 rate us for ever, my adieu would have better 
 satisfied ius soul and mine own." 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 OSWALD ceased for some minutes. Corinne 
 had listened so tremblingly that she too was 
 silent, fearful of retarding 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 more set foot in France. 
 But fate, or, rather, perhaps, my own weak- 
 ness, has poisoned my life /or ever : 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. I received 
 most affectionate letters from Raimond, re- 
 counting the difficulties he found in transfer- 
 ring his property, so as to join me ; but his 
 ;ierfeu?erance in that aim was unwearied. I 
 loved him for it ; but what friend could I cona- 
 
 paie with my father ? The reverence I felf 
 for him never checked my confidence. I put 
 my faith in his words as in those of an oracle 
 and the unfortunate indecision of my charactei 
 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 have taught 
 him to doubt whether I loved him at all. Yet 
 he pitied me, while dying, for the grief his 
 loss would inflict. Ah, Corinne ! I draw near" 
 the recital of my woes : lend my courage thy 
 support ; for in truth I need it." " My dear 
 friend," she answered, " be it some solace that 
 you unveil your nobly sensitive heart before 
 the being who most admires and loves you in 
 the world." Nelvil proceeded : " He sent 
 me to London on business ; and I left him 
 without one warning fear, though never to see 
 him again. -He was more endearing 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, saying, that at 
 his age all partings were solemn ; but I be- 
 lieved his life like mine : our souls understood 
 each other so well, and I was too young to 
 think upon his age. The fears and the confi- 
 dence 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 but 
 been 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 defend- 
 ing his king. I am proscribed, and forced to 
 fly, to hide from my persecutors. Raimond 
 had taken all my fortune, with his own, to 
 settle in England. Have you yet received 
 it 1 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 interests 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 me ! 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 circumstances, Madame d'Ar- 
 bigny's danger, and belief that I could pre- 
 serve her ; it was impossible to hesitate. I
 
 92 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 
 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 ex- 
 planation came, had taken an alarm which 
 could not be dissipated. I arrived at Paris in 
 three days, and found that Madame d'Arbigny 
 had retired to a provincial town sixty leagues 
 off: thither I followed her. We were both 
 much agitated at meeting. She appeared more 
 lovely in her distress than I had ever thought 
 her less artificial, less restrained. AVe wept 
 together for her noble brother, and distracted 
 country. I anxiously inquired as to her pro- 
 perty. She told me that she had no news of 
 it ; but in a few days I learned that the banker 
 to whom Count Raimond confided it, had re- 
 turned it to him ; and, what was more singu- 
 lar, a merchant of the town in which we were, 
 who told me this by chance, assured me that 
 Madame d'Arbigny never needed to have felt 
 a moment's doubt of its safety. 1 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 intelligence of the 
 banker's return, as, not having heard of him 
 for a month, they had thought he was gone to 
 England. She confirmed her kinsman's state- 
 ments, and I believed them ; but, since, have 
 recollected her pretexts for not showing me 
 the note from Raimond, mentioned in her let- 
 ter, and am now convinced that the whole was 
 but a stratagem to secure me. 
 
 It is certain that, as she was rich-, no inter- 
 ested motives blended with her scheme ; but 
 her great fault lay in using address where 
 love alqne was required, and dissimulating 
 when candor would better have served the 
 cause of her sentimental enterprise ; 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 formally declared that 
 I would never marry without my father's ap- 
 proval ; yet I could not forbear betraying the 
 transports her beauty and sadness excited. 
 Her plan being to make me captive at any 
 price, she let me perceive that she was not 
 thoroughly resolved on repulsing my wishes. 
 As I now retrace what passed between us, I 
 am assured that she hesitated from motives 
 quite independent of love and virtue ; nay, 
 that their apparent struggles were but her 
 own secret deliberations. I was constantly 
 alone with her ; and my delicacy could not 
 long resist the temptation. She 'imposed on 
 me all the duties, in yielding me all the rights 
 
 of a husband ; yet displayed more remor*e, 
 perhaps,' than she really felt ; and thus so 
 bound me to her, that I would fain have taken 
 her to England, a'nd implored my father's con- 
 sent to our union ; but she refused to quit 
 France, unless as my wife. There she was 
 wise, indeed ; but well knowing my filial 
 resorutions, she erred in the means she used to 
 retain me in spite of mine every duty. When 
 the war broke out, my desire to leave France 
 became still 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 correspondence with me. This wo- 
 man, so mild, so equable, in general, then 
 gave way to a despair which perfectly over- 
 whelmed me. She employed her wit and 
 graces to please, her grief to intimidate me. 
 Perhaps women are wrong in commanding by 
 tears, enslaving by the strength of their weak- 
 ness ; yet, when they fear not to exert this 
 weapon, it is nearly always victorious, at 
 least for a while. Doubtless, love is weak- 
 ened by this sort of usurpation ; and the power 
 of tears, too frequently exerte'd, chills the im- 
 agination ; but, at that time, there were a 
 thousand excuses for them in France. Ma- 
 dame d'Arbigny's health, too, seemed daily 
 to decrease : another terrible instrument of 
 female power is illness. Those who have 
 not, like you, Corinne, a just reliance on their 
 minds, or are not, like Englishwomen, so 
 proudly modest that feigning is impossible^ 
 have always recourse to art ; and the best we 
 can then hope of them is that their 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 reckless immorality rendered 
 him indifferent to everything. He loved in- 
 trigue 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 
 occasion served for accomplishing his own. 
 He was a man against whom I felt a singular 
 repugnance ; though scarcely thirty, his man- 
 ners and person were remarkably hackneyed. 
 In England, where we are accused of coldness, 
 I never met anything comparable with the 
 seriousness of his demeanor on entering a 
 room. I should never have taken him for a 
 Frenchman, 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 di?- 
 position to a system. He pretended that he 
 was born a sensitive enthusiast, but that the 
 knowledge of mankind he owed to the revo- 
 lution had undeceived him. He perceived,
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 93 
 
 he said, that there was nothing good on earth, 
 save fortune, or power, or both ; and that fine 
 qualities must give way to circumstances. 
 He practised on this theory cleverly enough ; 
 his only mistake lay in proclaiming it ; but 
 though he had not the national wish to please, 
 he nevertheless desired to create some sensa- 
 tion, and that rendered him thus imprudent : 
 he differed in these respects from Madame 
 d'Arbigny, who sought to attain her end with- 
 out 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 guess- 
 ed it, or she told him all ; for with all her 
 habitual wariness she required, now and then, 
 to take breath, as it were, by an indiscretion. 
 If Maltigues looked on her severely, she was 
 always disturbed ; if he seemed discontented, 
 she would take him aside to ask the reason ; 
 if he went away angry, she almost instantly 
 shut herself up to write to him. I explained 
 this to myself from the fact of his having 
 j known her from her childhood ; he had managed 
 her affairs since she had 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 de- 
 serted woman. Such a resolution might make 
 you believe that she loved me not ; yet love 
 alone could have induced her preference ; but 
 through life she could mix calculation even 
 with passion, and the factitious pretences of 
 society with her natural feelings. She wept 
 when she was agitated, but she could always 
 weep, because that was the way to express 
 emotion. She was ha.ppy in being loved, be- 
 cause she loved indeed, but also because it did 
 her honor before the world. She had right 
 impulses while left to herself, but could only 
 enjoy them when they nourished 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 coun- 
 try where a zeal for producing effect, by cer- 
 tain sentiments, is much stronger than the 
 sentiments themselves. 
 
 It was long since I had heard from my fa- 
 tlner, the war having cut off all communica- 
 tion. At last, chance favored the arrival of a 
 letter, in which he adjured me to return, in 
 the name of my duty and his affection ; at the 
 same time declaring that, if I married Mad- 
 ame d'Arbigny, I should cause him the most 
 fatal sorrow ; begging me, at least, to decide 
 on nothing until I had heard his advice. I 
 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 ; but finding these 
 fail, resortnd to a fresh stratagem ; but how 
 could I then suspect it ? She came to me one 
 morning pale and dishevelled, threw herself 
 into my arms as if dying with terror, and be- 
 sought me to protect her. The order, she 
 said, was come for her arrest, as sister to 
 Count Raimond, and I must find her some asy- 
 lum from her pursuers : at this time women, 
 indeed, were not spared, and all kinds of hor- 
 rors appeared probable. I took her to a mer- 
 chant devoted to my interest, and hoped to 
 save her, as only Maltigues shared the secret 
 of her retreat. In such a situation, how could 
 I avoid feeling a lively interest in her fate ? 
 how separate myself from her 1 how say, 
 ' You depend on my support, and I withdraw 
 it l r Nevertheless my father's image contin- 
 ually 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 if I quitted her, and twice, at noon- 
 day, rushed from the house in a frantic state 
 that overwhelmed me with grief and fear. I 
 followed, vainly conjuring her to return ; it 
 happened fortunately (unless by concert) that 
 each time we were met by Maltigues, who 
 brought her back with reproaches on her rash- 
 ness. Of course, I resigned myself to stay, 
 and wrote to my father, accounting, as well 
 as I could, for my conduct ; though I blushed 
 at being in France, amid the outrages then 
 acting there, while that country, too, was at 
 war with my own. 
 
 " Maltigues often rallied me on my scru- 
 ples ; but, clever as he was, he did not per- 
 ceive the effect of his jests, which revived ail 
 the feelings he sought to extinguish. Mad- 
 ame d'Arbigny, however, remarked this ; but 
 she had no influence over her kinsman, who 
 was often decided by caprice, if self-interest 
 was absent. She relapsed into her griefs 
 both real and assumed, to melt me ; and was 
 never more attractive 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 emotion in order to sub- 
 due me. 
 
 " Thus did I live, ever anxious, ever vacil- 
 lating, trembling, when I received no letter 
 from my father, still more wretched when I 
 did ; enchained by my infatuation 'for Madame 
 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 trans- 
 formed her nature to her use. One day in 
 September, 1793, more than a year after icy
 
 94 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 coming to France, I had a brief letter from 
 my father ; but its few words were so afflict- 
 ing, that I must spare myself their repetition, 
 Corinne ; it would too much unman me. He 
 was already ill, though he did not say so ; his 
 pride and delicacy forbade ; but his letter 
 breathed so much distress, both on account of 
 my absence, and my possible marriage, that 
 while reading it I wondered howl 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, perfectly de- 
 cjded to take leave of her. She perceived 
 this, and at once retiring within herself, rose, 
 saying, ' Before you go, you ought to be in- 
 formed of a secret which I blush to avow. 
 If you abandon me, it is not me alone you 
 will kill.' The fruit of my guilty love will 
 perish with me.' Nothing can describe my 
 sensations ; that new, that sacred duty, ab- 
 sorbed my whole soul, and. made me more 
 submissively her slave than ever. I would 
 have married her at once, but for the ruinous 
 consequences that must have befallen me, as 
 an Englishman, in giving my name to the 
 civil authorities. I deferred our union, there- 
 fore, till we could fly together to England, 
 and determined never to leave hertill then. 
 At first this calmed 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 will, for I had fallen 
 into the deepest melancholy, and passed whole 
 days alone, without power to move, a prey 
 to an idea which I never confessed to myself, 
 though its persecution was incessant. I had 
 a foreboding of my father's illness, which I 
 considered a weakness unworthy of regard. 
 My reason was so bewildered by the shock 
 my mistress had dealt me, that I now com- 
 bated my sense of duty as a passion ; and that 
 which I might have then thought my passion 
 tormented rne as a duty. Madame d'Arbigny 
 was perpetually writing me entreaties to' visit 
 her ; at last I went, but did not speak on the 
 subject which gave her such rights over me : 
 indeed, she now less frequently alluded to it 
 herself than I expected ; but my sufferings were 
 loo great for me to remark that at the time. 
 
 " At last, when I had kept my house on 
 one occasion for three days, writing twenty 
 .etters to my father, and destroying them all, 
 M. Maltigues, who seldom sought me, came, 
 deputed by 'his cousin to tear me from my 
 solitude. Though little interested in the suc- 
 cess of his embassy, as you will discover, he 
 entered before I had time to conceal that my 
 face was bathed in tears. ' What is the use 
 of all this, my dear boy V he said ; ' either 
 .eave my cousin, or marry her. The one step 
 
 is as good as the other, each being conclusive. 
 ' There are situations in life,' replied I, ' wnere 
 | even by sacrificing oneself, one may not be 
 able to fulfil every duty.' 'That is, there 
 ought to be no such sacrifice,' he added. ' I 
 know of no such circumstances in which it is 
 necessary ; with a little address one may back 
 | out of anything. Management is the queen 
 j of the world.' ' I covet no such ability ;' said 
 j I, ' but at least would wish, in resigning my- 
 self to unhappiness, to afflict no one that I 
 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 
 tell myself that it shall soon be over, a-nd al- 
 ways keep my word.' Seeking to deal, like 
 himself, with generalities for I neither could 
 nor would confide in him I answered, ' Do 
 what we will with love, we cannot banish 
 honor and virtue, that often oppose our incli- 
 nation.' 'If you mean, by honor, the neces- 
 sity for fighting when insulted, there can be 
 no doubt on that head ; but, in other respects, 
 what interest have we in al/owing ourselves 
 to be perplexed by a thousand fastidious chi- 
 meras V ' Interest !' I repeated ; ' that is not 
 the word in question.' ' To speak seriously,' 
 he returned, ' there are few men who have a 
 clear view of this subject. I know they 
 formerly talked of honorable juisfof tunes, and 
 glorious reverses, but now that all men are 
 persecuted, knaves as well as those by cour- 
 tesy called honest, the only difference i? be- 
 tween the birds who are trapped, and those 
 who escape.' 'I know of other distinctions,' 
 I replied, ' where prosperity is despised, and 
 misfortune honored by the good/ ' Show me 
 the good, though,' he said, ' whose courageous 
 esteem would console you for your own de- 
 struction. On the contrary, the self-called 
 virtuous are those who excuse you if happy, 
 and love you if powerful. It is very fine in 
 you, no doubt, to repent thwarting a father, 
 who ought no longer to meddle with your af- 
 fairs ; yet do anything rather than linger 
 where you may lose your life in a thousand 
 ways. For my part, whatever happens to me, 
 I would, at any price, spare my friends the 
 sight of my sufferings, and myself their long 
 faces of condolence.' ' In my opinion,' inter- 
 rupted I, ' the ainr of an honest man's life is 
 not the happiness which serves only himself, 
 but the virtue which is useful to others.' 
 ' Virtue !' exclaimed Maltigues, ' virtue ' he 
 hesitated for a moment, then, with more de- 
 cision, continued ; that's a language for the 
 vulgar, that even priests cannot talk between 
 themselves without laughing. There are good 
 I souls whom certain harmonious words still 
 I move ; for their sakes let the tune be played :
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 95 
 
 all the poetry that they call conscience and 
 devotion was invented to cosnole those who 
 cannot get on in the world, like the de pro- 
 fundis that is sung for the dead. The living 
 and prosperous are by no means ambitious of 
 like homage.' 
 
 " I was so irritated that I could not help 
 saying haughtily, ' I shall be sorry, sir, when 
 I have a right in the house of Madame d'Ar- 
 bigny, if she persists in receiving a man who 
 thinks and speaks as you do.' 'When that 
 time comes,' he answered, ' you may act as 
 you please ; but if my cousin is led by me, 
 she will never marry a man who looks forward 
 in such affright to his union with her. I have 
 always, as she can tell you, censured her folly, 
 and the means she has wasted on an object so 
 little worth her trouble.' At these words, 
 which their accent rendered still more insult- 
 ing, I made him a sign to follow me ; and, on 
 our way, it is but justice to tell you, he con- 
 tinued to develope his system with the greatest 
 possible coolness : he might be no more, in a 
 few minutes, yet said not one serious, one feel- 
 ing word. 'If I had been addicted to all the 
 absurdities of other young men,' he pursued, 
 ' would not what I have seen in my own coun- 
 try have cured me 1 When has your scrupu- 
 lousness done you any good V ' I agree with 
 you,' said I, ' that in your country, at present, 
 it is of less utility than elsewhere ; but in 
 time, or beyond time, each man has his re- 
 ward.' ' Oh, if you include heaven in your 
 calculations ' ' And why not "? One or 
 other of us, perhaps, will soon know what it 
 means.' ' If I die,' he laughed forth, ' I am 
 sure I shall know nothing about it ; if you are 
 killed, you won't come back to enlighten me.' 
 I now remembered that I had taken no precau- 
 tions for informing my father of my probable 
 fate, or making over to Madame d'Arbigny part 
 of my fortune, on which I thought she had 
 claims. We drew near Maltigues' house, and 
 I asked leave to write two letters there : he 
 assented. As we resumed our route, I gave 
 them to him, and recommended Madame 
 d'Arbigny to him, as to a friend of hers on 
 whom I could rely. This proof of confidence 
 touched him ; for, be it observed, to the glory 
 of honesty, that the most open profligates are 
 much flattered if they chance to receive a 
 mark o f esteem ; our relative position,, too, 
 was grave enough to have affected even him ; 
 but as he would not for worlds have had me 
 guess this, he said jestingly, though I believe 
 prompted by deeper feelings, ' You are a good 
 fellow, my dear Nelvil ; I would fain do some- 
 thing generous by you : it may bring its re- 
 ward, as they say ; and truly generosity is so 
 babyish a quality, 'that it ought to be better paid 
 in heaven than on earth. But ere I serve you, 
 
 our conditions must be made plain, say what I 
 will we fight nevertheless.' I returned a 
 disdainful consent, for I thought such preface 
 unnecessary. Maltigues proceeded, in his 
 cold careless way : ' Madame d'Arbigny does 
 not suit you ; you are in no way congenial ; 
 your father would be in despair if you made 
 such a match, and you would run mad at having 
 distressed him : therefore it will be better, if I 
 live, that I should marry the lady ; if you kill 
 me, still better that she should marry another ; 
 for my cousin is so highly sagacious, even 
 while in love, that she never fails to provide 
 against the chance of being loved no longer. 
 All this you will learn by her letters. I be- 
 queath them to you ; here is the key of my 
 desk. I have been her intimate ever since she 
 was born ; and you know that, mysterious as 
 she is, she has no secrets with me little 
 dreaming that I should ever tell ; it is true I 
 feel no impulse hurry me on, but I do not at- 
 tach much importance to these things ; and I 
 think that we men may say what we like to 
 each other about women. Also, if I die, it is 
 to her bright eyes that I shall owe such acci- 
 dent : and though I am quite ready to die for 
 her, with a good grace, I am not too obliged 
 by the situation in which her double intrigue 
 has placed me ; for the rest, it is not quite 
 sure that you will kill me.' So saying, as we 
 were now beyond the town, he drew his sword, 
 and stood upon his guard. 
 
 ' He had spoken with singular vivacity. I 
 was confounded by what I had heard. The 
 approach of danger, instead of agitating, ani- 
 mated him ; and I knew not whether he had 
 betrayed the truth, or invented a falsehood out 
 of revenge. In this suspense I was very care- 
 ful of his life : he was not so adroit a swords- 
 man as myself : ten times might I have ran 
 him through the breast, but I contented my- 
 self with slightly wounding and disarming 
 him : he seemed sensible of this. I led him 
 to his own house, and brought him back to 
 the conversation which our duel had inter- 
 rupted. He then said, ' I am vexed at having 
 so treated my cousin : but peril is like wine, 
 it gets into one's head ; yet I can now excuse 
 myself; it rested with you to kill me, and you 
 spared my life ; you could not be hanpy with 
 her, she is too cunning ; now, to me, that is 
 nothing ; for, charmed as I am both with her 
 mind and person, she can never do anything 
 to my disadvantage, and we shall be of service 
 to each other when marriage makes a common 
 interest. But you are romantic, and would 
 be her dupe, therefore I cannot refuse the let- 
 ters I promised you : read them, start ter 
 England, and do not worry yourself too much 
 as to Madame d'Arbigny's regrets. She will 
 weep, because she toves you, but she will
 
 96 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 soon be comforted : she is too rational a wo- 
 man to be long unhappy, or, above all, to 
 appear so. Tn three months she shall be 
 Madame de Maltigues.' All that he told me 
 was proved true by her correspondence with 
 him. I felt convinced that her blushing con- 
 fession was a falsity, used but to force me 
 into marriage. This was the basest imposi- 
 tion she had practised on me. She certainly 
 loyed me, for she even told Maltigues so ; yet 
 flattered him with such art, left him so much 
 to hope, and studied to please him in a cha- 
 racter so contrasted from that she had ever 
 worn for me, that it was impossible to doubt 
 her intention of marrying him, if her union 
 with me was prevented. Such was the wo- 
 man, Corinne, who has for ever wrecked the 
 peace of my heart and conscience. I wrote 
 to her ere I departed, and saw her no more. 
 As Maltigues predicted, I have since heard 
 that she became his wife ; but I was far from 
 having tasted the bitterest drop that awaited 
 me. I hoped to obtain my father's pardon, 
 sure that, when I told him how I had been 
 misled, he would love me the more the 
 more pitiable I became. After above a 
 month's journey, by night and day. I crossed 
 Germany, and arrived in England, full of con- 
 fidence in the inexhaustible bounty of paternal 
 love. Corinne, I had scarce landed, when a 
 public paper informed me that my father was 
 no more. Twenty months have passed since 
 that moment, yet it is ever present, like a pur- 
 suing phantom. The letters that formed the 
 words, ' Lord Nelvil has just expired,' are 
 written in flames, to which those of the vol- 
 cano before us are nothing. I heard that he 
 died of grief at my absence in France ; fear- 
 ing that I should renounce my military career, 
 that I should marry a woman of whom he had 
 an indifferent opinion, and settle in a country at 
 war with my own, entirely forfeiting my repu- 
 tation as an Englishman. ' Corinne, Corinne ! 
 am I not a parricide ] Tell me.' ' No,' she 
 cried, ' no ; you are only unfortunate : your 
 generosity involved you. I respect as much as 
 I love you ; judge yourself by my heart ; make 
 that your conscience ! Your grief distracts 
 you ; believe one who loves you from no 
 illusion it is because you are the best, the 
 most affectionate of men, that I adore you.' 
 ' Corinne,' said Oswald, ' these tributes are 
 not due to me ; though, perhaps, I am less 
 guilty than I think ; my father pardoned me 
 before he 'died. I found the last address he 
 wrote me full of tenderness. A letter from 
 me had reached him, somewhat to my justifi- 
 cation ; but the evil was done his heart was 
 broken. When I returned to the Hall his 
 old servants thronged round me : I repulsed 
 their consolations, and accused myself to 
 
 them. I knelt at his tomb, swearing, that 
 if time for atonement yet were left me, I 
 would never may without his consent. 
 Alas ! I promised to one who was no more : 
 what now availed my ravings 1 I ought, at 
 least, to consider them as engagements to do 
 nothing which he would have disapproved 
 had he lived. Corinne, dear love ! why are 
 you thus depressed ? He might command 
 me to renounce a woman who owed to her 
 own artifice the power she exerted over me ; 
 but the most sincere, natural, and generous of 
 her sex, for whom I feel my first true love, 
 which purifies instead of misguiding my soul, 
 why should a heavenly being wish to separate 
 me from her ] 
 
 " On entering my father's room, I saw his 
 cloak, his footstool, and his sword, still in 
 their wonted stations, though his place was 
 vacant, and I called on him in vain. This 
 memento of his thoughts alone replied. You 
 already know a part of it," Oswald added, giv- 
 ing the manuscript to Corinne. " Read what 
 he wrote on the Duty of Children to their 
 Parents : your sweet voice, perhaps, may 
 familiarize me with the words." She thus 
 obeyed : 
 
 " Ah, how slight a cause will teach self- 
 mistrust to a father or mother in the decline 
 of life ! They are easily taught that they are 
 no longer wanted on earth. What use can 
 they believe themselves to you, who no lon- 
 ger ask their advice ! ye live but in the pre- 
 sen-t ; ye are wedded to it by your passions, 
 and all that belongs not to that present ap- 
 pears to you superannuated ye are so much 
 occupied by your young hearts and minds, 
 that your own situation seemed independent 
 of other experience, and the eternal resem- 
 blances between men at all times, escape 
 your attention. The authority of experience 
 seems but a vain fiction, formed for the cre- 
 dulity of age, as the last enjoyment of its self- 
 love. What an error is this ! 
 
 " That vast theatre, the world, changes not 
 its actors : it is always man who appears there, 
 though he varies ; and as all his changes de- 
 pend on some great passion, whose circle hath 
 long and oft been trod, it would be strange, if, 
 in the little combinations of private life, expe- 
 rience, the science of the past, wore not the 
 plenteous source of useful instruction. Honor 
 your fathers and mothers, then ! respect them, 
 if but for the sake of their by-gone reign, the 
 time of which they were the only rulers, if 
 but for the years for ever lost, whose reverent 
 seal is imprinted on their brows. Know your 
 duty, presumptuous children, impatient to walk 
 alone on the path of life. They will leave 
 you, do not fear it, though so tardy in yielding 
 you place : that father, whose discourses
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 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 decision 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, be- 
 yond his death, the empire of his will ; but 
 you have triumphed 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 experienced : they 
 blight our hopes, and instil a painful timidity 
 of the future. Fate had so injured me, that 
 even .while she offered the greatest of earthly 
 blessings, I could not trust her ; but these 
 doubts are over, love : I am thine for ever, 
 assured that, had my .father known thee, he 
 would have chosen such a companion for my 
 life." " Hold !" wept forth Corinne : " I con- 
 jure you, speak not to me." 
 
 ' Why," said Oswald, " why thus constant- 
 ly oppose the pleasure I take in blending your 
 image with his 1 thus wedding the two dearest 
 and most sacred feelings of my heart V " You 
 cannot," returned Corinne ; " too well I know 
 you cannot." " Just Heaven ! what have you 
 to tell me, then * Give me that history of 
 your life." " I will, but let me beg a week's 
 delay, only a week : what I have just learned 
 obliges me to add a few particulars." " How !" 
 
 said Oswald, " what connection have you " 
 
 " Do not exact my answer now," interrupted 
 Corinne. " 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 accessible to charms of nature. In these 
 fair scenes will I so celebrate the most solemn 
 era of my life, that you must cherish some 
 memory of Corinne, such as she was, and 
 might have ever been, had she not loved Os- 
 wald." "Corinne, what mean these hints'? 
 You can have nothing to disclose which ought 
 to chill my love or my admiration ; why then 
 prolong the mystery that raises barriers be- 
 tween us V " Dear Oswald, 'tis my will : 
 pardon me this last act of power ; soon you 
 alone will decide for us both. I shall hear 
 my sentence from your lips unmurmuringly, 
 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 repuls- 
 irg, Oswald who would fain have followed 
 her. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 CORINNE decided on giving a fete, united 
 as the idea was with melancholy associations. 
 When she reflected on the character of Os- 
 wald, it was impossible that she should not be 
 anxious as to the impression which he might 
 take from what she was about to reveal to 
 him. She knew she must be judged as a poet, 
 as an artist, ere she could be pardoned for the 
 sacrifice of her rank, her family, her name, to 
 her enthusiasm. Lord Nelvil was indeed ca- 
 pable of appreciating genius, but in his opi- 
 nion, the relations of social life over-ruled 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 fulfilment of domestic duties. The 
 cruel remorse which he had experienced in 
 departing from the line of duty, which he had 
 prescribed for himself, fortified the moral prin- 
 ciples which were innately his. The man- 
 ners and habits of England, a country where 
 such respect for law and duty exists, held, in 
 many respects, a strict control over him. In- 
 deed, the discouragement deep sorrows incul- 
 cate, 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 of Corinne modified 
 his every feeling : but love never wholly effa- 
 ces 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 lightly disturbed her dream of joy, 
 were to decide her fate. Her mind, formed 
 for delight, accustomed to the varying 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 most torturing fears, she secretly prepared 
 for the more brilliant evening she might pass 
 with Oswald. Fancy and feeling were thus 
 romantically blended. She invited the Eng- 
 lish who were there, and sorre Neapolitans 
 whose society pleased her. On the day cho- 
 sen for this fete, whose morrow might destroy 
 her happiness for ever, a singular wildness 
 animated her features, and lent them quite a 
 new expression. Careless eyes might have 
 mistaken it for that of joy ; but her rapid and 
 agitated movements, her looks that rested no- 
 where, proved but too plainly to Xelvil the 
 struggle in her heart. Vainly he strove to 
 soothe her by tender protestations. " You 
 shall repeat them two days hence, if you will,"
 
 100 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 she said ; " now these soft words but mock 
 me." The carriages of Corinne's party ar- 
 rived at the close of day, just as the sea 
 breeze refreshed the air, inviting man to the 
 contemplation of nature. They went first Jo 
 Virgil's tomb. It overlooks the bay of Na- 
 ples ; and such is the magnificent repose of 
 this spot, that one is tempted to believe the 
 bard himself must have selected it. These 
 simple words from his Georgics might have 
 served him for epitaph : 
 
 " DIo Virgilium me tempore dulcis alebat Parthenopc." 
 " Then did the soft 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 worthy to have left a lasting trace near 
 such a grave. One feels disgust at the crowd 
 of ignoble names traced by strangers on the 
 walls about the urn : they trouble the peace 
 of this classic solitude. Its present visitants 
 left it in silence, musing over the images im- 
 mortalised by the M antuan. Blest intercourse 
 between the past and future ! which the art of 
 writing perpetually renews. Shadow of 
 death, what art thou ? Man's thoughts sur- 
 vive ; can he then be no more 1 Such contra- 
 diction is impossible. " Oswald," said Co- 
 rinne, " these impressions are strange prepa- 
 ratives for a fete ; yet," she added, with wild 
 sublimity, " how many fetes 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 happi- 
 ness as to dash down the supreme bliss of 
 soothing 'such a soul ! it is much to feel one's 
 self of use to the most humble mortal ; but to 
 Corinne ! to be her support! trust me, is a 
 glory too delicious to renounce." " I believe 
 your promises," she said ; " yet there are 
 strange moments when something strange and 
 violent seizes the heart, and painfully accele- 
 rates its pulsations." 
 
 They passed through the Grotto of Pausi- 
 lipo by torchlight, as indeed would have been 
 the case at noon ; for it extends nearly a 
 quarter of a league beneath the mountain, and 
 in the centre, the light of day, admitted at 
 its extremity, is scarcely visible. In this 
 long vault the tramp of steeds and cries of 
 its drivers resound so stunningly, that they 
 deaden all thought in the brain. Corinne's 
 horses drew her carriage with astonishing ra- 
 pidity ; yet did she say, " Dear Nelvil, how 
 slowly we advance ! pray hasten them." 
 
 Why thus impatient V he asked : " formerly, 
 while we were together, you sought not to 
 expedite time, but to enjoy it." " Yet now," 
 she said, " all must be decision ; everything 
 must come to an end ; and I would hasten it, 
 were it my death." On leaving the Grotto 
 you feel a lively sensation at regaining day- 
 light, and the open country ; such a country 
 too ! What are so 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 
 s so great, that, even in the shade, it is im- 
 possible to walk by day ; but in the evening 
 the sea and sky alike shed freshness through 
 the transparent air : the mountains are so pic- 
 turesque that painters love to select their land- 
 scapes from a country whose original charm 
 can be explained by no comparison with other 
 realms. " I lead you," said Corinne, to those 
 near her, " through the fair scene celebrated 
 by the name of Baiae : we will not pause 
 there now, but gather its recollections into 
 the moment when we reach the spot which 
 sets them all before us." It was on the cape 
 of Miseno that she had prepared her fete ; 
 nothing could be more tastefully arranged. 
 Sailors, in habits of contrasted hues, and some 
 Orientals from a Levantine bark then in the 
 port, danced with the peasant girls from Ischia 
 and Procida, whose costume still preserves a 
 Grecian grace ; sweet voices were heard sing- 
 ing from a distance ; and instrumental music 
 answered 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 en- 
 treated to dance among the rustics : at first 
 she consented with pleasure, but scarely had 
 she began ere her forebodings rendered all 
 amusement odious to her, and she withdrew 
 to the extreme verge of the cape ; thither Os- 
 wald followed, with others, who now begged 
 her to extemporise 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 being 
 scarcely aware of what they were expecting 
 from her. 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 STILL Corinne desired that Oswald should 
 once more hear her, as on the day at the capt-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 101 
 
 tol. If the talent with which Heaven had 
 , gifted her was about to be extinguished for 
 j{ ever, she wished its last rays to shine on him 
 l| 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 
 rendered them judges of poetry, they closed 
 silently round, their eager faces expressing 
 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 Miseno, Ve- 
 suvius is plainly seen, and the bay and isles 
 that stud its boscin. With one consent the 
 friends of Corinne begged her to sing of the 
 recollections that scene awakened. 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 her persona? situation. 
 
 CORINNE'S CHANT IN THE VICINITY OF NAPLES. 
 
 Here Nature, History, and Poesie, 
 Rival each other's greatness: here the eye 
 Sweeps with a glance, all wonders and all time, 
 A dead volcano now, I see thy lake 
 Avernus, with the fear-inspiring waves 
 Acheron, and Phlegeton boiling up 
 With subterranean flame : these are the streams 
 Of that old hell ^Eneas visited. 
 
 Fire, the devouring life which first creates 
 The world which it consumes, struck terror most 
 When least its laws were known. Ah ! Nature then 
 Eeveal'd her secrets but to Poetry. 
 
 The town of Cuma and the Sibyl's cave, 
 The temple of Apollo mark'd this height ; 
 Here is the wood where grew the bough of gold. 
 The country of jEneid is around ; 
 The fables genius consecrated here 
 Are memories whose traces still we seek. 
 
 A Triton has beneath these billows plunged 
 The daring Trojan, who in song defied 
 The sea divinities : still are the rocks 
 . Hollow and sounding, such as Virgil told. 
 Imagination's truth is from its power: 
 Man's genius can create when nature's felt ; 
 He copies when he deems that he invents. 
 
 Amid these masses, terrible and old, 
 Creation's witnesses, you see arise 
 A younger hill of the volcano born : 
 For here the earth is stormy as the sea, 
 But doth not, like the sea, peaceful return 
 Within its bonds : the heavy element, 
 Upshaken by the tremulous abyss, 
 Digs valleys, and rears mountains ; while the waves, 
 Harden'd to stone, attest the storms which rend 
 Her depths ; strike now upon the earth, 
 You hear the subterranean vault resound. 
 It is as if the ground on which we dwell 
 Were but a surface ready to unclose. 
 Naples ! how doth thy country likeness bear 
 To human passions ; fertile, sulphurous : 
 Its dangers and its pleasures both seem born - 
 Of those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow 
 Upon the atmosphere so many charms, 
 Yet bid the thunder growl beneath our feet. 
 
 Pliny but studied nature that the more 
 He might love Italy; and call'd his land 
 The loveliest, when all other titles fail'd. 
 He sought for science as a warrior seeks 
 For conquest: it was from this very cape 
 He went to watch Vesuvius through the flames :~- 
 Those flames consumed him. 
 
 Oh Memory ! noble power ! thy reign is here. 
 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, 
 Seem treasurers of happiness gone by ; 
 And while mind, joyful in its far advance 
 Plunges amid the future, still the Soul 
 Seems to regret some other ancient home 
 To which it is drawn closer by the past. 
 
 We envy Roman grandeur did they not 
 Envy their fathers' brave simplicity 1 
 Once this voluptuous country they despised ; 
 Its pleasures but subdued their enemies. 
 See, in the distance, Capua ! she o'ercame 
 The warrior, whose firm soul resisted Rome 
 More time than did a world. 
 
 The Romans in their turn dwelt on these plains, 
 When strength of mind but only served to feel 
 More deeply shame and grief; effeminate, 
 They sank without remorse. Yet Bais saw 
 The conquer'd sea give place to palaces : 
 Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain, 
 And the world's masters, now in their turn slaves, 
 Made nature subject to console themselves 
 That they were subject too. 
 
 And Cicero on this promontory died : 
 This GaBta we see. Ah ! no regard 
 Those triumvirs paid to posterity, 
 Robbing her of the thoughts yet unconceived 
 Of this great man : their crime continues stil] ; 
 Committed against us was this offence. 
 
 Cicero 'neath the tyrant's dagger fell, 
 But Scipfo, more unhappy, was exiled 
 With yet his country free. Beside this shore 
 He died; and still the ruins of his tomb 
 Retain the name, " Tower of my native land :"* 
 Touching allusion to the memory 
 Which haunted his great soul. 
 
 Marius found a refuge in yon marsh, t 
 Near to the Scipio's home. Thus in all time 
 Have nations persecuted their great men. 
 But they enskied them after death ;t and Heaven, 
 Where still the Romans deemed they could command, 
 Received amid her planets Romulus, 
 Numa, and C.-esar; new and dazzling stars ! 
 Mingling together in our erring gaze 
 The rays of glory and celestial light. 
 
 And not enough alone of misery, 
 The trace of crime is here. In yonder gulf behoia 
 The isle of Capri, where at length old age 
 Disana'd Tiberius ; violent, yet worn ; 
 
 * " La tour de la patrie." Patrie can scarce be rendered 
 by a single word : "native land" perhaps best expresses 
 the ancient patria. L. E. L. 
 
 t Minturno. 
 
 J " Us sent consoles par 1'apotheose." This is the only 
 instance in which I have not given, as nearly a* possible, 
 the English word that answered most exactly ; but I con- 
 fess one so long as " apotheosis " fairly baffled my efforts 
 to get it into rhythm. It is curious to rotice how runny \ 
 Pagan observances were grafted on the Roman Catholic I 
 worship. Canonization is but a Christian apotheosis, f 
 only the deceased turned into saints instead of gods. L. I 
 E. L.
 
 102 CORINNE ; 
 
 OR, ITALY. 
 
 Cruel, voluptuous ; wearied e'en of crime, 
 
 BIysterious enthusiasm, Love ! 
 
 He sought yet viler pleasures ; as he were 
 
 The heart's supremest power ; which doth combine 
 
 Not low enough debased by tyranny. 
 And Agrippina's tomb is on these shores, 
 
 Within itself religion, poetry. 
 And heroism. Love, what may befall 
 
 Facing the isle,* rear'd after Nero's death ; 
 
 When destiny has bade us separate 
 
 The murder of his mother had proscribed 
 
 From him who has the secret of our POU! ; 
 
 Even her ashes. Long at Bake he dwelt 
 
 Who gave us the heart's life, celestial life. 
 
 Amid the memories of his iany crimes.' 
 
 What may befall when absence, or when death 
 
 What wretches fate here brings before our eyes ! 
 
 Isolate woman on this earth 7 She pines 
 
 Tiberius, Nero, on each other gaze. 
 
 She sinks. How often have these rocks 
 
 
 OfferVl their cold support to the forlorn ! 
 
 The isles, volcano-born amid the sea, 
 
 Those once worn in the heart ; those once austain'd 
 
 Served at their birth the crimes of the old world. 
 
 Upon a hero's arm. 
 
 The sorrowing exiles on these lonely rocks, 
 
 
 Watch'd 'mid the waves their natir'e land afar, 
 
 Before you is Sorrento : dwelling there 
 
 Seeking to catch its perfumes in the air ; 
 
 Was Tasso's sister, when the pilgrim came 
 
 And often, a long exile worn away, 
 
 Asking asvlum 'gainst the prince unjust 
 
 Sentence of sudden death arrived to show 
 
 From humble friends: long grief had almost quench'4 
 
 They were remembered by their enemies. 
 
 Reason's clear light, but genius still was left. 
 
 O Earth! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never 
 Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruits and flowers; 
 And hast thou then no pity for mankind 1 
 
 When earthly images were all obscured. 
 Thus shrieking from the desert spread around 
 Doth Genius wander through the world, and finds 
 No likeness to itself; no echo given 
 
 Can thy maternal breast receive again 
 
 By Nature ; and the common crowd but hold 
 
 Their dust, and yet not throb 7 
 
 As madness that desire of the rapt soul, 
 
 
 Which finds not in this world enough of air 
 
 Here Corinne paused for some moments. 
 All her assembled hearers threw laurels and 
 
 Of high enthusiasm, or of hope. 
 For Destiny compels exalted minds : 
 The poet, whose imagination draws 
 
 myrtle at her feet. The soft, pure, moonlight 
 fell on her brow, and the breeze wantoned 
 
 Its power from loving and from suffering, 
 They are the vanish'd from another sphere. 
 For the Almighty goodness might not frame 
 
 with her ringlets as if nature delighted to 
 
 All for the few, the elect or the prescribed. 
 
 adorn her : she was so overpowered as she 
 
 What had this terrible Fate to do with them, 
 
 looked on the enchanting scene, and on Os- 
 
 The common and the quiet, who pursue 
 
 wald, who shared this delicious eve with her, 
 yet might not be thus near for ever, that tears 
 
 The seasons, and still follow timidly 
 The beaten track of ordinary life 7 
 But she, the priestess of the oracle, 
 
 flowed from her eyes. Even the crowd, who 
 had just applauded her so tumulluously, re- 
 
 Shook with the presence of the cruel power. 
 I know not what the involuntary force 
 That plunges Genius into misery. 
 
 spected her emotion, and mutely awaited her 
 words, which they trusted would make them 
 participators in her feelings. She preluded 
 for some time on her lyre, then, no longer di- 
 viding her song into stanzas, abandoned her- 
 
 Genius doth catch the music of the spheres, 
 Which mortal ear was never meant to know. 
 Genius can penetrate the mysteries 
 Of feeling, all unknown to other hearts ; 
 A power hath entered in the inmost soul, 
 Whose presence may not be contained. 
 
 self to the uninterrupted stream of verse. 
 
 Sublime Creator of this lovely world, 
 
 
 Protect us: our exertions have no strength, 
 
 
 Our hope's a lie. Tumultuous tyranny 
 
 Some memories of the heart, some woman's manes 
 
 Our passions exercise, and neither leave 
 
 Yet ask your tears. 'Twas at this very place, 
 
 Repose nor liberty. What we may do 
 
 Massena, ( that Cornelia kept till death 
 
 To-morrow may perhaps decide our fate. 
 
 Her noble mourning ; Agrippinatoo 
 
 We may have said but yesterday some word 
 
 Long wept Germanicus beside these shores. 
 
 Which may not be recalled. Still when our mind 
 
 At length the same assassin who deprived 
 
 Is elevate with noble thoughts, we feel 
 
 1 Her of her husband, found she was at last 
 
 As on the height of some great edifice, 
 
 Worthy to follow him. And yonder isle} 
 
 Giddiness blending all things in our sight; 
 
 Saw Brutus and his Portia bid farewell. 
 
 But even there, wo ! terrible wo ! appears. 
 
 Thug women loved of heroes have beheld 
 
 Not lost amid the clouds, it pierces through ; 
 It flings the shades asunder ; Oh my God ! 
 
 The object perish which they so adored. 
 
 
 Long time in vain they follow'd in their path ; 
 There came the hour when they were forced to part. 
 Portia destroyed herself; Cornelia clasp'd 
 The sacred urn which answer'd not her cries ; 
 And Agrippina, for how many years ! 
 
 At these words a mortal paleness overspread 
 her countenance ; her eyes closed ; and she 
 would have fallen to the earth, had not Os- 
 
 Vainly her husband's murderer defied. 
 And wander'd here the wretched oues, like ghosts 
 
 wald rushed to support her. 
 
 On wasted shores of the eternal stream, 
 
 
 Sighing to reach the other far-off land. 
 
 
 Did they not ask in their long solitude 
 
 i 
 
 Of silence, of all nature, of the sky, 
 
 
 Star-shining 7 and from the deep sea, one sound, 
 
 
 One only tone of the beloved voice 
 
 
 They never more might hear. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 
 CORINNE revived : the affecting interest of 
 
 * Caprea. 
 t The retreat of Pompey. } Nisida. 
 
 Oswald's look restored her to some composure
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 103 
 
 The Neapolitans were surprised at the gloomy 
 character of her poetry, much as they admired 
 it. They thought it the Muse's task to dissi- 
 pate the sorrows of life, and not to explore 
 their terrible secrets ; but the English who 
 were present seemed deeply touched. Their 
 own melancholy, embellished by Italian imagi- 
 nation, delighted them. This lovely woman, 
 wbrse features seemed designed to depict feli- 
 city, this child of the sun, a prey to hidden 
 grief, was like a flower, still fresh and bril- 
 liant, but within whose leaves may be seen the 
 first dark, impress of that withering blight 
 which soon shall lay it low. The party em- 
 barked to return : the glowing calm of the 
 hour made it a luxury to be upon the sea. 
 Gothe has described, in a delicious romance, 
 the passion felt, in warra climates, for the 
 water. A nymph of the flood boasts to the 
 fisherman the charms of her abode ; invites 
 him to taste its refreshment, and, by degrees, 
 allures him to his death. This magic of the 
 i tide resembles that of the basilisk, which fasci- 
 nates by fear. The wave rising gently afar, 
 swelling, and hurrying as it nears the shore, is 
 but a type of the passion that dawns in soft- 
 ness, but soon grows invincible. Corinne put 
 back her tresses, that she might the better en- 
 joy the air : her countenance was thus more 
 beautiful than ever. The musicians, who fol- 
 lowed in another boat, poured forth enchant- 
 ments that harmonized with the stars, the sea, 
 and the sweet intoxication of an Italian even- 
 ing. " Oh, my heart's love !" whispered Os- 
 wald, " can I ever forget this day, or ever en- 
 joy a happier V His eyes filled with tears. 
 One of his most seductive attributes was this 
 ready yet restrained sensibility, which so oft, 
 in spite of him, bedewed his lids ; at such mo- 
 ments he was irresistible : sometimes even in 
 the midst of an endearing pleasantry, a melting 
 thrill stole on his mirth, and lent it a new, a 
 noble charm. " Alas !" returned Corinne, 
 " I hope not for another day like this ; but be it 
 blest, at least, as the last such of my life, if 
 forbidden to prove the dawn of more endear- 
 ing bliss." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE weather changed ere they reached Na- 
 ples : the heavens darkened, and the coming 
 Btorm, already felt in the air, convulsed the 
 waves, as if the sea sympathized with the sky. 
 Oswald preceded Corinne, that he might see 
 
 flambeaux borne the more steadily before her. 
 As they neared the quay, he saw some Laz- 
 zaroni assembled, crying, " Poor creature ! he 
 cannot save himself! we must be patient." 
 " Of whom speak ye V cried Nelvil impetu- 
 ously. " An old man," they replied, " who 
 was bathing below there, not far from the 
 mole ; but the storm has risen : he is too weak 
 to struggle with it." Oswald's first impulse 
 was to plunge into the water ; then reflecting 
 on the alarm he should cause Corinne, when 
 she came, he offered all the money he had 
 with him, promising to double it, for the man 
 who would swim to this unfortunate being's 
 assistance : but the Lazzaroni all refused, 
 saying, " It cannot be, the danger is too fear- 
 ful." At that moment the old man sunk. 
 Oswald could hesitate no longer : he threw off 
 his coat, and sprang into the -sea, spite of its 
 waves, that dashed above his head : he buffet- 
 ed them bravely ; seized the sufferer, who 
 must have perished had he been a moment 
 later, and brought him to the land ; hut the 
 sudden chill and violent exertion so over- 
 whelmed Lord Nelvil, that he had scarcely 
 seen his charge in safety, when he fell on the 
 earth insensible, and so pallid, that the by- 
 standers believed him a corpse (28). It was 
 then that the unconscious Corinne beheld the 
 crowd, heard them cry, " He is dead," and 
 would have drawn back in terror ; when she 
 saw one of the Englishmen who had accom- 
 panied her, break eagerly through the people : 
 she made some steps to follow him ; and the 
 first object which met her eye was a portion 
 of Oswald's dress, lying on the bank. She 
 seized it with a desperation, believing it was 
 all that was left of her love ; and when she 
 saw him, lifeless as he appeared, she threw 
 herself on his breast, in transport, and ardently 
 pressed him to her heart : and with what in- 
 expressible rapture did she detect that his still 
 beat, perhaps reanimated by her presence ! 
 " He lives !" she cried, " he lives !" and in- 
 stantly regained a strength, a courage, such as 
 mere friends could scarcely equal. She sent 
 for everything that could revive him 1 ? and 
 herself applied these restoratives, supporting 
 his fainting head upon her breast, and, though 
 she wept over it, forgetting nothing, losing not 
 a moment, nor permitting her grief to inter- 
 rupt her cares. Oswald grew better, but re- 
 sumed not yet the use of his senses. She had 
 him carried to his hotel, and, kneeling beside 
 him, bathed his brow with 'stimulating per- 
 fumes, calling on him in tones of impassioned 
 tenderness that might have waked the dead. 
 He opened his eyes, and pressed her hand. 
 For the joy of such a moment might one not 
 endure the tortures of demons ! Poor human 
 nature ! We guess at infinitude but by suffer-
 
 104 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 ing : and not a bliss in life can compensate the 
 anguish of beholding those we love expire. 
 " Cruel, cruel !" cried Corinne ; " think what 
 you have done !" " Pardon !" he replied in a 
 trembling voice. " Believe me, dearest, while 
 I thought myself dying, I trembled but for 
 thee." Exquisite expression of mutual love 
 and confidence ! Corinne, to her last day, 
 could not recall these words without a fond- 
 ness, which, while it lasted, taught her to for- 
 give him all. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 OSWALD'S next impulse was to thrust his 
 hand into his bosom for his father's portrait : 
 it was still there ; but the water had left it 
 scarcely recognizable : he was bitterly afflict- 
 ed by this loss. " My God !" he cried, " dost 
 thou deny me even this image?" Corinne 
 besought his permission to restore it : he con- 
 sented, without much hope : what then was 
 his amaze, when, on the third morning, she 
 brought it to him, not only repaired, but more 
 faithful than ever ! " Yes," cried Oswald, 
 " you have divined his features and his look. 
 This heavenly miracle decides you for my 
 life's companion, since to you is thus revealed 
 the memory of one who must for ever dispose 
 
 my fate. Here is the ring my father gave his 
 wife the sacred bond sincerely offered by 
 the noblest, and accepted by the most constant, 
 of hearts. Let me transfer it from my hand 
 to thine, and, while thou keepest it, be no 
 longer free. I take this solemn oath, not 
 knowing to whom, but in thy soul, I trust, that 
 tells me all : the events of your life, if spring- 
 ing from yourself, mu&t needs be lofty as your 
 character. If you have been the victim to 
 an unworthy fate, thank Heaven I can repair 
 it ; therefore, my own Corinne, you owe your 
 secrets to one whose promises precede your 
 confidence." " Oswald," she answered, " this 
 delirium is the result of a mistake. I cannot 
 accept your ring till I have undeceived you. 
 An inspiration of the heart, you think, taught 
 me your father's features : I ought to tell you 
 that I have seen him often." " Seen him ! 
 how t when 1 where ? O God ! who are you, 
 then !" " Here is your ring," returned Co- 
 rinne, in a smothered tone. " No,'' cried Os- 
 wald, after a moment's pause : " I swear never 
 to wed another till you send back that ring. 
 Forgive the tumult you have raised within 
 me : confused and half-forgotten thoughts 
 afflict my mind." " I see it," said Corinne, 
 " and this shall end : already your accents and 
 your words are changed. Perhaps when you 
 have read my history, the horrid word adieu " 
 No, no," cried Nelvil ; " only from my death- 
 bed fear not that word till then." Corinne 
 etired, and, in a few moments, Theresina 
 brought him the papers which he was now to 
 read. 
 
 BOOK XII. 
 
 HISTORY OF CORINNE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 " OSWALD, 1 begin with the avowal which 
 must determine my fate. If, after reading it, 
 you find it impossible to pardon, do not finish 
 this letter, but reject and banish me ; yet if, 
 when you know the name and destiny I have 
 renounced, all is not broken between us, what 
 follows may then serve as my excuse. 
 
 " Lord Edgarmond was my father. I was 
 born in Italy : his first wife was a Roman ; 
 and Lucy, whom they intended for your bride, 
 
 is my sister, by an English lady, by my 
 father's second marriage. 
 
 " Now, hear me ! I lost my mother ere I 
 was ten years old, and, as it was her dying 
 wish that my education should be finished ere 
 I went to England, I was confided to an aunt 
 at Florence, with whom I lived till I was 
 fifteen. My tastes and talents were formed 
 ere her death induced Lord Edgarmond to 
 have me with him. He lived at a small town 
 in Northumberland, which cannot, I suppose, 
 give any idea of England ; yet was all I knew
 
 CORINNE , OR, ITALY. 
 
 105 
 
 of it for six years. My mother, from my in- 
 fancy, impressed on me the misery of not liv- 
 ing in Italy ; my aunt had often added, tha. this 
 fear of quitting her country had broken her 
 heart. My good aunt herself was persuaded, 
 oo, that a Catholic would be condemned to 
 perdition for settling in a Protestant country ; 
 and though I was not infected by this fear, the 
 thought of going to England alarmed me much. 
 I set forth with an inexplicable sense of sad- 
 ness. The woman sent for me did not under- 
 stand a word of Italian. I spoke it now and 
 then to console my poor Theresina, who had 
 consented to follow me, though she wept in- 
 cessantly at leaving her country ; but I knew 
 that I must unlearn the habit of breathing the 
 sweet sounds so welcome even to foreigners, 
 and, for me, associated with all the recollec- 
 tions 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. Methought his countenance was very 
 grave ; yet he received me with tenderness, 
 and told me 1 was extremely like my mother. 
 My 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 ; 
 we have hardly any such faces in 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 fkst look 
 grew and deepened during the years I passed 
 witk her. Lady Edgarmond was exclusively 
 attached to her native country ; and my father, 
 whom she over-ruled, sacrificed a residence in 
 London or Edinburgh to her wishes. She 
 was a cold, dignified, 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 me politely, but I soon 
 perceived 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 converse 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 lore, 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 Italy where society cannot 
 be conceived agreeable without women ! For 
 a moment I thought her ladyship so displeased 
 that she could not remain in the same room 
 with me ; but I was re-assured by her motion- 
 ing me to follow, and never reverting to my 
 fault during the 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 endeavor 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 ; but I met my father, who said to me, 
 ' My dear child, it is not here as in Italy ; our 
 women have no occupations save their domes- 
 tic 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 attention excites envy, and 
 you will never marry at all if it is thought that 
 you have foreign manners. Here, every one 
 must submit to the old prejudices of an obscure 
 county. I passed twelve years in Italy with 
 your mother : their memory is very dear to 
 me. I was youag then, and novelty delight- 
 ful. I have now returned to my original situa- 
 tion, and am quite comfortable ; a regular, per- 
 haps rather a monotonous life, makes time pass 
 unperceived ; 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 like this, everything is known, every- 
 thing repeated ; there is no room for emula- 
 tion, but sufficient for jealousy ; anoV it is bet- 
 ter 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. ] 
 remembered him all grace and vivacity, and I 
 saw him stooping beneath the leaden mantle 
 which Dante invented for hell, and which me- 
 diocrity 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, having no 
 longer any food from without. As I was nat- 
 urally mild, my stepmother had nothing to 
 complain of in my behavior towards her ; and 
 for my father, I loved him tenderly. A con- 
 versation with him was my only remaining 
 pleasure ; he was resigned, but he kivew that
 
 106 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 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 
 tolly, and if this solid existence, which escaped 
 grief, in avoiding thought and sentiment, was 
 not far more 'sriable than mine. What would 
 such a con/iction have done for me 1 it must 
 have taught me to deplore as a misfortune 
 that genius which in Italy was 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 h' absence I re- 
 mained mostly in my own roon, zndeavoring 
 to improve myself: this displeased Lady Ed- 
 garmond. ' What good will it do V she said : 
 ' will you be any the happier for it 1' The 
 words struck me with despair. What, then, 
 is happiness, I thought, if it consist not in the 
 development of our faculties 1 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 
 essayed it once or twice, and her reply was, 
 that women were made to manage their hus- 
 bands' houses, and watch over the health of 
 their children : all other accomplishments 
 were dangerous, and the best advice she could 
 give me was to hide those I possessed. This 
 discourse, though so common-place, was un- 
 answerable ; for enthusiasm is peculiarly de- 
 pendent on encouragement, and withers like a 
 flower, beneath a dark or freezing sky. 
 
 " There is nothing easier than to assume a 
 high moral air, while condemning all the at- 
 tributes of an elevated spirit. Duty, the no- 
 blest destination of man, may be distorted, 
 like all other ideas, into an offensive 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 tal- 
 ent 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 are capable of paying 
 them ? Ought not every woman, like every 
 max, to follow the bent of her own talents 1 
 Must we imitate the instinct of the bees, 
 whose every succeeding swarm copies the 
 last, without improvement or variety 1 No, 
 Oswald : pardon the pride of your Corinne. 
 I believed myself intended for a different ca- 
 reer. Yet I 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 in the 
 heart of Scotland, I should be happy to live 
 and die with you : but far from abjuring im- 
 agination, it would teach me the better tc en- 
 joy nature, and the further the empire of my 
 mind extended, the more glory should I leel 
 in declaring you its lord. 
 
 " Lady Edgarmond was almost as importu- 
 nate respecting my thoughts a i s my actions.- 
 It sufficed not that I led the same life as her- 
 self, it must be from the same motives ; for 
 she wished all the faculties she did not share 
 to be looked on as diseases. We lived pretty 
 near the sea ; at night the north wind whistled 
 through the long corridors of our old castle ; 
 by day, even when re-united, it was won- 
 drously 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 sweetness and benevolence in Italy. With 
 the winter we removed into the town, if so I 
 may call a place without public buildings, the- 
 atre, music, or pictures. 
 
 " In the smallest Italian towns we have spec- 
 tacles, improvisatores, zeal 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 monoto- 
 nous and varied. Births, deaths, and marria- 
 ges, composed the history of our society ; and 
 these three events here differed not the least 
 from what they are elsewhere. Figure to 
 yourself what it must have been for ine to be | 
 seated at a tea-table, many hours each day ] 
 after dinner, with my stepmother's guests. 
 These were the seven gravest women in Nor- 
 thumberland : two were maidens of fifty, 
 timid as fifteen. One lady would say, ' My 
 dear, do you think the water hot enough to 
 pour on. the teal' 'My dear,' replied 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 takes place next week, so perhaps 
 they are staying to talk over it.' ' No,' re- 
 joins a fifth, ' I rather think that they are oc- 
 cupied by the fox-hunt which occurred last 
 week : there will be 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. The convents 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 luke- 
 warm reply ; and ennui fell back with redou- 
 bled weight on these poor women, who must 
 have thought themselves mcst miserable, had
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 107 
 
 not habit from infancy instructed them to en- 
 dure 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 in the centre 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 escaped a mortal chill. There is no 
 denying that every case has two sides ; every 
 subject may be attacked or defended ; we may 
 plead the cause of 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 or troublesome to its hearers. 
 I could not, as in London or Edinburgh, enjoy 
 the society of learned men, who, with a taste 
 for intellectual conversation, would have ap- 
 preciated 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 Edgarmond and her friends, 
 without hearing one word that echoed either 
 thought or feeling, or beholding one express- 
 ive 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 they played whist : the 
 women grew old in this routine without a 
 change of occupation or of place. Time was 
 sure not to miss them ; he well knew where 
 they were to be found. 
 
 " An automaton might have filled my place, 
 and could have done all that was expected of 
 me. In England, the divers interests that do 
 honor to humanity worthily occupy the leisure 
 of men, whatever their retirement ; but what 
 remained for women in this isolated corner of 
 the earth T Among the ladies who visited us 
 there were some not deficient in mind. Some 
 of them I suspected must, by reflection, have 
 matured their natural abilities ; at times 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, repressed these inclinations. A wo- 
 man would be considered insane, or of doubt- 
 ful virtue, if she ventured to talk with free- 
 dom ; and, what was worse than all these 
 inconveniences, she could gain not one advan- 
 tage 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 
 remembered 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 rea- 
 sonable ; yet thus for ever were intellectual 
 pleasures rejected ; and I so often heard them 
 say ' that cannot be done,' that, amid so many 
 negations, not to live would have been to me 
 the best of all. After some debates with my- 
 self 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 impatience 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 my- 
 self, was filled by trifles. Where no interest 
 is taken in science, literature, and 'liberal pur- 
 suits, mere facts and insignificant criticisms 
 necessarily become the themes of discourse ; 
 and minds, strangers alike to activity and 
 meditation, become so limited as to render all 
 intercourse with them at- once tasteless and 
 oppressive. 
 
 " There was no enjoyment near me save in 
 a certain methodical regularity, whose desire 
 was that of reducing all things to its own 
 level ; a constant grief to characters called by 
 heaven to destinies of their own. The ill-will 
 1 innocently excited, joined with my sense of 
 the void all round me, seemed to check even 
 my breath. 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 surrounds 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 render 
 us insensible to the intrigues of our next door 
 neighbor ; and whoever would live happily, 
 and cultivate his own powers, ought to be, 
 above all things, cautious in the choice of im- 
 mediate 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 me to teach her
 
 108 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY 
 
 drawing and Italian. I am persuaded that she 
 must still remember both ; for I owe her the 
 justice to say that ak.e, 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 twen- 
 ty : my father wished me to marry, and here 
 the sad fatality of my life began. Lord Nel- 
 vil 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 character as yours was described, 
 that I 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 
 congenial friends. I said then, as I think now, 
 that all my wretchedness sprung from 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 every-day 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 
 future. When I was presented to Lord Nel- 
 vil 1 desired, perhaps but too ardently, to 
 please him ; and did infinitely more than was 
 required for success ; displaying all my talents, 
 dancing, singing, and extemporising 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 have, perchance, less confidence in the kind- 
 ness of others, less eagerness for their ap- 
 plause : indeed, it is possible that there was 
 then something strange about me ! We have 
 so much fire and imprudence in early youth, 
 one faces life with such vivacity ! Mind, how- 
 ever distinguished, cannot supply the work of 
 time ; and though we may speak 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 conform with our reason- 
 ings. 
 
 " I believe, though not with certainty, that 
 I appeared to Lord Nelvil somewhat too wild ; 
 for though he treated me very amiably, yet, 
 when he left my father, he said that, after due 
 reflection, he thought his son too young for 
 the marriage in question. Oswald, what im- 
 portance do you attach to this confession ? I 
 might suppress it, but I will not. Is it possi- 
 ble, however, that it will prove my condemna- 
 tion I I am, I know, tamed now ; and could 
 your parent have witnessed my love for you 
 without emotion ? 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, Mr. Maclin- 
 son, who had an estate in our neighborhood. 
 He was a man of thirty, rich, handsome, 
 highly born, and of honorable character ; 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 integri- 
 ty. The rumors of my eccentricity did not 
 alarm him. His house was so ordered, the 
 same things were every day performed there 
 so punctually to the minute, that any change 
 was impossible. The two old aunts who di- 
 rected his establishment, the servants, the 
 very horses, could not to-morrow have acted 
 differently 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 liberties I 
 might have taken would have had a transient 
 effect. Mr. Maclinson was a good man, in- 
 capable of giving pain ; yet had I spoken to 
 him of the innumerable annoyances which may 
 torment an active or a feeling mind, he would 
 have merely thought that I had the vapors, 
 and recommended me to mount my horse and 
 take an airing. He desired to marry me, 
 because he knew nothing about the wishes of 
 imaginative beings, and admired without un- 
 derstanding me : had he but 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 decided- 
 ly refused. My father supported me : his 
 wife from this moment cherished the deepest 
 resentment : she was a despot at heart, though 
 timidity often prevented the expression of her 
 wil 1 : when it was not anticipated, she lost her 
 temper ; but if resisted, after she had made 
 the effort of expressing it, she was the more 
 unforgiving, for having been thus fruitlessly 
 drawn from her wonted reserve. The whole 
 town was loud in my blame. ' So proper a 
 match, such a fortune, so estimable a man, f
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 109 
 
 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 while speaking ; but when 
 I was gone, my words left no impression ; 
 former ideas returned ; and these old acquaint- 
 ances were the more welcome from having 
 been a moment banished. One woman, much 
 more intellectual 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 : ' Y*u give your- 
 self a great deal of trouble to no purpose, my 
 dear : you cannot change the nature of things : 
 a little northern town, unconnected with the 
 world, uncivilized by arts or letters, must re- 
 main what it is. If you are doomed to live 
 here, submit cheerfully ; but leave it if you 
 can : these are your only alternatives.' This 
 was evidently so rational, that I felt a greater 
 respect for her than for myself : 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 than I 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 even believe that 
 she dreaded lest her intercourse with me 
 should revive her natural superiority ; for 
 what could she have done with it there 1 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 " I MIGHT have passed my life in this de- 
 plorable situation had I not lost my father. A 
 sudden accident deprived me of my protector, 
 my friend, the only being who had under- 
 stood 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. Maclinson : 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. Not that she loved her kins- 
 man ; but she thought me presumptuous in 
 refusing him, and made his cause her own, 
 rather for the defence of mediocrity than from 
 family pride. Every day my state grew more 
 odious. I felt myself attacked by that home- 
 sick yearning which renders exile more terri- 
 
 ble than death. The imagination of the exile 
 is displeased by each surrounding object, the 
 country, climate, language and customs : life 
 as a whole, life in detail, each moment, each 
 circumstance has its sting ; for one's own land 
 inspires a thousand pleasures that we do not 
 appreciate till they are lost, 
 
 " la favella, icostumi, 
 
 L'aria, i tronchi, il terren, le mura, il sassi." 
 
 says Metastasio. It is, indeed, a grief no 
 more to look upon the scenes of childhood : 
 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 gene- 
 ration which preceded yours remembers not 
 your birth ; it is not the generation of your 
 sires : 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 in- 
 itiated ease that bids your thoughts flow forth 
 secure the moment you meet a compatriot. I 
 could not remember without emotion, such 
 amiable expressions as ' Cara, Carissima :' I 
 repeated them as 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 edi- 
 fice, 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 judg- 
 ment ! The hearth of happiness or suffering 
 is in our own breast's secret sanctuary. 
 
 " At twenty-one I had a right to my mo- 
 ther's fortune, and whatever my father had 
 left me. Then did 1 first dream of returning 
 to Italy, and devoting my life to the arts. This 
 
 n'ect so inebriated me with joy, that, at first, 
 suld anticipate no objections ; yet as sny 
 feverish hope subsided, I feared to take an 
 irreparable resolve, and thought on what my 
 
 * Corinne should have rather lamented that she wag not 
 permitted to explore the county which contains AInwiek, 
 Hexham, Tynemouth, Holy Isle, and so many other wjenw 
 dear to the lovers of antiquity, the fin a arts, history, ard 
 nature, TR.
 
 110 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 acquaintance might say, to a plan which, trom 
 appearing perfectly easy, now seemed utterly 
 impracticable ; yet the image of a life in the 
 midst of antiquities and arts was present 
 before my mind's eye with so many charms, 
 
 j that I felt a fresh disgust at my tiresome ex- 
 
 | istence. 
 
 " 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 strength- 
 ened my mind without impairing my fancy. I 
 therefore possessed the advantages of a dou- 
 ble education and twofold nationalities. I re- 
 membered the approbation paid by a few good 
 critics in Florence to my first poetical essays, 
 and prided in the added success I might ob- 
 tain ; in sooth, I had great hopes of myself. 
 And is not such the first, the noblest illusion 
 of youth 1 
 
 " Methought that I should be mistress of 
 the universe, the moment I escaped the wither- 
 ing breath of vulgar malice ; but when I thought 
 of flying in secret, I felt awed by that opinion 
 which swayed me much more in England thon 
 in Italy ; for though I could not like the town 
 where I resided, I respected, as a whole, the 
 country of which it was a part. If my mo- 
 ther-in-law had deigned to take me to London 
 or Edinburgh, if she had thought of marrying 
 me to a man of mind, I should never have re- 
 nounced my name, even for the sake of re- 
 turning to my country. In fact, severe as she 
 was, I never could have found the strength to 
 alter my destiny, but for a multitude of cir- 
 cumstances which conspired to terminate my 
 uncertainty. 
 
 " Theresina is a Tuscan, and, though un- 
 educated, she converses in those noble and 
 Melodious phrases that lend such grace to the 
 discourse of our people. She was the only 
 person with whom I spoke my own language ; 
 and this tie attached me to her. I often found 
 her sad, and dared not ask why, not doubting 
 that she, like myself, regretted our country. I 
 knew that I should have been unable to restrain 
 my own feelings,, if excited by those of an- 
 other. There are griefs that are ameliorated 
 by communication ; but imaginary ills aug- 
 
 j ment if confided, above all, to a fellow-suffer- 
 er. A wo so sanctioned we no longer strive 
 to combat. My poor Theresina suddenly be- 
 came seriously ill : and hearing her groan 
 night and day, I determined to inquire the 
 cause. Alas, she described exactly what I 
 had felt myself. She had not reflected on the 
 source of her pangs, and attached more im- 
 portance to local circumstances and particular 
 
 j persons ; but the sadness of the country, the 
 jj insipidity i. the town, the coldness of its na- 
 
 I lives, the constraint of their habits, she felt 
 
 as I did, and cried incessantly, ' Oh, my na- 
 tive land ! shall I never see you more V yet 
 added, that she would not leave me, in heart- 
 breaking tones, unable to reconcile her love 
 for me with her attachment to our fair skiea 
 and mother-tongue. 
 
 " Nothing more affected my spirits than this 
 reflex of my own feelings in a common mind, 
 but one that had preserved the Italian taste 
 and character in all its natural vivacity. I 
 promised her that she should see her home 
 again. ' With you V she asked. I was silent: 
 then she tore her hair, again declaring that 
 she could never leave me, though looking 
 ready to expire before my eyes as she said so. 
 At last a promise that I would return with her 
 escaped me ; and though spoken but to soothe 
 her, the joyous faith she gave it rendered it 
 solemnly binding. From that day she culti- 
 vated the intimacy of some traders in the town, 
 and punctually informed me when any vessel 
 sailed from the neighboring port for Genoa or 
 Leghorn. I heard her, but said nothing : she 
 imitated my silence ; but her eyes filled with 
 tears. My health suffered daily from the 
 climate and anxiety. My mind requires gaiety. 
 I have often told you that grief would kill me. 
 I struggle against it too much : to live beneath 
 sorrow one must yield to it. 
 
 " I frequently returned to the idea which 
 
 had so occupied me since my father's death ; 
 but I loved Lucy dearly ; she was now nine 
 years old : for six had I watched over her like 
 
 a second mother. I thought, too, that, if I 
 departed privately, I should injure my own 
 reputation, and that the name of my sister 
 might thus be sullied. This apprehension, for 
 the time, banished all my schemes. One 
 evening, however, when I was more than usu- 
 ally depressed, I found myself alone with Lady 
 Edgarmond ; and, after an hour's silence, took 
 so sudden a distaste towards her imperturbable 
 frigidity, that I began the conversation, by la- 
 menting the life I led, rather to force her to 
 speak, than to achieve any other result ; but 
 as I grew animated, I represented the possi- 
 bility of my leaving England for ever. My 
 mother-in-law was not at all alarmed ; but 
 with a dry indifference, which I shall never 
 forget, replied, ' You are of age, Miss Edgar- 
 mond ; your fortune is your own ; you are the 
 mistress of your conduct : but if you take any 
 step which would dishonor you in the eyes of 
 the world, you owe it to your family to change 
 your name, and be reported dead.' 
 
 " This heartless scorn inspired me with 
 such indignation, that for a while a desire for 
 vengeance, foreign to my nature, seized on 
 my soul. That impulse left me ; but the con- 
 viction that no one was interested in my wel- 
 fare broke every link which, till then, had
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 Ill 
 
 boqnd me to the house where I had seen my 
 father. His wife certainly had never pleased 
 me, save by her tenderness for Lucy. I be- 
 lieved that I must have conciliated her by the 
 pains I had bestowed on her child ; which, 
 perhaps, rather excited her jealousy ; for the 
 more sacrifices she imposed on her other in- 
 clinations, the more passionately she indulged 
 the sole affection she permitted herself. All 
 that is quick and ardent in .he human breast, 
 mastered by her reason in her other connec- 
 tions, spoke from her countenance when any- 
 thing concerned her daughter. 
 
 " At the height of my resentment, There- 
 sina came to me, in extreme emotion, with 
 tidings that a ship had arrived from Leghorn, 
 on board which were some traders whom she 
 knew : ' the best people in the world,' she 
 added, weeping ; ' for they are all Italians, 
 can speak nothing but Italian : in a week they 
 sail again for Italy ; and if madame is decid- 
 ed ' ' Return with them, my good The- 
 resina !' said I. ' No, madame ; I would ra- 
 ther die here.' She left the room, and I 
 mused over my duty to my step-mother. It 
 was plain that she did not wish to have me 
 with her ; my influence over Lucy displeased 
 her : she feared that the name I had gained 
 there, as an extraordinary person, would, one 
 day, interfere with the establishment of my 
 sister : she had told me the secret of her 
 heart, in desiring me to pass for dead ; and 
 this bitter advice, which had, at first, so 
 shocked me, now appeared reasonable enough. 
 ' Yes, doubtless 1 may pass for dead, where 
 my existence is but a disturbed sleep,' said I. 
 4 With nature, with the sun, the arts, I shall 
 awaken, and the poor letters which compose 
 my name, graven on an idle tomb, will fill my 
 station here as well as I.' These mental 
 leaps towards liberty gave me not yet sufficient 
 power for a decided aim. There are moments 
 when we trust the force of our own wishes ; 
 others in which the habitual order of things 
 assumes a right to over-rule all the senti- 
 ments of the soul. I was in a state of inde- 
 cision which might have lasted for ever, as 
 nothing obliged me to take an active part ; 
 but on the Sunday following my conversation 
 with Lady Edgarmond, I heard, towards even- 
 ing, beneath my window, some Italians sing- 
 ing : they belonged to the ship from Leghorn. 
 Theresina had brought them to give me this 
 agreeable surprise. I cannot express what I 
 felt : a torrent of tears deluged my cheeks. 
 All my recollections were revived : nothing 
 recalls the past like music : it does more than 
 depict, it conjures it back, like some beloved 
 shade, veiled in mysterious melancholy. The 
 musicians sang the delicious verses composed 
 bj Monti in his exile : 
 
 ' Bella Italia ! amate sponde ! 
 
 Pur vi torno, a riveder, 
 Trema in petto, e si confonde, 
 
 L'alma oppressa dal placer !' 
 
 Beauteous Italia ! beloved ever ! 
 Shall I behold thy shore again t 
 Trembling bewildered my bonds I sever 
 Pleasure oppresses iny heart and brain.' 
 
 In a kind-of delirium I felt for Italy all that 
 love can make one feel desire, enthusiasm, 
 regret. I was no longer mistress of myself; 
 my whole soul was drawn towards my coun- 
 try : I yearned to see it, hear it, taste its 
 breath ; each throb of my heart was a call to 
 my own smiling land. Were life offered to 
 the dead, they would not dash aside the stone 
 that kept them in the tomb with more impa- 
 tience, than I felt to rush from all the gloom 
 around me, and once more take possession of 
 my fancy, my genius, and of nature. Yet, at 
 that moment, my sensations were too confused 
 for me to frame one settled idea. My step- 
 mother entered my room, and begged that I 
 would order them to cease singing, as it was 
 scandalous on the Sabbath. I insisted that 
 they were to embark on the morrow, and that 
 it was six years since I had enjoyed such a 
 pleasure. She would not hear me ; but said 
 that it behoved us, above all things, to respect 
 the customs of the place in which we lived ; 
 then, from the window, bade her servants 
 send my poor countrymen away. They de- 
 parted, singing me, as they went, an adieu 
 that pierced me to the heart. 
 
 " The measure of my temptation was full. 
 Theresina, at all hazards, had, unknown to 
 me, made every preparation for my flight. 
 Lucy had been away a week with a relative 
 of her mother. The ashes of my father did 
 not repose in the country-house we inhabited : 
 he had ordered his tomb to be erected on his 
 Scotch estate. Enough : I set forth without 
 warning my stepmother, but left a letter, ap- 
 prising her of my plans. I started in one of 
 those moments, at which we give ourselves 
 up to destiny, when anything appears prefer- 
 able to servitude and insipidity ; when vouth 
 inconsiderately trusts the, future, and sees it, 
 in the heavens, like a bright star that ortstises 
 a happy lot. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " MORE anxious thoughts attaciea t I 
 
 lost sight of the English coast ; but as *d 
 
 not left there any strong attachment as
 
 112 
 
 ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 soon consoled, on arriving at Leghorn, and 
 contemplating again the charms of Italy. I 
 told no one my true name, and took merely 
 that of Corinne, which the history of a Gre- 
 cian poetess, a friend of Pindar, had endeared 
 to me. (29) My person was so changed that 
 I was secure against recognition. I had lived 
 so retired in Florence, that I had a right to 
 anticipate my identity's remaining unknown 
 in Rome. Lady Edgarmond wrote me word 
 of her having spread the report that the phy- 
 sicians had prescribed a voyage to the south 
 for my health, and that I had died on my 
 pas&age. Her letter contained no comments. 
 She remitted, with great exactness, my whole 
 fortune, which was considerable ; but wrote 
 to me no more. Five years then elapsed ere 
 I beheld you ; during which I tasted much 
 happiness. My fame increased : the fine arts 
 and literature afforded me even more delight 
 in solitude than in my celebrity. I knew not, 
 till I met you, the full power of sentiment : 
 my imagination sometimes colored and dis- 
 colored my illusions without giving me great 
 uneasiness. I had not yet been seized by 
 any affection capable of overruling me. Ad- 
 miration, respect and love, had not enchained 
 all the faculties of my soul : I conceived 
 more charms than I ever found, and remained 
 superior to my own impressions. 
 
 " Do not insist on my describing to you 
 how two men, whose passion for me is but too 
 generally known, successively occupied my 
 life, before I knew you. I outrage my own 
 conviction in n*8w reminding myself that any 
 one, save you, could ever have interested me : 
 on this subject I feel equal grief and repent- 
 ance. I shall only tell you what you have 
 already heard from my friends. My free life 
 so much pleased me, that, after long irresolu- 
 tions and painful scenes, I twice broke the 
 ties which the necessity of loving had made 
 me contract, and could not resolve to render 
 them irrevocable. A German noble would 
 have married and taken me to his own coun- 
 try. An Italian prince offered me a most 
 brilliant establishment in Rome. The first 
 pleased and inspired me with the highest es- 
 teem ; but, in time, I perceived that he had 
 few, mental resources. When we were alone 
 together, it cost me great trouble to sustain a 
 conversation, and concfeal from him his own 
 deficiencies. I dared not display myself at 
 my best for fear of embarrassing him. I fore- 
 saw that his regard for me must necessarily 
 decrease when I should cease to humor his 
 defects ; and it is difficult, in such a case, to 
 keep up one's enthusiasm : a woman's feel- 
 j uigs for a man any way inferior to herself are 
 il other pity than love ; and the calculations, 
 ij ae reflections required by such a state, wither 
 
 the celestial nature of an involuntary sen 
 timent. The Italian prince was all grace and 
 fertility of mind : he participated in my tastes, 
 and loved my way of life ; but, on an impor- 
 tant occasion, I remarked that he wanted en- 
 ergy, and that, in any difficulties, I should 
 have to sustain and fortify him. There was 
 an end of love for women need support ; and 
 nothing chills them more than the necessity 
 of affording it. Thus was I twice undeceived, 
 not by faults or misfortunes, but by the spirit 
 of observation, which detected what imagina- 
 tion had concealed. 
 
 " I believed myself destined never to love 
 with the full power of my soul : sometimes 
 this idea pained me ; but more frequently I 
 rejoiced in my own freedom I feared that 
 capacity of suffering, that impassioned nature 
 which threatens my happiness and my life. I 
 always re-assured myself in thinking that my 
 judgment was not easily captivated, and that 
 no man could answer my ideal of masculine 
 mind and character. I hoped ever to escape 
 the absolute power of love, by keeping in view 
 all the defects of those who pleased me. I 
 then knew not that there are faults which in- 
 crease passion by the inquietude they cause. 
 Oswald ! the melancholy indecision which 
 disencourages you the severity of, your 
 opinions troubles my repose, without de- 
 creasing my affection. 
 
 " And now you know my history my 
 flight from England my change of name 
 my heart's inconstancy : I have concealed 
 nothing. Doubtless you think that fancy hath 
 oft misled me ; but, if society hound us not by 
 chains from which men are free, what were 
 there in my life which should prevent your 
 loving me 1 Have I ever deceived 1 have I 
 ever wronged any one 1 has my mind been 
 seared by vulgar interests 1 Sincerity, a good 
 heart, and self-respect does God ask more 
 from an orphan alone in the world 1 Happy 
 the women who, in their early youth, meet 
 those they ought to love for ever ; but do I 
 the less deserve you for having known you 
 too late ] 
 
 " Yet, I assure you, my Lord, and you may 
 trust my frankness, could I but pass my life 
 near you, methinks, in spite the loss of the 
 greatest happiness and glory I can imagine, I 
 would not be your wife. Perhaps such mar- 
 riage were to you a sacrifice : you may one 
 day regret the fair Lucy, my sister, to whom 
 your father destined you. She is twelve 
 years my younger ; her name is stainless as 
 the first flower *>f spring : we should be 
 obliged, in England, to revive mine, which is 
 now as that of the dead. Lucy, I know, has 
 a pure and gentle spirit : if I may judge from 
 her childhood, she may become capable of
 
 COR1NNE , OR, ITALY. 
 
 113 
 
 understanding loving you. Oswald, you are 
 free. When you desire it, your ring shall be 
 restored to you. 
 
 " Perhaps you wish to know, ere you decide, 
 what I shall suffer if you leave me. I know 
 not : sometimes impetuous impulses arise 
 within me, and over-rule my reason : should 
 I be to blame, then, if they rendered life in- 
 supportable ! It is equally true that I have a 
 great faculty of happiness ; it interests me in 
 everything : I converse with pleasure, and 
 revel in the minds of others in the friend- 
 ship they show me in all the wonders of art 
 and nature, which affection hath not stricken 
 dead. But would it be in my power to live 
 when I no longer saw you ? It is for you to 
 judge, Oswald : you know me better than I 
 know myself. I am not responsible for what 
 I may experience : it is he who plants the 
 dagger should guess whether the wound is 
 mortal ; but if it were so I should forgive | 
 you. 
 
 " My nappiness entirely depends on the 
 affection you have shown me for the last six 
 months. I defy all your delicacy to blind me, 
 were it in the least degree impaired. Banish 
 from your mind, upon that point, all idea of 
 duty. In love I recognize no promises, no 
 security. God alone can raise the flower < 
 which storms have blighted. A tone, a look, 
 will be enough to tell me that your heart is 
 not the same ; and I shall detest all you may 
 offer me instead of love your love, that hea- 
 venly ray, my only glory ! Be free, then, 
 Nelvil ! now ever even if my husband ; 
 for, did you cease to love, my death would 
 free you from bonds that else would be indis- 
 soluble. 
 
 " When you have read this, I w r ould see 
 you : my impatience will bring me to your 
 side, and I shall read my fate at a glance ; for 
 grief is a rapid poison, and the heart, though 
 weak, never mistakes the signal of irrevoca- 
 ble destiny. Adieu." 
 
 BOOK XV 
 
 THE AC EU TO ROME, AND JOURNEY TO VENICE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. | him. She entered his room ; he was not 
 
 there : his absence, at such a crisis, fearfully 
 
 IT was with deep emotion that Oswald read alarmed her. She saw her papers on the 
 
 table, and doubted not that, after reading them, 
 he had left her for ever. Each moment's 
 
 the narrative, of Corinne : many and varied 
 were the confused thoughts that agitated him. 
 Sometimes he felt hurt by the picture she 
 drew of an English county, and despairingly 
 exclaimed, " Such a woman would never be 
 happy in domestic life !" Then he pitied her 
 for what she had suffered there, and could not 
 but admire the simple frankness of her recital. 
 He was jealous of the affections she had felt 
 ere she met him ; and the more he sought to 
 hide this from himself the more it tortured 
 him ; but, above all, was he afflicted by his 
 
 father's part in her histor 
 
 H: 
 
 s anguish was 
 
 attempt at patience added to her distress : she 
 walked the chamber hastily, then stopped, in 
 fear of losing the least sound that might an- 
 nounce his return ; at last, unable to control 
 her anxiety, she descended to inquire if any 
 one had seen Lord Nelvil go out, and which 
 way he went. The master of the inn replied, 
 " Towards Portici ;" adding, " that his Lord- 
 ship surely would not walk far at such a dan- 
 gerous period of the day." This terror, 
 blending with so many others, deterrr;' ( ned 
 
 ustory. 
 
 such, that, not knowing what he did, he rushed Corinne to follow him, though her hea/l was 
 forth, beneath the noonday sun, when the undefended from the sun. The large white 
 streets of Naples were deserted, and their I pavements of Naples, formed of lava, redou- 
 inhabitants all secluded in the shade. He ' bling the light and heat, scorched and dazzled 
 hurried at random towards Portici; the beams her as she walked. 
 
 which fell on his brow at once excited and be- She did not intend going to Portici, yet ad- i 
 wildered his ideas. vanced towards it with increasing speed, meet- I 
 
 Corinne. meanwhile, having waited for some j ing no one ; for even the animals now shrunk 
 hours, could no longer tesist her desire to see from the ardors of the clime. Clouds of dust
 
 114 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 filled the air, with the slightest 'breeze, cover- 
 ing the fields, and concealing all appearance 
 of verdant life. Every instant, Corinne felt 
 about to fall ; not even a tree was near to 
 support her. Reason reeled in this burning 
 desert : a few steps more, and she might reach 
 the royal palace, beneath whose .porch she 
 would find both shade and water; but her 
 strength failed she could no longer see her 
 way her head swam a thousand flames, 
 more vivid even than the blaze of day, danced 
 before his eyes an unrefreshing darkness 
 suddenly succeeded them a cruel thirst con- 
 sumed her. One of the Lazzaroni, the only 
 human creature expected to brave these fervid 
 horrors, now came up ; she prayed him to 
 bring her a little water ; but the man, behold- 
 ing a woman so beautiful and so elegantly 
 dressed, alone, on foot, at such an hour, con- 
 cluded that she must be insane, and ran from 
 her in dismay. 
 
 Fortunately Oswald at this moment return- 
 ed : the voice of Corinne reached his ear. 
 He hastened towards her, as she was falling 
 to the earth insensible, and bore her to the 
 palace portico, where he called her back to 
 life by the tenderest cares. 
 
 As she recognized him, her senses still 
 wandered, and she wildly exclaimed, "You 
 
 fromised never to depart without my consent ' 
 may now appear unworthy of your love ; but 
 a promise, Oswald !" " Corinne," he cried, 
 "the thought of leaving you never entered 
 my heart. I . would only reflect on our fate ; 
 and wished' to recover my spirits ere I saw 
 you again." " Well," she said, struggling to 
 appear calm, " you have had time, during the 
 long hours that might have cost my life ; time 
 enough therefore speak ! tell me what you 
 have resolved 1 ?" Oswald, terrified at the 
 accents, which betrayed her inmost feelings, 
 knelt before her, answering, " Corinne, my 
 heart is unchanged ; what have I learnt that 
 should dispel your enchantment 1 Only hear 
 me ;" and as she trembled still more violently, 
 he added, with much earnestness, " Listen 
 fearlessly to one who cannot live, and know 
 thou art unhappy." "Ah!" she sighed, "it 
 is of my happiness you speak ; v your own, 
 then, no longer depends on me ? Yet I repel 
 not your pity ; for, at this moment, I have 
 need of it : but think you I will live for that 
 alone V " No, no, we will both live for love. 
 I will return." "Return!" interrupted Co- 
 rinne. "Ah, you do go, then T What has 
 happened t how is all changed since yester- 
 day? hapless wretch that lam!" "Dearest 
 love," returned Oswald, " be composed ; and 
 let me, if I can, explain my meaning ; it is 
 better than you suppose, much better ; but it 
 is necessary, nevertheless, that I should as- 
 
 certain my father's reasons for opposing our 
 union seven years since : he never mentioned 
 the subject to me ; but his most intimate sur- 
 viving friend in England must know his mo- 
 tives. If, as I believe, they sprung from un- 
 important circumstances, I can pardon your 
 desertion of your father's land and mine ; to 
 so noble a country love may attach you yet, 
 and bid you prefer homefelt peace, with its 
 gentle and natural virtues, even to the fame 
 of genius. I will hope everything, do every- 
 thing ; if my father decides against thee, Co- 
 rinne, I will never be the husband of another, 
 though then I cannot be thine." 
 
 A cold dew stood on his brow : the effort 
 he had made to speak thus, cost him so much 
 agony, that for some time Corinne could think 
 of nothing but the sad state in which she be- 
 held him. At last she took his hand, crying, 
 " So you return to England without me." 
 Oswald was silent. " Cruel !" she continued : 
 " you say nothing to contradict my fears ; 
 they are just, then, though even while saying 
 so, I cannot yet believe it." "Thanks to 
 your cares," answered Nelvil, " I have re- 
 gained the life so nearly lost : it belongs to 
 my country during the war. If I can marry 
 you, we part no more. I will restore you to 
 your rank in England. If this too happy lot 
 should be forbidden me, I shall return, with 
 the peace, to Italy, stay with you long, and 
 change your fate in nothing save in giving 
 
 Trtii rmp fnitht'nl friprirl thp mnrft ." " Not. 
 
 you one faithful friend the .more. 
 
 Not 
 
 change my fate !" she repeated ; " you who 
 have become my only interest in the world ! 
 to whom I owe the intoxicating draught which 
 gives happiness or death ? Yet tell me, at 
 least, this parting, when must it be 1 How 
 many days are left me T' " Beloved !" he 
 cried, pressing her to his heart, " I swear, 
 that for three months I will not leave thee ; 
 not, perhaps, even then." li Three months !" 
 she burst forth ; " am I to live so long 1 it is 
 much, I did not hope so much. Come, I am 
 better. Three months 1 what a futurity !" 
 she added, with a mixture of joy and sadness, 
 that profoundly affected Oswald ; and both, 
 in silence, entered the carriage which took 
 them back to Naples. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 CASTEL FORTE awaited them at the inn, 
 A report had been circulated that Lord Nel-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 115 
 
 I Til was married to Corinne : it greatly pained 
 j the Prince, yet he came to assure himself of 
 |j the fact, to regain, as a friend, the society of 
 !j iiis former love, even if she were for ever 
 ! I united to another. The state of dejection in 
 j| wilich he beheld her, for the first time, occa- 
 || sioned him much uneasiness; but he dared 
 not question her, as she seemed to avoid all 
 i conversation on this subject. There are 
 j situations in which we dread to confide in any 
 | one ; a single word, that we might say or 
 ; hear, would suffice to dissipate the illusion 
 that supports our life. The self-deceptions 
 jj of impassioned sen 'ment have the peculiarity 
 |j of humoring the he rt, as we humor a friend 
 jj whom we fear to afflict by the truth; thus, 
 jj unconsciously, trust we our own griefs to the 
 1 1 protection of our own pity. 
 jj Next day, Corinne, who was too natural a 
 |- person to attempt producing an effect by her 
 .,' sorrows, strove to appear gay ; believing that 
 I the best method of retaining Oswald was to 
 ,i seem as attractive as formerly. She, there- 
 I, lore, introduced some interesting topic ; but 
 
 I suddenly her abstraction returned, her eyes 
 i wandered : the woman who had possessed the 
 
 i greatest possible facility of address now hesi- 
 ; tated in her choice of words, and sometimes 
 
 i; used expressions that bore not the slightest 
 ) reference to what she intended saying : then 
 ' &.-.e would laugh at herself, though through 
 i: ;ears ; and Oswald, overwhelmed by the wreck 
 l, he had made, would have sought to be alone 
 ,, with her, but she carefully denied him an 
 ': opportunity. 
 
 ,i ''What would you learn from me 1 ?" she 
 1 1 said one day, when, for an instant, he insisted 
 
 i on speaking with her. "I regret myself 
 i tr.at is all ! I had some pride in my talents. 
 
 ii i ioved success, glory. The praises, even of 
 5; .ndilTerent persons, were objects of my ambi- 
 i uon; now I care for nothing : and it is not 
 .1 ..appiness that weans me from these vain 
 pleasures, but a vast despondency. I accuse 
 
 not you; it springs from myself; perhaps I 
 u may yet triumph over it. Many things pass 
 i i, 1 the depths of the soul that we can neither 
 
 ; toresee nor direct ; but I do you justice, Os- 
 1, waid : I see you suffer for me. I sympathize 
 II A'itn you, too : why should not pity bestow 
 . ner gifts on us T: Alas ! they might be offered 
 
 > ill who breathe, without proving often in- 
 
 iDDiicable." 
 
 Oswald, indeed, was not less wretched than 
 ' Oormne. He loved her strongly; but her 
 ' History had wounded his affections, his way 
 
 or thinking. He seemed to perceive clearly 
 it thai ths father had prejudged everything for 
 [; min ; and that he could only %ved Corinne in 
 
 | defiance of such warning ; yet how resign 
 )J her ? His uncertainty was more painful than 
 
 il 
 
 that which he hoped to terminate by a know- 
 ledge of har life. On her 'part, she had not 
 wished that the tie of marriage should unite 
 her to Oswald : so she could have been cer- 
 tain that he would never leave her, she would 
 have wanted no more to render her content ; 
 but she knew him well enough to understand 
 that he could conceive no happiness save in 
 domestic life ; and would never abjure the 
 design of marrying her, save in ceasing to 
 love. His departure for England appeared 
 the signal for her death. She was aware 
 how great an influence the manners and opi- 
 nions of his country held over his mind. It 
 was in vain that he talked of passing his life 
 with her in Italy ; she doubted not tha*, once 
 returned to his home, the thought of quitting 
 it again would be odious to him. She felt 
 that she owed her power to her charms ; and 
 what is that power in absence ? What are 
 the memories of imagination to a man encir- 
 cled by all the realities of social order, the 
 more imperious from being founded on pure 
 and noble reason 1 
 
 Tormented by these reflections, Corinne 
 strove to exert some power over her attach- 
 ment. She tried to speak with Castel Forte 
 on literature and the fine arts ; but, if Oswald 
 joined them, the dignity of his mien, the me- 
 lancholy look which seemed to ask, " Why 
 will you renounce me V disconcerted all her 
 attempts. Twenty times would she have told 
 him, that his irresolution offended her, and 
 that she was decided to leave him ; but she 
 saw him now lean upon his hand, as if bending 
 breathless beneath his sorrows ; now musing 
 beside the sea, or raising his eyes to heaven, 
 at the sound of music ; and these simple 
 changes, whose magic was known but to her- 
 self, suddenly overthrew her determination. 
 A look, an accent, a certain grace of gesture, 
 reveals to love the nearest secrets of the soul ; 
 and, perhaps, a countenance, so apparently 
 cold as Nelvil's, can never be read, save by 
 those to whom it is dearest. Impartiality 
 guesses nothing, judges only by what is dis- 
 played. Corinne, in solitude, essayed a test 
 which had succeeded on a former occasion, 
 when she believed that she loved. She taxed 
 her spirit of observation (which was capable 
 of detecting the slightest foibles) to represent 
 Oswald beneath less seducing colors ; but 
 there was nothing about him that was not 
 noble, simple, and affecting. How then defeat 
 the spefl of so perfectly natural a mind ? It 
 is only affectation which can admit of that 
 sudden awakening of heart, astonished at 
 ^having loved. 
 
 Besides, there existed between Oswald and 
 Corinne a singular, all-powerful sympathy. 
 Their tastes were not the same ; their opinions
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 r Je.v accorded ; yet in the centre of each 
 . l .u (melt kindred 'mysteries, drawn from one 
 KUZCC; a secret likeness, that attests the 
 tame nature, however differently modified by 
 t. u'cfnai circumstances. Corinne, therefore, 
 f cc.23 co her dismay, that she had but increased 
 Its uassion, by thus minutely considering Os- 
 \ K i& aa w, even in her very struggle against 
 the imo ession which he had caused. 
 
 ane invited Castel Forte to return to Rome 
 vitn ;hem. Nelvil knew she did this to avoid 
 lx-\~eiS alone with him : he felt it sadly, but 
 C-JJIQ not oppose. He was no longer per- 
 fiaaed that his society alone would suffice foi 
 lifr nappiness ; and this thought rendered him 
 tjnuc, She, the while, had hoped he would 
 refuse the Prince's company. Their situation 
 vas no longer honest as of old : though as yet 
 vunout actual dissimulation, restraint already 
 troubled an attachment, which for six months 
 lau daily conferred on them a bliss almost 
 unqualified. Returning by Capua and Gae'ta, 
 scenes which she had so lately visited with 
 B-Jcb delight, Corinne felt that these beauties 
 vamiy called on her to reflect their smile. 
 Wnen such a sky fails to disperse the clouds 
 tf care, its gay contrast but augments their 
 
 Tney arrived at Terracina on a deliciously 
 refreshing eve. Corinne withdrew after sup- 
 per. Oswald went forth, and his heart, like 
 hers, led him towards the spot where they had 
 rested on their way to Naples. He beheld 
 her, kneeling before the rock on which they 
 feac ; and, as he looked on the moon, saw that 
 she was veiled by a cloud, as she had been 
 two months since at that hour. Corinne, at 
 his approach, rose, and pointing upwards, said, 
 ' Have I not reason to believe in omens 1 Is 
 there not some compassion in that heaven ? It 
 warned me of the future ; and to-night, you 
 see, it mourns for me. Forget not, Oswald, 
 to remark, if such a cloud passes not over the 
 moon when I am dying." ''Corinne," he 
 cried, " have I deserved that you should make 
 roe expire with grief? It were easily done : 
 speak thus again, and you will see me lifeless 
 at your feet, but what is my crime ] Your 
 mode of thinking lifts you above the world's 
 opinion : in your country it is not severe ; and 
 if it were, your genius could surmount it. 
 Wnatever happens, I will live near you ; 
 whence, then, this despair ? If I cannot be 
 you; husband, without offence to the memory 
 of one who reigns equally Ytfith yourself in 
 my breast, do you not love me well enough 
 to find some solace in the tender devotion of 
 n-.ine every instant ? Have you not still my 
 ring * that sacred pledge ?" " I will return 
 it, Oswald." "Never!" "Ah, yes, when 
 you desire it ; the ring itself will tell me. 
 
 An old legend says, that the diamond, more 
 true than man, dims when the giver has be- 
 trayed our trust" (30). " Corinne," said Os- 
 wald, " dare you speak such treason ? your 
 mind is lost ; it no longer knows me." " Par- 
 don ! oh, pardon me ! in love like mine, the 
 heart, Oswald, is gifted suddenly with most 
 miraculous instincts ; and its own sufferings 
 become oracles. What portend, then, tite 
 heavy palpitations of my heart ^ Ah, my 
 friend,'I should not fear it, if it were but my 
 death knell !" 
 
 She fled, precipitately, dreading to remain ' 
 longer with him. She could not dally with 
 her grief, but sought to oreak from it ; yet it 
 returned but the more ' iolently for her efforts 
 to subdue it. The next day, as they crossed 
 the Pontine Marsh, Oswald's care of her was 
 even more scrupulous than before ; she re- 
 ceived it with the sweetest thankfulness : but 
 there was something in her look that said, 
 " Why will you not let me die ?'' 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHAT a desert seems Rome, in going to it 
 from Naples ! Entering by the gate of St. 
 John Lateran, you traverse but long, solitary 
 streets ; they please afresh after a little time ; 
 but, on just leaving a lively, dissipated popula- 
 tion, it is melancholy to be thrown upon one's 
 self, even were that self at ease. Beside? 
 this, Rome, towards the end of July, is a dan- 
 gerous residence. The malaria renders many 
 quarters uninhabitable ; and the contagion 
 ofcen spreads through the whole city. This 
 year, particularly, every face bore the impress 
 of apprehension. Corione was met at her 
 own door by a monk, who asked leave to bless 
 her house against infection ; she consented ; 
 and the priest walked through the rooms, 
 sprinkling holy water, and repeating Latin 
 prayers. Lord Nelvil smiled at this ceremony 
 Corinne's heart melted over it. " I find in- 
 definable charms," she said, " in all that is re- 
 ligious, or even superstitious, while nothing 
 hostile nor intolerant blends with it. Divine 
 aid is so needful, when our thoughts stray 
 from the common path, that the highest minds 
 most require superhuman care." " Doubtless 
 such want exists, but can it thus be satisfied ?" 
 " I never refuse a prayer Associated with my 
 own, from whomsoever it is offered me." 
 " You are right," said Nelvil, giving his purse 
 to the old friar, who departed, with benedic- 
 I tions OK them both.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 117 
 
 When the friends of Corinne heard of her 
 return, they flocked to see her : if any won- 
 dered that she was not Oswald's wife, none, 
 at least, asked the reason : the pleasure of 
 regaining her diverted them from every other 
 thought. Corinne endeavored to appear un- 
 changed ; but she could not succeed. She 
 revisited the works of art that once afforded 
 her such vivid pleasure ; but sorrow was the 
 base of her every feeling now. At the Villa 
 Borghese, or the tomb of Cecilia Metella, she 
 no longer enjoyed that reverie on the insta- 
 bility of human blessings, which lends them 
 a still more touching character. A fixed, 
 ji despondent pensiveness absorbed her. Na- 
 1 1 ture, who ever speaks to the heart vaguely, 
 can do nothing for it when oppressed by real 
 calamities. Oswald and Corinne were worse 
 than unhappy ; for actual misery oft causes 
 such emotions as relieve the laden breast ; and 
 from the storm may burst a flash .pointing the 
 onward way : but mutual restraint, and fruit- 
 less efforts to escape pursuing recollections, 
 made them even discontented with one an- 
 otheT. Indeed, how can we suffer thus, with- 
 out accusing the being we love as the cause ? 
 True, a word, a look, suffices to efface our 
 displeasure ; but that look, that word, may not 
 come when most expected, or most needful. 
 Nothing in love can be premeditated ; it is as 
 a power divine, that thinks and feels within 
 us unswayed by our control. 
 
 A fever, more malignant than had been 
 known in Rome for some years, now broke 
 out suddenly. A young woman was attacked : 
 her friends and family refused to fly, and 
 perished with her. The next house expe- 
 rienced the same devastation. Every hour 
 a holy fraternity, veiled in white, accompanied 
 the dead to interment ; themselves appearing 
 like the ghosts of those they followed. The 
 J bodies, with their faces uncovered, are borne 
 on a kind of litter. Over their feet is thrown 
 a pall of gold or rose-color satin ; and children 
 i often unconsciously play with the cold hands 
 j' of the corpse. This spectacle, at once terrific 
 ' ' and familiar, is graced but by the monotonous 
 j! murmur of a psalm, in which the accent of 
 !' the human soul can scarce be recognized. 
 
 One evening, when Oswald and Corinne 
 i | were alone together, and he more depressed 
 j: than usual by her altered manner, he heard, 
 I 1 beneath the windows, these dreary sounds, 
 i '' announcing a funeral : he listened awhile in 
 ': silence, and then said, "Perhaps to-morrow 
 '' I may be seized by this same malady, against 
 !| which there is no defence ; you will then wish 
 J' that you had said a few kind words to me on 
 ji the day that it may be my last. Corinne, 
 I 1 ieath threatens us both closely. Are there 
 )' no miseries enough in life, that we should 
 
 thus mutually augment each other's V Struck 
 by the idea of his danger, she now entreated 
 him to leave Rome instantly ; he stubbornly 
 refused : she then proposed their going toge- 
 ther to Venice ; to this he cheerfully assented : 
 it was for her alone that he had trembled. 
 
 Their departure was fixed for the second 
 day from this ; but, on that morning, Oswald, 
 who had not seen Corinne the night before, 
 received a note, informing him that indis- 
 pensable business obliged her to visit Flor- 
 ence ; but that she should rejoin him at Venice 
 in a fortnight : she begged him to take Ancona 
 in his way, and gave him a seemingly impor- 
 tant commission to execute for her there. 
 Her style was more calm and considerate 
 than he had found it since they left Naples. 
 He believed her implicitly, and prepared for 
 his journey ; but, wishing once more to behold 
 the dwelling of Corinne ere he left Rome, he 
 went thither, found it shut up, and rapped at 
 the door. An old woman appeared, told him 
 that all the other servants had gone with her 
 mistress, and would not answer another word 
 to his numerous questions. He hastened to 
 Prince Castel Forte, who was as surprised as 
 himself at Corinne's abrupt retirement. Nel- 
 vil, all anxiety, imagined that her agent at 
 Tivoli must have received some instructions 
 as to her affairs. 
 
 He mounted his horse with a promptitude 
 unusual to him, and, in extreme agitation, 
 rode to her country house : its doors were 
 open ; he entered, passed some of the rooms 
 without meeting any one, till he reached that 
 of Corinne : though darkness reigned there, 
 he saw her on her bed, with Theresina alone 
 beside her : he uttered a cry of recognition ; 
 it recalled her consciousness : she raised her- 
 self, saying eagerly, " Do not come near 
 me ! I forbid you ! 1 die if you do !" Oswald 
 felt as if his beloved were accusing him of 
 some crime which she had all at once sus- 
 pected : believing himself hated scorned 
 he fell on his knees, with a despairing submis- 
 sion which suggested to Corinne the idea of 
 profiting by this mistake, and she commanded 
 him to leave her for ever, as if he had in truth 
 been guilty. Speechless with wonder, he 
 would have obeyed, when Theresina sobbed 
 forth, '" Oh, my Lord ! will you then desert 
 my dear lady? She has sent every one 
 away, and would fain banish me, too : for she 
 has caught the infectious fever !" 
 
 These words instantly explained the affect- 
 ing stratagem of Corinne ; and Oswald clasped 
 her to his heart, with a transport of tender- 
 ness, such as he had never before experi- 
 enced. In vain she repelled him ; in vain she 
 reproached Theresina. Oswald bade the good 
 creature withdraw, and lavished his tearful
 
 118 
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 kisses on the face of his adored. " Now, 
 now," he cried, " thou shall not die without 
 me : if the fatal poison be in thy Veins, at 
 least, thank Heaven, I breathe it in thine 
 arras." "Dear, cruel Oswald!" she sighed, 
 " to what tortures you condemn me ! Oh, God ! 
 since he will not live without me, let not my 
 better angel perish ! no, save him, save him !" 
 Here her strength was lost, and, for eight 
 days, she remained in the greatest danger. 
 In the midst of her delirium, she would cry, 
 " Keep Oswald from me ! let him not come 
 here ! never tell him where I am !" When 
 her reason returned, she gazed on him, mur- 
 muring, " Oswald ! in death as in life you 
 are with rne ; we shall be re-united." When 
 she perceived how pale he was, a deadly ter- 
 ror seized her, and she called to his aid the 
 physicians who had given her a strong proof 
 of devotion in never having abandoned her. 
 Oswald constantly held her burning hands in 
 his, and finished the cup of which she had 
 drank ; in fact, with such avidity did he share 
 her perils, that she herself ceased, at last, to 
 combat this passionate self-sacrifice. Lean- 
 ing her head upon his arm, she resigned her- 
 self to his will. Two beings who so love that 
 they feel the impossibility of living without 
 ach other, may well attain the noble and ten- 
 der intimacy which puts all things in common, 
 even death itself. (31.) Happily, Lord Xel- 
 vil did not take the disease through which he 
 so carefully nursed Corinne. She recovered ; 
 but another malady penetrated yet deeper into 
 her breast. The generosity of her lover, alas ! 
 redoubled the attachment she had borne him. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IT was then settled, that to escape the 
 pestilential air of Rome, Nelvil and Corinne 
 should go to Venice in company. They had 
 relapsed into silence on their future prospects, 
 rat spoke of their affection more confidingly 
 than ever. Both avoided all topics that could 
 disturb their present mutual peace. A day 
 passed with him was to her such enjoyment ! 
 He seemed so to revel in her conversation, 
 to follow her every impulse, study her slightest 
 wish, with so sustained an interest, that it 
 appeared impossible he could bestow so much 
 felicity without being himself happy. Corinne 
 drew assurances of safety from the bliss she 
 tasted. After some months of such habits we 
 believe them inseparable from our existence. 
 
 Her agitation was calmed again, and her na- 
 tural heedlessness of the future returned. 
 
 Yet, on the eve of quitting Rome, she be- 
 came extremely melancholy. This time she 
 both hoped and feared that it was for ever. 
 The right before her departure, unable to 
 sleep, she heard a party of Romans singing in 
 the moonlight. She could not resist her de- 
 sire to follow them, and once more wander 
 through that beloved scene. She dressed : 
 and bidding her servants keep the carriage 
 within sight of her, put on a veil, to avoid re- 
 cognition, and, at some distance, followed the 
 musicians. They paused on the bridge of St. 
 Angelo, in front of Adrian's tomb : in such a 
 spot, music seems to express the vanities and 
 splendors of the world. One might fancy one 
 beheld 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 seemed designed to 
 solace wakeful suffering. Drawn onward by 
 this resistless spell, Corinne, insensible to 
 fatigue, seemed winging her way along. They 
 also sang before Antoninus' pillar, and then at 
 Trajan's column : they saluted the obelisk of 
 St. John Lateran. The ideal language of 
 music worthily mates the ideal expression of 
 works like these : enthusiasm reigns alone, 
 while vulgar interests slumber. At last the 
 singers departed, and left Corinne near the 
 Coliseum : she wished to enter its enclosure 
 and bid adieu to ancient Rome. 
 
 Those who have seen this place by day 
 only, cannot judge of the impression it may 
 make. (The sun of Italy should shine on 
 festivals ; but the moon is the star of ruins.) 
 Sometimes, through the openings of the am- 
 phitheatre, which" seems towering to the 
 clouds, a portion 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 : as two contemporaries make an uneq ia.. 
 struggle against time. He fells the weakest ; 
 the other still resists, but soon must yield. 
 
 " Ye solemn scenes !" cried Corinne, 
 where, at this hour, no being breathes beside 
 me, where but the echoes of my own voice 
 answer me, how are the storms of passlan 
 calmed by nature, who thus peacefully permits 
 so many generations to glide by ! Has not 
 the universe some better end than man ? or 
 are its marvels scattered here, merely jty be 
 reflected in his mind? Oswald! why da I 
 love with such idolatry ? why live but for ;b/3 
 feelings of a day, compared to the iniaire
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 119 
 
 hopes that unite us with divinity ? My God ! 
 if it be true, as I believe, that we admire thee 
 the more, the more capable we are of reflec- 
 tion, 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 sufficing to a boundless heart." 
 i Corinne remained long lost in these ideas, 
 i 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 
 | ils dome take her last leave of all beneath. 
 
 Her imagination represented this edifice as 
 it must be, when, in its turn a wreck, the 
 theme of wonder for yet unborn ages. The 
 columns, now erect, half bedded in earth ; the 
 porch dilapidated, with the Egyptian obelisk 
 exulting over the decay of the more recent 
 ruins wrought for an eartnly immortality. 
 From the summit of St. Peter's Corinne be- 
 held day rise over Rome, which, in its uncul- 
 tivated Campagna, looks like the Oasis of a 
 Libyan desert. Devastation is around it ; 
 but the multitude of spires and cupolas, over 
 which St. Peter's rises, give a strange beauty 
 to its aspect. This city may boast one charm 
 pe<.uliar to itself: we love it as an animated 
 being : its ruins are as friends, from whom 
 we cannot part without farewell. 
 
 Corinne addressed the Pantheon, St. An- 
 gelo's, and all the places where she had so 
 often renewed the pleasures of her imagina- 
 tion. " Adieu !" she said, " land of remem- 
 brances ! scenes where life depends not on 
 events, nor on society ; where enthusiasm re- 
 ! freshes itself through the eyes, and links the 
 I soul to each external objeqt. I leave you, to 
 I follow Oswald, not knowing to what fate he 
 j may consign me. I prefer him to the inde- 
 j pendence which here afforded me such happy 
 i days. I may return again ; but for a broken 
 j heart and blighted mind, ye arts and momi- 
 j ments, so oft invoked, while I was exiled be- 
 I neath his stormy sky, ye can do nothing." 
 
 She .wept ; yet thought not, for an instant, 
 j of letting Oswald depart without her. Reso- 
 lutions springing from the heart, we often 
 justly blame, yet hesitate not to adopt. When 
 passion masters a superior mind, it separates 
 reason from action, and need not to cloud the 
 one in order to overrule thl other. 
 
 Corinne's black curls and veil floating on 
 t'n^ breeze gave her so picturesque an air, 
 that, as she left the church, the common peo- 
 ple recognized and followed her to her car- 
 riage with the warmest testimonials of re- 
 spect. She sighed again, at parting from a 
 race so ardent and so graceful in their expres- 
 ; sions of esteem. ' Nor was this all. She 
 j tiad to endure the regrets of her friends. 
 
 They devised fetes in order to delay her de- 
 parture : 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 ex- 
 tremely affected. Oswald cast down his eyes 
 in confusion, reproaching himself 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 re- 
 moving Corinne from 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 no- 
 thing beyond Venice. He had written to in- 
 quire how soon his regiment would be active- 
 ly employed in the war, and awaited a reply. 
 Sometimes he thought of taking Corinne with 
 j him to England ; yet instantly remembered 
 that he should for ever ruin her reputation 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 an union 
 prohibited by nothing but my worship of a 
 tomb ?" His mind, so weak in all that con- 
 cerned his affections, was sadly agitated by 
 contending sentiments. Corinne resigned 
 herself to him, like a victim, exulting, amid 
 her sorrows, in the sacrifices she made ; while 
 Oswald, responsible for the welfare of anoth- 
 er, 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 earnestly to his care ; 
 congratulated him on the love of so eminent 
 a woman ; their every word sounding like 
 mockery and upbraiding. She felt this ; has- 
 tily concluded the trying scene ; and when, 
 after turning from time to time to salute her, 
 they were at last lost 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 
 disappointments teach us to mistrust our own 
 inclinations, and shrink even from the vows 
 our hearts may prompt. Corinne read his 
 thoughts, and delicately strove to fix his at- 
 tention on the country through which they 
 travelled.
 
 120 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IT was the beginning of September, and 
 the weather superb till they neared the Apen- 
 nines, where they felt the approach of winter. 
 A soft air is seldom united with the pleasure 
 of looking on picturesque mountains. One 
 evening a terrible hurricane arose : the thick- 
 est darkness closed around them ; and the 
 horses, so wild there that they are even har- 
 nessed by stratagem, set off with inconceiva- 
 ble 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, would you not go with me, be- 
 loved ?" He pressed her vehemently to his 
 bosom. Corinne, enamored as himself, re- 
 plied, " Dispose of me as you will ; chain me 
 like a slave to your fate : had not the slaves 
 of other days talents that soothed their mas- 
 ters ? Such would I be to thee. But, Os- 
 wald, yet respect her who thus trusts thee : 
 condemned by all the world, she must not 
 blush to meet thine eye." " No," he ex- 
 claimed, " I will lose all, or all obtain. I 
 ought, I must, either live thy hu-sband, or die 
 in stifling the transports of my passion : but 
 I will hope to be thine before the world, and 
 glory in thy tenderness. Yet tell me, I con- 
 jure thee, have I not sunk in thine esteem by 
 all these struggles 1 Canst thou think I love 
 thee less !" His accents were so sincere 
 that, for awhile, they gave her back her con- 
 fidence, and the purest, sweetest rapture ani- 
 mated 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 sunk back into his gloom. 
 Corinne, who knew the unsettled nature of 
 his fancy, but too well guessed the cause. On 
 the morrow, they arrived at our Lady of Lo- 
 retto, 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 the 
 Virgin is enclosed in the choir of a small 
 chapel, adorned with bas-reliefs. The mar- 
 ble pavement that surrounds,the sanctuary is 
 worn by pilgrim knees. Corinne, moved by 
 these marks of prayer, knelt on the stones 
 so often pressed by the unfortunate, and ad- 
 dressed the type of heavenly truth and sensi- 
 bility. Oswald here found her bathed in tears. 
 He did not understand how a woman of her 
 mind could bow to the practices of the igno- 
 
 rant. She guessed this by his looks, and 
 said, " Dear Oswald, are there not many mo- 
 ments when we dare not raise our hopes to 
 the Supreme Being, or breathe to him the 
 sorrows of our hearts 1 Is it not pleasing, 
 then, to behold a woman as intercessor for 
 our human weakness 1 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 
 supplicate 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 protec- 
 tion whence I shall hope to escape from my 
 perplexities." " I comprehend you," said 
 Corinne, " and believe there is no one who 
 has not some mysterious idea of his own des- 
 tiny, one event which he has always dread- 
 ed, and which, though improbable, is sure to 
 happen. The punishment of some fault, 
 though it be impossible to trace the connection 
 our misfortunes have with it, often strikes the 
 imagination. From my childhood 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, against which I 
 struggle in vain. Every one 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 cir- 
 cumstance, while itself alone is the source of 
 all our actions. Dear friend, minds capable 
 of reasoning, for ever plunge into their own 
 abyss, but always fail to fathom it." 
 
 Oswald, as he heard her speak thus, wonder- 
 ed to find that, while she was capable of such 
 glowing sentiments, her judgment still could 
 hover over them, like their 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 precau- 
 tions, however, he was so ; and the next 
 morning all the inhabitants crowded about the 
 house in which he stayed, awaking Corinne 
 by shouts of "Long live Lord Nelvil, our 
 benefactor!" She started, rose hastily, and 
 mingled with the crowd, to hear their praises 
 of the man she loved. Oswald, informed thai 
 the people were impatiently calling for him, 
 was at last obliged to appear. He believed 
 Corinne still slept : what was his astonish- 
 ment at finding her already known and cne- 
 rished by the grateful multitude, who entreated 
 her to be their interpretess ! Corinne's ima-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 121 
 
 gination by turns her charm and her defect 
 delighted in extraordinary adventures. She 
 thanked Lord Nelvil, in the name of the peo- 
 ple, with a grace so noble that the natives 
 were in ecstasies. Speaking for them, she 
 said, " You preserved us, we owe you our 
 lives !" But when she offered him the oak 
 and laurel crown they had entwined, an indefi- 
 nite timidity beset her : the enthusiastic popu- 
 lace prostrated themselves before him, and 
 Corinne involuntarily bent her knee in tender- 
 ing him the garland. Oswald was so over- 
 j whelmed at the sight, that he could no longer 
 support this scene, nor the public 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, mur- 
 mured, " Corinne at my feet ! Corinne, in 
 whose path I ought to kneel ! Have I de- 
 served this 1 Do you suspect me of such un- 
 worthy pride ?" " No, no," she said ; " but I 
 was suddenly seized with the respect a wo- 
 man always feels for him 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 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. I feel that you love me now better 
 than ever : let us not disturb this return of 
 affection." " Return !" interrupted Oswald. 
 " I cannot retract the expression ; but let us 
 not seek to explain it ;" and she made a gen- 
 tle sign for Nelvil to be silent. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FOE two days they proceeded on the shore 
 of the Adriatic : but this- sea, on the Romag- 
 i nan side, has not the effect of the ocean, nor 
 I even of the Mediterranean. The high road 
 1 winds close to its waves, and grass grows on 
 its banks : it is not thus that we would repre- 
 sent the mighty realm of tempests. At Rimini 
 and Cesena, you quit the classic scenes of 
 history ; their latest remembrancer is the Ru- 
 bicon, which Caesar passed, to become the lord 
 of ftome. Not far from hence is the republic 
 '>*' -St. Marino, the last weak vestige of lil erty, 
 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 state. 
 Bologna, Lombardy, the environs of Ferrara 
 and Ravigo, are remarkable for beauty and 
 cultivation how unlike the poetic barrenness 
 and decay that announce an approach to Rome, 
 and tell 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 co'nical cypresses that re- 
 mind one of obelisks, mountains, and the sea. 
 Nature, like the traveller, now parts from the 
 southern rays. At first, the oranges are found 
 no longer in the open air, they are succeeded 
 by olives, whose pale and tender 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 hap- 
 piness 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 con- 
 tentedly with you as if you were not the finest 
 genius in the world, or, rather, because you 
 'are so; for 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 1" They arrived 
 at Ferrara, 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 
 still are shown their manuscripts, with that 
 also of the Pastor Fido. Ariosto knew how 
 to live at ease here, amid courtiers ; but the 
 dungeon 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 organized, that his talent 
 became its owner's formidable foe. His genius 
 dissected his own heart. He could not so 
 have read the secrets of the soul if he had 
 felt less sorrow. The man ivho has not suffer- 
 ed, says a prophet, what does he know ? In 
 some respects, Corinne resembled him. She 
 was more cheerful and more versatile, but her 
 imagination required extreme government ; for 
 assuaging any grief,' it lent each pang fresh 
 power.. Nelvil deceived himself if he be-
 
 122 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 lieved her brilliant faculties could give her 
 means of happiness apart from her affections. 
 When genius is united with true feeling, our 
 talents multiply our woes. -We analyse, we 
 make discoveries, and, the heart's urn of tears 
 being exhaustless, the more we think the more 
 we feel. 
 
 CHAPTER Vn. 
 
 THEY embarked for Venice on the Brenta. 
 At each side they beheld its palaces, grand 
 but dilapidated, like all Italian magnificence. 
 They are too wildly ornamented to remind us 
 of the antique : Venetian architecture betrays 
 a commerce with the East : there is a blending 
 of the Gothic and Moresco which takes the eye, 
 I though it oifends the taste. The poplar, regu- 
 lar almost as architecture itself, borders the 
 I canals. The t>ky's bright blue sets off the 
 jj splendid verdure of the country, which owes 
 its green to the abundant waters. Nature 
 seems to wear these two colors in mere co- 
 quetry ; and the vague beauty of the south is 
 found no more. Venice astonishes more than 
 it pleases at first sight : it looks like a city 
 under water ; and it requires reflection to ad- 
 mire the genius which disputed this space 
 with the sea. Naples is built like an amphi- 
 theatre, but, Venice being flat, its steeples ap- 
 pear like the masts of a vessel, immovably 
 anchored. In entering the city, one takes 
 leave of vegetation ; one sees not even a fly 
 there : all animals are banished ; man alone 
 remains to battle with the waves. In a city 
 whose streets are all canals, the silence is pro- 
 found the dash of oars its only interruption. 
 You cannot fancy yourself in the country, for 
 you see no trees ; nor in a town, for you hear 
 no bustle ; nor 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 or cradles, the last and the fipst abode of 
 human kind. At night, their dark color ren- 
 ders them invisible, and they are only traced 
 by the glimmer of the lights they carry one 
 might all them phantoms, guided by faint 
 stars. In this abode, all is mysterious the 
 government, the habits, love itself. Doubt- 
 
 ess the heart and reason find much food when 
 they can penetrate this secrecy, but stranerers 
 always feel the first impression singularly sad. j! 
 
 Corinne, who was a believer in presenti- 
 ments, and now made presages of everything, 
 said to Nelvil, " Is not the melancholy that I 
 feel on entering this place a proof that some 
 great misfortune will befall me here ?" As 
 she said this, she heard three reports of can- 
 non, from one pf the islands of the Lagune : 
 she started, and inquired the cause of a gon- 
 dolier. " 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 mo- 
 ment 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 cannon you have just heard 
 announce this event." Corinne shuddered. 
 Oswald felt her hand grow cold in his, and 
 saw a death-like pallor overspread her fac,e. 
 " My life !" he cried, " why give this impor- 
 tance to so simple a chance/?" "It is not 
 simple," she replied. " I, too, have thrown 
 the flowers of youth behind me." "How. 
 when I love thee more than ever T 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 so- 
 lemn message from a resigned woman to V.ose 
 of her sisters who still contend with fate '' ' 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE power of the Venetian government, 
 during its latter years, has almost entirely 
 consisted in the empire of habit and imagina- 
 tion. It once was formidably daring, it has 
 become lenient and timorous hate of its past 
 potency is easily revived, and easily sujdued, 
 by the* thought that its might is over. The 
 aristocracy woo the favor of the peopie. and 
 yet by a kind of despotism, since thev rai'ner 
 amuse than enlighten them ; an agreeaaie 
 state enough, while the common hero are ; 
 afforded no pleasures that can brutify cne'.i 
 minds, while the government watches over us 
 subjects like a sultan over his harern, foroiu- 
 ding them to meddle with politics, or presume . 
 to form any judgment of existing authormb* I 
 but allowing them sufficient diversion, ana not j 
 a little glory. The spoils of Consranunoo e j 
 enrich the churches ; the standards ot' Cyprua ]
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 123 
 
 and Candia float over the Piazza ; the Corin- 
 thian 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 than their southern coun- 
 trymen ; yet, for the most part, the women, 
 though very agreeable, have acquired a senti- 
 mentality of language, which, without re- 
 straining 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 in- 
 stantaneously ; knows what success is owed, 
 and claims its due, without giving a minute's 
 credit. 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 love. There yet remain here some 
 anc.ient usages that evince a respect for their 
 forefathers, and a certain youth of heart which 
 tires not of the past, nor shrinks from melting 
 recollections. The sight of the city itself is 
 always sufficient to awaken a host of memo- 
 ries. The Piazza is crowded with blue tents, 
 beneath which rest Turks, Greeks, and Ar- 
 menians, who sometimes also loll carelessly 
 in open boats, with stands of flowers at their 
 feet. St. Mark's, too, looks rather like a 
 mosque than a Christian temple ; and its vi- 
 cinity gives a true idea of the oriental indo- 
 lence with which life is spent here, in drinking 
 sherbet, and smoking perfumed pipes. 
 
 Men and women of quality never leave their 
 houses, except in black mantles ; often black 
 gondolas, for the system of equality at Venice 
 is chiefly confined to externals, are winged 
 along by rowers clad in white, with rose-color 
 sashes, as if holiday array were abandoned to 
 the vulgar, while the nobility kept up a vow 
 of perpetual mourning. In most European 
 towns, writers are obliged carefully to avoid 
 depicting the daily routine ; for our customs, 
 even in luxury, are rarely poetic ; but in Ve- 
 nice 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 remark 
 It is usually some episode from Tasso or 
 Ariosto, whicri 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 pur- 
 chase glasses of water, as wine is bought 
 elsewhere, and this refreshment is all they 
 take for hours, so strongly are their minds 
 interested. The narrator uses the most ani- 
 mating gestures; his voice is raised; he frets 
 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 1" Yet the lively pantomime of the south 
 does not appear quite artificial : it is a singu- 
 lar habit handed down from the Romans, and 
 springing from a quick, brilliant and poetic 
 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 soldiers seen there. If even a drummer 
 appears in their comedies they are all asto- 
 nishment ; yet a state inquisitor needs but 
 show himself to restore order among thirty 
 thousand people, assembled for a public fete. 
 It were well if this influence was derived from 
 a respect for the laws ; but it is fortified by 
 terror of the secret means which may still be 
 used to preserve the peace. The prisons are 
 in the very palace of the Doge, above and 
 below his apartments. The Lion's Mouth, 
 into which all denunciations are thrown, is 
 also here ; the hall of trial is hung with black, 
 and makes judgment appear anticipating con- 
 demnation. The Bridge of Sighs leads from 
 the palace to the state prison. In passing the 
 canal how oft were heard the cries of " Jus- 
 tice !" " Mercy !" in voices that could be no 
 longer recognized ! When a state criminal 
 was sentenced, a bark removed him in the 
 night, by a little gate that opens on the water ; 
 he was taken some distance from the city, to 
 a part of the Lagune where fishing is prohi- 
 bited, and there drowned : thus secrecy is 
 perpetuated, even after death, not leaving the 
 unhappy wretch a hope that his remains may 
 inform those who loved him that he suffered, 
 and is no more. When Lord Nelvil and Co- 
 rinne visited Venice, these executions had not 
 taken place for nearly a century, but sufficient 
 mystery still existed ; and though Oswald 
 was the last man to interfere with the politics 
 of foreign lands, he felt oppressed by this ar- 
 bitrary power, from which there was no ai>-
 
 124 
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 peal, that seemed to hang over every head in 
 Venice. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " You must not," said Corinne, " give way 
 merely to the gloomy impressions which these 
 silent proceedings have created ; you ought 
 also to observe the great qualities of this 
 senate, which makes Venice a republic for 
 nobles, and formerly inspired that aristocratic 
 grandeur, the result of freedom, even though 
 concentrated in the few. You will find them 
 severe on one another ; at least establishing, 
 in their own breasts, the rights and virtues 
 that should belong to all. You will see them 
 as paternal towards their subjects as they can 
 be, while merely considering that class of men 
 with reference to physical prosperity. You 
 will detect a great pride in the country which 
 is their property, and an art of endearing it 
 even to the people, whom they allow so few 
 actual possessions there." 
 
 Corinne and Oswald visited the hall where 
 the great council was assembled. It is hung 
 with portraits of the Doges : on the space 
 which would have been occupied by that of 
 Faliero, who was beheaded as a traitor, is 
 painted a black curtain, whereon is written 
 the date and manner of his death.* The re- 
 gal magnificence of the other pictures adds to 
 the effect of this ghastly pall. There is also 
 a representation of the Last Judgment ; ano- 
 ther of the powerful emperor, Frederic Bar- 
 barossa, humbling himself to the Venetian 
 senate. It was a fine idea thus to unite all 
 that can exalt pride upon earth, and bend it 
 before Heaven. 
 
 ' They proceeded to the arsenal : before its 
 gates are two Grecian lions, brought from 
 Athens, to become the guardians of Venetian 
 power. Motionless guardians, that defend but 
 what they respect. This repository is full of 
 marine trophies. The famous ceremony of 
 the doge's marriage with the Adriatic, in fact, 
 all the institutions, here attest their gratitude 
 to the sea : in this respect they resemble the 
 English, and Nelvil strongly felt the similarity. 
 Corinne now led him to the tower called the 
 Steeple of St. Mark's, though some paces 
 from the church. Thence is seen the whole 
 city of the waves, and J,he huge embankment 
 
 * No date is seen. The inscription is simply this: "Hie 
 iT LOCUS MARINI FALIKTO DECAPITATI PRO CRIMINI- 
 srs." Am. Ed 
 
 which defends it from inundation. The coasts 
 of Istria and Dalmatia are in- the distance. 
 " Behind the clouds, on this side, lies Greece," 
 said Corinne : " is not that thought enough to 
 stir the heart 1 There still are men of lively, 
 ardent characters, victims to fate ; yet destined, 
 perhaps, some day, to resuscitate the ashes of 
 their sires. It is always something for a land 
 to have been great : its natives at least blush 
 beneath degradation ; while, in a country 
 never consecrated to fame, the inhabitants do 
 not even suspect that there can be a nobler 
 destiny than the obscure servility bequeathed 
 to them by their fathers. That Dalmatia, 
 whose shores we distinguish from here," con- 
 tinued Corinne, " which was of yore occupied 
 by so warlike a race, still preserves something 
 of the savage character. Its natives are so 
 little aware of the changes wrought by fifteen 
 centuries, that they still deem the Romans 
 ' all powerful ;' yet they betray more modern 
 knowledge- by calling the English ' the war- 
 riors of the sea,' because you have so often 
 landed in their ports ; but they know nothing 
 about the rest of the world. I love all realms 
 where, in the mariners, customs, language, 
 something original is left. Civilized life isso 
 monotonous ; you know its secrets in so short 
 a time ; I have already lived long enough for 
 that." " Living with you," said Nelvil, " can 
 we ever behold the end of new thoughts and 
 sensations '?" " God grant that such may 
 prove exhaustless !" she replied. " But let 
 us give one moment more to Dalmatia," con- 
 tinued Corinne ; " when we descend from this 
 height we shall still see the uncertain lines 
 which mark that land, as indistinctly as a ten- 
 der recollection in the memory of man. 
 There are improvisatores among 1 the Dalma- 
 tians as among the savages ; they were found, 
 too, with the Grecians, and almost always ex- 
 ist where there is much imagination, and little 
 vanity. Natural talent turns rather to epi- 
 gram, in countries where a fear of ridicule 
 makes every man anxious to be the first who 
 secures that weapon ; but people thrown much 
 with Nature feel a reverence for her that 
 greatly nurtures fancy. ' Caverns are sacred,' 
 say the Dalmatians, doubtless thus express- 
 ing an indefinite terror of the old earth's se- 
 crets. Their poetry, Southerns though they 
 be, resembles Ossian's ; but there are only 
 two ways of feeling the charms of nature. 
 Men either animate or deify them, as did the 
 ancients, beneath a thousand brilliant shapes, 
 or, like the Scottish bards, yield to the melan- 
 choly fear inspired by the unknown. Since I 
 met you, Oswald, this last manner has pleased 
 me. Formerly I had vivacious hope enough 
 to prefer a fearless enjoyment of smiling im- 
 agery." " It is I, then," said Nelvil, " who
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 125 
 
 have withered the fair ideal, to which I owed 
 the richest pleasures of my life." " No, you 
 are not in fault, hut my own passion. Talent 
 requires internal freedom, such as true love 
 destroys." " Ah ! if you mean that your ge- 
 nius may lose its voice, and your heart speak 
 
 but for me " He could not proceed, the 
 
 words promised more to his mind than he 
 dared utter. Corinne guessed this, and would 
 not answer, lest she should disturb the delight- 
 ful emotion she experienced. She felt her- 
 self beloved, and, used to living in a country 
 where men sacrifice all for love, she was 
 easily persuaded that Nelvil could not leave 
 her. At once ardent and indolent, she en- 
 joyed the moments as they came, and deemed 
 a danger past which was no longer at hand. 
 She lived as many others do, who have been 
 long menaced by the same misfortune, and 
 think it will never happen, merely because it 
 has not done so yet. 
 
 The air of Venice, and the life led there, 
 is singularly calculated for lulling the mind 
 into security : the very boats, peacefully rock- 
 ing to and fro, induce a languid reverie ; now 
 and then a gondolier on the Rialto sings a 
 stanza from Tasso ; one of his fellows an- 
 swer^ him, by the next verse, from the ex- 
 tremity of the canal. The very antique mu- 
 sic 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 gentle pensiveness. 
 Oswald and Corinne passed whole hours upon 
 the waters, reclining side by side ; sometimes 
 a word was uttered, but not often ; holding 
 each other's hands, they yielded themselves 
 in silence to the formless dreams inspired by 
 love and nature. 
 
 BOOK XVI. 
 
 PARTING AND ABSENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 As soon as Corinne's arrival was known in 
 Venice, it excited the greatest curiosity. 
 When she went to a cafe in the piazza of St. 
 Mark, its galleries were crowded, for a mo- 
 ment's glimpse at her ; and ail classes of so- 
 ciety sought her with eager haste. She had 
 once loved to produce this effect wherever 
 she appeared, and naturally confessed that 
 admiration had many charms for her. Genius 
 inspires this thirst for fame : there is no bless- 
 ing 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 Nelvil. 
 
 Corinne was blind to her own welfare, in 
 attaching herself to a man likely rather to re- 
 press than to excite her talents ; but it is easy 
 to conceive why a woman, occupied by litera- 
 ture 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 unva- 
 ried congeniality. Nelvil was supremely 
 
 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 military bias 
 inclined him rather to a career of arms than 
 one of letters. He thought that action was 
 always more poetical than poetry itself. He 
 was superior to the success of his own mind, 
 and spoke of it with much indifference. Co- 
 rinne strove to please him by imitating this 
 carelessness of literary glory ; in order to 
 grow more like the retiring females for whom 
 Erglish womanhood offers the best model. 
 Yet the homage she received at Venice gave 
 Oswald none but agreeable sensations. There 
 was so much coFdial good breeding in the re- 
 ception she met with, the Venetians expressed 
 the pleasure her conversation afforded them 
 with such vivacity, that Oswald felt proud of 
 being dear to one so universally admired. 
 He was no longer jealous of her celebrity, 
 certain that she prized him far ajjove it ; and 
 his own love increased by every tribute she 
 elicited. He forgot England, and revelled in 
 the Italian heedlessness of days to come. 

 
 COEINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 Corinr.e perceived this change ; and her im- 
 prudent heart welcomed it, as if it was to last 
 for ever. 
 
 Italian is the only tongue vwhose dialects 
 are almost languages of themselves. In that 
 of each state books might be written distinct 
 from the standard Itiili&n, though only the 
 Neapolitan, Sicilian, and Venetian dialects 
 have yet the hor.or of being acknowledged ; 
 and that of Venice as the most original, most, 
 charming of all. Corinne pronounced 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 play- 
 ing the next week. Since she had loved 
 Oswald she concealed this 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 confi- 
 dence, 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, com- 
 posed of the most diverting fairy extrava- 
 gances. (32.) Truffaldin and Pantaloon, in 
 these burlesques, oflen jostle the greatest 
 nionarchs of the earth. The marvellous fur- 
 nishes 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 
 infernals 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 war- 
 rior's courage with the frivolity of a woman. 
 The character demands a fund of fanciful 
 drollery, which but the inspiration of a moment 
 can bring to light. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FATE sometimes has its own strange cruel 
 sport, repulsing our presuming familiarity. 
 Oft, when we yield to hope, calculate on suc- 
 cess, 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 on .the 17th of November that Co- 
 rinne arose enchanted with the anticipation of 
 the evening performance. 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 mischiev- 
 ously 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 absence ; when 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 
 as inspired by gaiety as she had been at the 
 Capitol by enthusiasm. This drama blends 
 song with speech, and even gives opportuni- 
 ties for extempore dialogue, of which Corinne 
 availed herself to render the scene more ani- 
 mated. She sang the luffa 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, queened it over actors and spectators, 
 pleasantly bantering both parties. Ah ! 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 desola- 
 tion ? The applause was so continual, so 
 judicious, that the rapture of the audience in- 
 fected 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 wo, 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 from this scene of rash happiness, yet felt 
 a sad pleasure in once more beholding that 
 lovely countenance bedecked in smiles. 
 
 At the conclusion of the piece she appeared 
 arrayed as an Amazonian queen, commanding 
 men, almost the elements, by that reliance on 
 her charms which beauty maypreserve, un- 
 less she loves ; then, then, no gift of nature 
 or of fortune can re-assure her spirit. But 
 this crowned coquette, this fairy queen, mira- 
 culously blending anger with wit, careless- 
 ness with ambition, and conceit with despot- 
 ism, 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 farthest banished ; when sud- 
 denly she 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 
 nes^ apartment. Thither he followed her : 
 and when she marked his paleness, she was 
 seized with such alarm, that she was forced to |i
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 127 
 
 lean against the wall for support. " Oswald," 
 she said, " my God ! what has happened ?" 
 " I must start for England to-night," he said, 
 forgetting that he ought not thus to have ex- 
 posed her iee!i::js. " Xo, no !" she cried, 
 clinging to him distractedly; "you cannot 
 plunge me into such despair. How have I 
 merited it? or or you mean that you will 
 take me with you 1" " Let us leave this cruel 
 crowd," he said : " come with me, Corinne." 
 She followed him, not understanding aught 
 addressed to her, answering at random; her 
 gait and look so changed, that every one be- 
 lieved her struck with sudden illness. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 WHEN they were in the gondola, Corinne, 
 wild with anguish, said to Lord Nelvil, 
 " What you have made me feel is worse than 
 death : be generous : throw me into these 
 waves, that I may lose the sense which mad- 
 dens me. Oswald, be brave : I have seen 
 you do thing's that required more courage." 
 " Hold, hold !" 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 accents that 
 *he was silent ; but trembled so violently, 
 that she could hardly walk up the stairs to 
 her apartment. There she tore off her orna- 
 ments in dismay ; and as Lord Nelvil saw her 
 in this state, a few moments since so brilliant, 
 he sank upon a seat in tears. " Am I a bar- 
 barian ?" 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, you whose presence was 
 to me a ray from heaven can it be that I 
 fear you 1 that I dare not lift my eyes towards 
 you ] that I must fall before you as before 
 my murderer '? Oh, Oswald ! Oswald !" and 
 she threw herself at his feet in supplication. 
 
 " What do I see," he exclaimed, raising her 
 vehemently, "would you dishonor me'? .Well, 
 he it so. My regiment embarks in a month. 
 I have just received the intelligence. I will 
 remain, if you betray this all-commanding 
 grief, bat I shall 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." " Well, well, at least let 
 
 me go to England with you." " My letters 
 also tell me," answered he, " that reports con- 
 cerning us are already in the papers there ; 
 that your identity is suspected ; and your 
 family, excited by Lady Edgarmond, refuse 
 to meet or own you. Give me time to recon- 
 cile 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 near to answer." " Then you refuse 
 me everything !" she said, and sunk insensible 
 to the earth, her forehead receiving a wound 
 in the fall. Oswald shrieked at the sight. 
 Theresina entered in extreme alarm, and re- 
 stored 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 I looked the day you 
 met me first. I wore the crown of hope and 
 fame, now blood and dust are on my brow ; 
 yet it is not for you to despise the state to 
 which you have reduced me. Others may, 
 but you cannot you ought to pity me for 
 loving thus, you must." 
 
 " Stay," he cried, " this is too much ;" 
 and signing for Theresina to retire, he took 
 Corinne in his arms, saying, " Do what thou 
 wilt with me. I must submit to the decrees 
 of Heaven. I cannot abandon you in this 
 distress, nor lead you to England before I 
 have secured you against the insults of that 
 haughty woman. I will stay with thee. I 
 cannot depart." These words recalled Co- 
 rinne to herself, yet overwhelmed her with 
 despair. She felt the necessity that weighed 
 upon her, and, with her head reclined, re- 
 mained long silent. " Dearest !" said Oswald, 
 " let me hear thy voice. I have no other sup 
 port no other guide now." "No," replied 
 Corinne, "you must leave me," and a flood of 
 tears evinced her comparative resignation. 
 " My love," said Nelvil, " I call to witness 
 this portrait of my father, and you best know 
 whether his name is sacred to me. I swear 
 to it that my life is in thy power, if needful to 
 thy happiness. At my return from the islands 
 I will see if I cannot restore thee to thy due 
 rank in thy father's country. If I fail, I will 
 return to Italy, and live or die at thy feet." 
 " But the dangers you are about to brave," 
 she rejoined. " Fear not, I shall escape ; or, 
 if I perish, unknown as I am, my memory 
 will survive in thy heart ; and when thou 
 hearest my name, thou mayest say, perhaps 
 with tsarful eyes, ' I knew him once he loved 
 me !' " " Ah, leave me !" she cried ; " you 
 are deceived by my apparent calm ; to-mor- 
 row, when the sun rises, and I tell myself, ' I 
 shall see him no more,' the thought may kill 
 me ; happy if it does." "Why, Corinne, do
 
 128 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 you fear ; is my solemn promise nothing 1 
 Can your heart doubt it T" " No, I respect 
 too much not to believe you : it would cost me 
 more to abjure my 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 heavenly look was 
 only given to express them all. Far be it 
 from me, then, to doubt your word. I should 
 fly from the human face for ever if Lord Nel- 
 vil could deceive ; but absence has so many 
 
 perils, and that dreaded word adieu " 
 
 " Never," interrupted he, " never can Oswald 
 bid you a last adieu save from his death 
 bed !" and he uttered this with such emotion, 
 that Corinne, terrified for his health, strove to 
 restrain her feelings her feelings which were 
 so much more to be pitied. 
 
 They then began to concert means of writ- 
 ing, and to speak of the certainty of rejoining 
 each other. A year was the term fixed. Os- 
 wald sincerely believed that the expedition 
 would not be longer away. Some time was 
 left them still, and Corinne trusted to regain 
 her strength ; but when Oswald told her that 
 ! the gondola would come for him at three ;n 
 j the morning, and she saw, by her dial, that 
 ! the hour was not far distant, she trembled as 
 | if she were approaching the stake. Her lover 
 j had every instant less resolution ; and Corinne, 
 | who had never seen his mastery over hitnseL 
 j thus lost, was heart-broken at the sight of his 
 I great anguish. She consoled him, though she ! 
 must have been a thousand times the most \ 
 | unhappy of the two. 
 
 " Listen !" she said : " when you are in 
 London, fickle gallants will tell you that love 
 promises bind not your honor ; that every 
 Englishman has liked some Italian on his 
 travels, and forgotten her on his return ; that 
 a few pleasant months ought to involve neither 
 the giver nor the receiver ; that at your age 
 the color of your life cannot depend upon the 
 temporary fascinations of a foreigner. Now 
 this will seem right in the way of the world ; 
 but will you, who know the heart of which 
 you made yourself the lotd, find excuses in 
 these sophisms for inflicting a mortal wound 1 
 Will barbarous jests from men of the day pre- 
 vent your hand's trembling as it drives the 
 poniard through this breast 1" " Hush," said i 
 Oswald : " you know it is not your grief alone I 
 restrains me, it is my own ; but where could I 
 I find a bliss like that which I have owed to 
 you ? Who, in the universe, can understand 
 me as you do 1 ? Corinne, you are the only 
 woman who can feel or inspire true love, that 
 harmonious intelligence of hearts and souls, 
 which I shall never enjoy except with you. 
 
 You know that I am not fickle ; I look on ail 
 things seriously ; is it then against you only 
 that I should belie my nature ?" 
 
 " No," answered Corinne ; " you would not 
 treat my fond sincerity with scorn : it is not 
 you, Oswald, who could remain insensible to 
 my despair ; but to you my step-mother will 
 say all that can sully my past life. Spare me 
 the task of telling you beforehand her pitiless 
 remarks. Far from what talents I may boast 
 disarming her, they are my greatest errors in 
 her eyes. She cannot feel their charm, she 
 only sees their danger : whatever is unlike 
 the destiny she herself chose seerns useless, 
 if not culpable. The poetry of the heart ap- 
 pears to her but an impertinence, which usurps 
 the right of depreciating common sense. It 
 is in the name of virtues I respect as much as 
 you do that she will condemn my character 
 and fate. Oswald, she will call me unworthy 
 of you." "And how should I hear thatf" 
 interrupted he ; " what virtues dare she rate 
 above your generosity, your frankness 1 No, 
 heavenly creature ! be common minds judged 
 by common rules ; but shame befall the being 
 you have loved who does not more revere than 
 even adore you. Peerless in love and truth, 
 Corinne ! my firmness fails ; if you sustain 
 me not I can never fly. It is from you I must 
 receive the power to pain you." "Well," 
 said Corinne, " there are some seconds yet ere 
 I must recommend myself to*God, and beg he 
 will enable me to hear the hour of your de- j 
 parture strike. Oh, Oswald, we love each j 
 other with deep tenderness. I have entrusted 
 you with all my secrets; the facts are no- 
 thing but the most private feelings of my 
 heart, you knew them all. I have not a thought 
 that is not wedded to thee : if I write aught 
 in which my soul expands, thou art my in- 
 spiration. I address myself to thee, as I shall 
 my latest sigh. What, then, is my asylum if 
 thou leavest me ? The arts will retrace thine 
 image, music thy voice ; Genius, which for- 
 merly entranced my spirit, is nothing now but 
 love, and unshared with thee must perish. 
 
 " Oh, God !" she added, raising her eyes to 
 heaven, " deign but to hear me ! Thou art 
 not merciless to our noblest sorrows : take 
 back my life when he has ceased to love : take 
 that life which will then be onl^ suffering ; 
 take the wretched remnant of an existence 
 which can then afford me naught but suffering. 
 He carries with him all my highest, tenderest 
 feelings : if he permits the fire shrined in his 
 breast to be extinguished, wherever I may be, 
 my life, too, will be quenched. Great God ! 
 thou didst not frame me to outlive my better 
 self, and what should I become in ceasing to 
 esteem him 1 He ought to love me ever I 
 feel he ought my affection should command
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 129 
 
 his. Oh! heavenly Father! death or his 
 love !" 
 
 As she concluded this prayer she turned to 
 Oswald, and beheld him prostrated before her 
 in strong convulsions: he repelled her cares, 
 as if his reason were entirely lost. * Corinne 
 gently pressed his hand, repeating to him all 
 he had said to her, assuring him that she re- 
 lied on his return. Her words somewhat 
 composed him ; yet the nearer the hour of 
 separation drew the more impossible it seemed 
 to part, "Why," he said, " should we not 
 go to the altar and at once take our eternal 
 oaths,]" All the firmness, all the pride of 
 Corinne revived at these words. Oswald had 
 told her that a woman's grief once before sub- 
 dued him, but his love had chilled with every 
 sacrifice he made. After a moment's silence, 
 she replied, " No, you must see your coun- 
 try and your friends before you adopt this 
 
 ,' resolution. I owe it now, my lord, to the 
 pangs of parting, and I will not accept it." 
 
 ! He took her hand. " At least," he said, " I 
 swear again my faith is bound to this ring ; 
 while you preserve it, never shall another at- 
 tain a right over my actions ; if you at last 
 reject me, and send it back " " Cease," she 
 interposed, " cease to talk of a fear you never 
 felt ; I cannot be the first to break our sacred 
 tie, and almost blush to assure you of what 
 you but too well know already." 
 
 Meanwhile the time advanced. Corinne 
 turned pale at every sound. Nelvil remained 
 in speechless grief beside her ; at last a light 
 gleamed through the window, and the black, 
 hearse-like gondola stopped before the door. 
 Corinr.e uttered a scream of terror, and fell 
 into Oswald's arms, crying, " They are here 
 adieu leave me all is over !" " Oh God, 
 oh my father !" he exclaimed ; " what do ye 
 exact of me !" He embraced and wept over 
 his beloved, who continued, " Go ! it must 
 be done go !" " Let me call Theiesina," he 
 said; "I cannot leave you thus alone." 
 " Alone !" she repeated ; " shall I not be alone 
 till you return V " I cannot quit this room ; 
 it is impossible,'' he articulated, with despera- 
 tion. " Well," said Corinne ; " then it is I 
 must give the signal. I will open the door ; 
 but when I have done so, spare me a few 
 short instants." " Yes, yes," he murmured. 
 " let us be still together, though these crur ' 
 combats are even worse Uian absence." Thr.-y 
 now heard the boatmen calling up Lord Nel- 
 
 i vil's servants ; one of whom soon tapped at 
 the door, informing him that all was ready, 
 " All is ready," echoed Corinne, and knelt 
 beside his father's portrait. Doubtless her 
 
 J former life then passed in review before her ; 
 she exaggerated every fault, and feared her- 
 self unworthy af Divine compassion, though 
 
 far too wretched to exist without it. When 
 she arose, she held forth her hand to Nelvil, 
 saying, " Now I can bid you farewell a 
 moment more, and, perhaps, I could not. May 
 God protect your steps, and mine, for I much 
 need his care !" Oswald flung himself once 
 more into her arms, trembling and pale like 
 one prepared for torture, and left the room, 
 where, perhaps, for the last time, he had 
 loved, and felt himself beloved, as few have 
 ever been, or ever can be. 
 
 When he disappeared, a horrid palpitation 
 attacked Corinne ; she could not breathe ; 
 everything she beheld looked unreal ; objects 
 seemed vanishing from her sight ; the cnam- 
 ber tottering as from a shock of earthquake. 
 For a quarter of an hour she heard the ser- 
 vants completing the preparations for this 
 journey. He was still near ; she might yet 
 again behold him, speak to him once more ; 
 but she would not trust herself. Oswald lay 
 almost senseless in the gondola : at last it 
 rowed away ; and at that rrloment Corinne fled 
 forth to recall him ; but Theresina stopped 
 her. A heavy rain was falling, and a high 
 wind arose : the house was now, indeed, shak- 
 en like a ship at sea, and Oswald had to 
 cross the Lagune in such weather ! Corinne 
 descended, purposing to follow him, at least 
 till he should land in safety ; but it was so 
 dark that not a single gondola was plying : 
 she walked, in dreadful agitation, the narrow 
 pavement that divides the houses from the 
 water. The storm increased : she called up- 
 on the boatmen, who mistook her cries for 
 those of some poor creature drowning, yet 
 no one dared approach, the waves of the grand 
 canal had swollen so formidably. Corinne 
 remained till daybreak in this state ; mean- 
 while the tempest ceased. One of the gon- 
 doliers brought word from Oswald that he had 
 crossed securely. That moment was almost 
 a happy one ; and it was some hours ere the 
 unfortunate Corinne again felt the full weight 
 of absence, and entered upon those long, sad 
 days which anxiety and grief were henceforth 
 alone to occupy. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 DURING the first part of his journey, Os- 
 wald was frequently on tlie point of returning ; 
 but the motives for perseverance vanquished 
 this desire. We make a solemn step towards 
 the limits of Love's empire, whea we have
 
 130 
 
 CORINXE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 once disobeyed him the dream of his resist- 
 lessness is over. On approaching England, 
 all Oswald's homefeit recollections returned. 
 The year he had passed abroad had no con- 
 nection with any other era of his life. A 
 glorious apparition had charmed his fancy, 
 but'could not change the tastes, the opinions, 
 of which his existence had been, till then, 
 composed. He regained himself; and though 
 regret prevented his yet feeling any delight, 
 his thoughts began to steady from the Italian 
 intoxication which had unsettled them. No 
 sooner had. he landed than his mind was struck 
 with thq ease, the order, the wealth, and in- 
 dustry he looked on ; the habits and inclina- 
 
 | tions to which he was born waked with more 
 
 j force than ever. 
 
 In a land where men have so much dignity, 
 and women so much virtue, where domestic 
 peace is* the basis of public welfare, Oswald 
 could but remember Italy to pity her. Here 
 he saw the stamp of human reason upon all 
 things ; while thefle he had found, in social 
 life as in public institutions, nothing but con- 
 fusion, weakness, and ignorance. Painting 
 and poetry gave place in his heart to freedom 
 and to morals ; and, much as he loved Co- 
 rinne, he gently blamed her for wearying of a 
 race so wise, so noble. Had he left her ima- 
 ginative land for one of bare frivolity, he 
 would have pined'for it still ; but now he ex- 
 changed the vague yearnings after romantic 
 rapture, for pride in the truest blessings se- 
 curity and independence. He returned to a 
 career that suits man's mind action that has 
 an aim ! Reverie may be the heritage of 
 women, weak and resigned from their birth ; 
 but man would win what he desires : his 
 courage exasperates him against his fate, un- 
 less he can direct it by his will. 
 
 In London, Oswald met his early friends : 
 he beard that language so condensed in power, 
 that it seems to imply more thoughts than it 
 expresses. Again he saw those serious coun- 
 tenances that kindle or that melt so suddenly, 
 when deep affections triumph over their habit 
 of reserve. He once more tasted the plea- 
 sure of making discoveries in hearts which 
 reveal themselves by degrees to the observant 
 eye. In fine, he felt himself in his own land, 
 and those who have never left it know not by 
 how many links it is endeared to them. The 
 image of Corinne mingled with all these im- 
 pressions : and the more reluctant he felt to 
 leave his country, the more he wished .to 
 marry, and fix himself in Scotland with her. 
 He was even impatient to embark that he 
 might return the sponer ; but the expedition 
 was suspended, though still liable to be or- 
 Jeied abroad immediately. No officer, there- 
 fore, could dispose of his-time even for a fort- 
 
 night. Lord Nelvil doubly felt his separation 
 from Corinne, having neither leisure nor lib- 
 erty to form any decided plam. He passed 
 six weeks in London, , fretted by every mo- 
 ment thus lost to her. Finally, he resolved 
 to beguite. his impatience by a short visit to 
 Northumberland, with the view to influence j 
 Lady Edgarmond to recognize the daughter > 
 of her late lord, contradict the report of her 
 death, and correct the unfavorable insinuations 
 of the papers ; for he longed to tender her 
 the rank and respect so thoroughly her due. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 OSWALD reflected with emotion that he was 
 about to behold the scene in which Corinne 
 had passed so many years. He felt embar- 
 rassed by the necessity of informing Lady 
 Ecgarmond tha-t he could not make Lucy his 
 wife. The north of England, too, reminded 
 him of Scotland, and the memory of his fa- 
 ther was never absent from his rnind. 
 
 When he reached Lady Edgarmomrs 
 estate, he was struck by the good taste which 
 pervaded its grounds ; and, as the mistress of 
 the mansion was not ready to receive him, he 
 walked awhile in the park : through its foliage 
 he beheld a youthful and elegant figure read- 
 ing with much atterition. A beautiful fair 
 curl, escaping from her bonnet, told him that 
 this was Lucy, whom three years had im- 
 proved from child to woman. He approached 
 her, bowed, and forgetting where he was, 
 would have imprinted a respectful kiss upon 
 her hand, after the Italian mode ; but the 
 young lady drew back, and, blushing as she 
 courtesied, replied, " I will inform rny mother, 
 sir, that you desire to see her." She with- 
 drew, and Nelvil remained awed by the mod- 
 est air of that angelic face. Lucy had just 
 entered her sixteenth N year ; her features were 
 extremely delicate ; she had a little outgrown 
 her strength, as might be judged by her gait 
 and mutable complexion. Her blue eyes 
 were so downcast, th^tt her countenance owed - 
 its chief attraction to those rapid changes of 
 color, which alone betrayed her feelings. Os- 
 wald, since he had dwelt in the south, had ! 
 never beheld this species of expression. He i| 
 reproached himself for having accosted her I 
 w'ith such familiarity ; and, as he followed her 
 to the Castle, mused on the perfect innocence 
 of a girl who had never left her mother, ner
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 13 
 
 felt one emotion stronger than filial tender- 
 ness. 
 
 Lady Edgarmond was alone when^she re^ 
 ceived him. He had seen her twice, some 
 years before, without any particular notice ; 
 but now he observed her carefully, comparing 
 her with the descriptions of Corinne. He 
 found them correct in many respects ; yet he 
 thought that he detected more sensibility than 
 she had done, not being accustomed, like him- 
 self, to guess what such self-regulated physi- 
 ognomies conceal. His first anxiety was on 
 Corinne's account, and he began the conver- 
 sation by praising Italy. " It is an amusing 
 residence for men," returned Lady Edgar- 
 mond ; " but I should be very sorry if any 
 woman, in whom I felt an interest, could long 
 be pleased with it." " And yet," continued 
 Oswald, already hurt by this insinuation, " I 
 found there the most distinguished woman I 
 ever met." " Probably, as to mental attain- 
 ments ; but an honorable man seeks other 
 qualities in the companion of his life." '' And 
 he would find them !" he said warmly : he 
 might have made his meariing clear at once, 
 but that Lucy entered, and said a few words 
 apart to her mother, who replied aloud, " No, 
 niy dear, you cannot go to your cousin's to- 
 day. Lord Nelvil dines here." Lucy blushed, 
 seated herself beside her mother, and took up 
 her embroidery, from which she never raised 
 her eyes, nor did she utter a syllable. 
 
 Nelvil was almost angry : it was most pro- 
 bable that Lucy knew there had been some 
 idea of their union : he remembered all Co- 
 rinne had said on the probable effects of the 
 severe education Lady Edgarmond would 
 give her daughter. In England young girls 
 are usually more at liberty than married wo- 
 men : reason and morality alike favor their 
 privileges ; but Lady Edgarmond would have 
 had all females thus rigorously secluded 
 Oswald could not, before Lucy, explain his 
 intentions relative to Corinne ; and Lady Eu- 
 ' garmond kept up a discourse on other subjects, 
 with a firm and simple good sense, that ex- 
 torted his deference. He would have com- 
 bated her strict opinions, but he felt that if he 
 used one word in a different acceptation from 
 her own, she would form an opinion which 
 nothing could efface ; and he hesitated at this 
 first step, so irreparable with a person who 
 will make no individual exceptions, but judges 
 everything by fixed and general rules. Din- 
 ner was announced ; and Lucy offered her 
 arm to Lady Edgarmond. Oswald then first ' 
 discovered that hid hostess walked with great 
 difficulty. " I am suffering," she said, "from 
 a painful, perhaps a fatal ailment." Lucy 
 turned pale ; and her mother resumed, with a 
 more gentle cheerfulness, " My daughter's 
 
 attention has orce saved my life, and m\y 
 preserve it long." Lucy bent her head, and 
 when she raised it, her lashes were still wet 
 with tears ; yet she dared not even take her 
 mother's hand : all had passed at the bottom 
 of her heart ; and she was only conscious of 
 a stranger's presence, from the necessity of 
 concealing her agitation. Oswald deeply felt 
 this restraint of 'hers, and his mind, so lately 
 thrilled by passionate eloquence, refreshed 
 itself by contemplating so chastely simple a 
 picture. Lucy seemed enveloped in some 
 immaculate veil, that sweetly baffled his spe- 
 culations. During dinner she spared her mo- 
 ther from all fatigue serving everything her- 
 self; and Nelvil only heard her voice when 
 she offered to help him ; but these common- 
 place courtesies were performed with such 
 enchanting grace, that he asked himself how 
 it was possible for such slight actions to be- 
 tray so much soul. " One mus*t have," he 
 said to himself, " either the genius of Corinne, 
 that surpasses all one could imagine, or this 
 pure unconscious mystery, which leaves every 
 man free to suppose whatever virtue he pre- 
 fers." 
 
 The mother and daughter rose from table : 
 he would have followed them ; but her Lady- 
 ship adhered so scrupulously to old customs, 
 that shS begged he would wait till they sent 
 to let him know the tea was ready. He joined 
 them in a quarter of an hour. Most part of 
 the evening passed without his having one 
 opportunity of speaking to Lady Edgarmond 
 as he designed. He was about to depart for 
 the town, purposing to return on the morrow, 
 when his hostess offered him a room in the 
 castle. He accepted it without deliberation ; 
 but repented his readiness, on perceiving that 
 it seemed to be taken as a proof of his incli- 
 nation towards Lucy. This was but an addi- 
 tional motive for his renewing the conversa- 
 tion respecting Corinne. Lady Edgarmond 
 proposed a turn in the garden. Oswald offe-ed 
 her his arm : she looked 'at him steadfastly, 
 and then said, " I will take it : I thank you." 
 Lucy resigned her parent to Nelvil, but timidly 
 whispered, "Pray, my lord, walk slowly!" 
 He started at this first private intelligence 
 with her : those pitying tones were just such 
 as he might have expected from a being above 
 all earthly passions. He did not thins his 
 sense of such a moment any treason to Co- 
 rinne. They returned for evening prayer, at 
 which her ladyship always assembled her 
 household in the great hall. Most of them 
 were very infirm, having served the fatheis 
 of Lord and Lady Edgarmond. Oswald was 
 thus reminded of his paternal home. Erery 
 one knelt, except Lady Edgarmond, who, 
 prevented by her lameness, listened with
 
 132 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 1 1 
 
 1 1 ibldea 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 
 her mother : its somewhat austere expressions 
 added to the effect of the closing words which 
 Lucy pronounced in a trembling voice. 
 
 After blessing the king and country, the 
 servants and the kindred of this family, was 
 the following " Grant also, O God ! that the 
 young daughter of this house may live and 
 die with soul tmsullied 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 on pardon 
 for her faults, in the virtues of her only 
 child !" 
 
 Lucy said this prayer daily ; but now Os- 
 wald's presence so affected her, that tears, 
 which she strove to conceal, flowed down her 
 cheeks. He was touched with respectful 
 tenderness, as he gazed on the almost infant- 
 ine face, that looked as if it still remembered 
 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 plea- 
 sures, 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 herself 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 repressed impulses ; and, 
 as Corinne had said, her affection for her child 
 gained force from this extreme control of all 
 others. 
 
 By ten in the evening all was silent through- 
 out the castle, and Oswald left to muse over 
 his few last hours : he owned not to himself 
 that Lucy had made an impression on his 
 heart ; perhaps, as yet, this was not the case ; 
 but in spite of the thousand attractions Co- 
 rinne offered to his fancy, there was one class 
 of ideas, which could harmonize only with 
 Lucy. Images of domestic felicity associated 
 better with a retreat in Northumberland than 
 with a coronation at the Capitol : in fine, 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 his intention of con- 
 fiding this to Lady Edgarmond on the morrow. 
 He fell asleep thinking of Italy, but still the 
 fo'm of Lucy flitted lightly before him. He 
 a yoke : when he slept again, the same dream 
 returned ; at last this ethereal shape seemed 
 ij dying from him, he strove to detain her, and 
 jj 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 sun had just risen. Oswald supposed 
 that no one was yet stirring, till he perceived 
 Lucy upon the balcony already engaged in 
 drawing. 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, but he immediately after 
 felt ashamed at having been so affected by 
 such a natural circumstance. He remained 
 for some time before the balcony, but she did 
 I 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's genius could have solved ; without 
 her aid, it took a thousand changeful 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, facing her mo- 
 ther's tea-table. It was a white rose, on its 
 leafy sfulk, finished to perfection. " You 
 draw, then 1" he said. " No, my lord," she 
 answered ; " I merely copy the easiest flowers 
 I can find : there is no master near us : the 
 little I ever learnt I owe to a sister who used 
 to give me lessons." She sighed. " And 
 what is become of her V asked Oswald. 
 " She is dead ; but I shall always regret her." 
 He found that she, too, had been deceived ; 
 but her confession.of regret evinced so amia- 
 ble a disposition, that he felt more pleased, 
 more -affected, than before. Lucy was about 
 to retire, remembering that she was alone 
 with Lord Nelvil, when Lady Edgarmond 
 joined them. She looked on her daughter 
 with surprise and displeasure, and motioned 
 her to withdraw. This first informed Oswald, 
 that Lucy had done something very extraor- 
 dinary, in remaining a few minutes with him 
 out of her mother's presence : and he was 
 as much gratified as he would have been by 
 a decided mark of preference under other 
 auspices. 
 
 Lady Edgarmond took her seat, and dis- 
 missed the servants who had supported her 
 to the sofa. She was pale, and her lips 
 trembled as she offered a cup of tea to Lord 
 Nelvil. These symptoms increased his own 
 embarrassment ; yet, animated by zeal for her 
 he loved, he began, " Lady Edgarmond, I
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 have often in Italy seen a female particularly 
 interesting to you." " I cannot 'believe it," 
 she answered, drily : " no one there interests 
 me." " I shouJd "think that the daughter of 
 your husband had some claim on your affec- 
 tion." " If the daughter of my husband be 
 indifferent 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 for 
 ever thus disdain her V " Not the less, sir, 
 for the abilities that wean her from her right- 
 ful 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 cen- 
 sure them for extending the mind, and giving 
 a more vast, more general influence to virtue 
 itself?" " Virtue !" she repeated, with a bit- 
 ter smile ; " I know not what you mean by the 
 word v so applied. The virtue of a young wo- 
 man, who flies from her father's home, esta- 
 blishes herself in Italy, leads the most inde- 
 pendent life, receiving all kinds of homage, to 
 say no worse, setting an example pernicious 
 to others as to herself, abandoning her rank, 
 her family, her name " " Madam," inter- 
 rupted Oswald, " she sacrificed 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, violently : " Corinne 
 Edgarmond will soon be Lady Nelvil, and we 
 i shall then see if you blush to acknowledge the 
 | daughter' of your lord. You confound with 
 the vulgar herd a being gifted like no other 
 woman an angel of goodness, tender and 
 timid at heart, as she is sublime of soul. She 
 may have had her faults, if that innate supe- 
 riority that could not conform with common 
 rules be one, but a single deed or word of hers 
 j might well efface them all. She will more 
 honor the man she chooses to protect her than 
 could the empress of a world." "It may be, 
 my Lord/' said Lady Edgarmond, making an 
 effort to restrain her feelings, " that you will 
 satirize me as narrow-minded ; but nothing 
 you can say will change me. I understand 
 by morality, an exact observance of established 
 rules, beyond which, fine qualities misapplied 
 deserve, at best, but p;ty." " 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 acknowledge your 
 step-daughter, 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 an union, if I 
 can." " My father !" repeated Nelvil, always 
 agitated by that name. "Are you ignorant," 
 she continued, " that he refused her hand for 
 you ere she had committed any actual fault, 
 foreseeing, with the perfect sagacity that so 
 characterized him, what she would one day 
 become ?" " How, madam ! what more know 
 you of this 1" "Your father's letter to Lord 
 Edgarmond on the subject," interrupted the 
 lady, "is in the hands of his old friend, Mr. 
 Dickson. I sent it to him, when I heard of 
 your connection with this Corinne, that you 
 might read it on your return : it would not 
 have become me to retain it." 
 
 Oswald, after a few moments' silence, re- 
 sumed : " I ask your Ladyship but for an act 
 of justice, due to yourself, that is, to receive 
 your husband's daughter as she deserves. 1 ' 
 " I shall not, in any way, my Lord, contribute 
 to your misery. If her present nameless and 
 unmatronized existence be an obstacle to your 
 marrying her, God, and your fatker, forbid 
 that I should remove it !" " Madam," he ex- 
 claimed, " her misfortunes are but added 
 chains that bind me to her." " Well," re- 
 plied Lady Edgarmond. with an impetuosity 
 to which she would not have given way had 
 not her own child been thus deprived of a 
 suitable husband, " well, render yourselves 
 wretched, then! for she will be so too: she 
 hates this country, and never will comply 
 with its manners : this is no theatre for the 
 versatile talents yea so prize, and which ren- 
 der her so fastidious. She will carry you 
 back to Italy : you will forswear your friends 
 and native land, for a foreigner attractive I 
 confess, but one who could forget you, if you 
 wished it. For there is nothing more change- 
 ful than those flighty spirits : deep gViefs were 
 made for the women you deem so common- 
 place, those who live but for their homes anu 
 families." 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 sunk back, half faint- 
 ing. Oswald rang loudly for help. 
 
 Lucy ran in alarmed, hastened to revive 
 her parent, and cast on Nelvil an uneasy look 
 that seemed to say, " Is it you who have made 
 my mother so ill ?" He felt this deeply, and 
 strove to atone by attentions to Lady Edgar- 
 mond ; but she repulsed him coldly, blushing 
 to think that she had not respected her own 
 pride in her daughter by betraying this anxiety 
 to secure her a reluctant bridegroom. She 
 bade Lucy leave them : and then said, calmly.
 
 .34 
 
 CORIXNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 " My Lord, at all events, I beg that you will con- 
 sider yourself free. My daughter is so young, 
 that she is in no way concerned in. the project 
 formed by your father and myself; but that 
 being changed, it would be an indecorum for 
 me to receive you until she is married." Nel- 
 vil 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 your conduct," 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 appeared that she took the same 
 direction with himself. 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 fre- 
 quently turned his head, and, at a point from 
 which the 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 light- 
 ning, 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, as in this desire to see Lord 
 Nelvil as he passed ; and far from thinking of 
 simply returning his salute, she feared that 
 she must have lost his good opinion by having 
 been so, forward. Ossvald felt flattered by 
 this blameless and timorous sincerity. " No 
 one," thought he, " could be more candid than 
 Corinne ; but then, no one better knew her- 
 self or others. Lucy has all to learn. Yet 
 this charm of the day, could it suffice for a 
 life ? 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 precedes it 1" This comparison, 
 he believed, was but an amusement to his 
 mind, which could never occupy it more 
 gravely. 
 
 CHAPTER VIL 
 
 OSWALD proceeded to Scotland. The effect 
 of Lucy's presence, and the sentiment he still 
 
 felt for Corinne, alike gave place to the emo- 
 tions that were awakened by the sight of 
 scenes where he had dwelt with his father. 
 He upbraided himself with the dissipations in 
 which he had spent the las't year ; fearing 
 that he was no longer worthy to re-enter the 
 abode he now wished he had never quitted. 
 Alas ! after the loss of life's dearest object, 
 how can we be content" with ourselves, unless 
 in perfect retirement ! We cannot mix in 
 society without, in some way, neglecting vur 
 worship of the dead. In vain their memory 
 reigns in the heart's core ; we lend ourselves 
 to the activity of the living, which banishes, 
 the thought of death as painful and unavailing. 
 If solitude prolongs not our regrets, life, as it 
 is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews 
 their interests, their passions. This imperi- 
 ous necessity is one of the sad conditions of 
 human nature ; and, although decreed by Pro- 
 vidence that man may support the idea of 
 death, both for himself and others, yet often, 
 in the midst of our enjoyments, we feel re- 
 morse at being still capable of them, and 
 seem to hear a resigned, affecting voice ask- 
 ing us, " Have you, whom I so loved, for- 
 gotten me !" Oswald felt not now the des- 
 pair he had suffered on his first return home 
 alter his father's death, but a melancholy, 
 deepened by his perceiving that time had 
 accustomed every one else to the loss he stijl 
 deplored. The servants no longer thought it 
 their duty to speak of their late lord ; his 
 place in the rank of life was filled ; children 
 grow up as substitutes for thefr sires. Os- 
 wald shut himself in his father's room, for 
 lonely meditation. "Oh, human destiny!" 
 he sighed, " what would'st thou have ? so 
 much life perish ? so many thoughts expire } 
 No, no ! my only friend hears me, yet sees 
 my tears, is present, our immortal spirits 
 still commune. Oh, God ! be thou my guide. 
 Those iron souls, that seetn immovable as na- 
 ture's rocks, know not the vacillations and 
 repentance of the sensitive, the conscientious, 
 who cannot take one step without the fear of 
 straying from the right. They seek the guid- 
 ance of duty, but duty's self would vanish 
 from their eyes, if the divinity reveal not the 
 truth in 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 
 one dear shade would reappear, arid miracles 
 be wrought by the force of love ? Vain trust ! 
 beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These 
 endless uncertainties occupy not the vulgar, 
 but the nobler the mind the more incontrolla- 
 bly is it involved in speculation. While Os- 
 wald wandered thus absorbed, he did, indeed, 
 behold a venerable man slowly advancing to-
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 135 
 
 wards him. Such a sight, at such a time and 
 place, took a strong effect ; hut he soon re- 
 cognized his father's friend, Mr. Dickson, and 
 with an affection which he never felt for him 
 before. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THIS gentleman in no way equalled the pa- 
 rent 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 
 Nelvil some tidings of his son. Oswald of- 
 fered him his arm as they went up stairs ; and 
 felt a pleasure in paying attention to age, how- 
 ever little resembling that of his father. Mr. 
 Dickson remembered Oswald's birth, and 
 hesitated not to speak his mind on all that 
 concerned his young friend, strongly repri- 
 manding his connection with Corinne ; but his 
 '.veak arguments would have gained less as- 
 cendency over Oswald's mind than those of 
 Ladv Edgarmond, had he not handed him the 
 letter to which she alluded. This letter was 
 written by Lord Nelvil to Lord Edgarmond, 
 when he wished to prevent the intended mar- 
 riage between his son and Corinne, then Miss 
 Edgarmond. It was dated in 17!) 1. during 
 Oswald's first visit to France. With much 
 agitation he read as follows : 
 
 " Will you forgive me, my dear friend, if I 
 propose a change of plan in the union of our 
 families 1 My son is more than a year young- 
 er than your eldest daughter ; will it not be 
 | better, therefore, to make choice of your se- 
 cond daughter Lucy, who is twelve years 
 I younger than her sister 1 I might confine 
 i myself to the subject of age ; but, as I knew 
 Miss Edgarmond's when first I named my 
 i wishes, I should deem myself wanting in con- 
 fidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons 
 for desiring that this marriage may not take 
 j place. WB have known each other for twenty 
 ; years, and may speak frankly of our children, 
 especially while they are young enough to be 
 i improved by our opinions. Your daughter is 
 a charming girl, but I seem to be gazing on 
 one of those Grecian beauties who, of old, 
 enchanted and subdued the world. Do not be 
 1 offended by this comparison. She can have 
 I received from you none but the purest princi- 
 I pies ; yet she certainly loves to produce an 
 i effect, and create a sensation ; she has more 
 i genius than self-love : such talents as hers 
 
 necessarily engender a taste for display ; and 
 I know no theatre that could suffice the activi- 
 ty of a spirit whose impetuous fancy, and ar- 
 dent feelings, break out in each word she 
 utters. She would inevitably wean my son 
 from England ; for such a woman could not 
 be happy here : Italy alone can content her. 
 She must have that free life which is guided 
 but by fantasy : our domestic country habits 
 must thwart her every taste. A man born in 
 this happy land ought to be in all things Eng- 
 lish, and fulfil the duties to which he is so for- 
 tunately called. In countries whose political 
 institutions give men such honorable opportu- 
 nities for public action, the women should 
 bloom in the shade : can you expect so dis- 
 tinguished a person as your daughter to be 
 satisfied with such a lot? Take my advice. 
 Marry her in Italy : her religion and manners 
 suit that country. If my son should wed her, 
 I am sure it would be from love, for no one 
 can be more engaging : to please her, he would 
 endeavor to introduce foreign customs into 
 his establishment, and would soon lose his na- 
 tional character, those prejudices, if you please 
 to call them so, which unite us with each other, 
 and render us a body free but indissoluble, or 
 which can only be broken up by the death of 
 its last member. My son could not be con- 
 tented where his wife was unhappy : he ( is 
 sensitive, even to weakness ; and his expatria- 
 tion, if I lived to see it, would render me most 
 miserable ; not merely as deprived of my son, I 
 but as knowing him lost to the glory of serv- 
 ing his native land. 
 
 " Is it worthy a son of our mountains to 
 drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of 
 Italy * A Scottish cicisbeo of his own wife, 
 if not of some other man's ! Neither the 
 guide nor the prop of his family ! I even re- 
 joice that Oswald is now in France, and still 
 unknown 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 ! 
 Lacy be of an age to fix his affections. Let ; 
 him -learn my wishes, if requisite. I know he j 
 will respect them the more if I should then 
 be removed from this life. Give all your at- 
 tention, I entreat you, to his union with Lucy. 
 Child as she is, her features, look, and voice, 
 all express the most endearing modesty. She 
 will be a true Englishwoman, and may con- 
 stitute the happiness of my boy. If I do not 
 live to witness their felicity, 1 shall exuit over 
 it in heaven ; and when we re-unite there, my 
 dear friend, our prayers and benedictions will 
 protect our children still. 
 
 "Ever yours, " NELVIL. " 
 
 After reading this, Oswald remained silent,
 
 136 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 and left Mr. Dickson time to continue his long- 
 discourse without interruption. He admired 
 the judgment of his friend, who, nevertheless, 
 he said, was far from anticipating the repre- 
 hensible life Miss Edgarmond had since led : 
 a marriage between Oswald and herself now, 
 he added, would be an eternal insult to Lord 
 Nelvil's memory ; who, it appeared, during 
 his son's fatal residence in France, had passed 
 a whole summer at Lady Edgarmond's, so- 
 lacing himself by superintending the education 
 of his favorite Lucy. In fact, without either 
 artifice or forbearance, 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 to time, 
 the tenderness of Oswald. She had to con- j 
 tend with liis love of country, his filial re- 
 morse, the concerted efforts and exhortations 
 of his friends, in favor of resolutions natural 
 and so easy to adopt, as they led him towards 
 a budding beauty, whose every charm seemed 
 to harmonize with the calm, pure hopes of a 
 domestic lot. 
 
 BOOK XVII. 
 
 CORINNE IN SCOTLAND. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 CORCNNE, meanwhile, had settled in a villa 
 on the Brenta : she could not quit the scenes 
 in which she had last met Oswald and also 
 hoped that she should here receive her letters 
 earlier than at Rome. Prince Castel Forte 
 had written, begging leave to visit her ; but 
 she refused. The friendship existing between 
 them commanded mutual confidence ; and had 
 he striven to detach her from her love, haa 
 he told her what she so often told herself, 
 that absence must decrease Nelvil's attach- 
 ment, one inconsiderate word would have 
 been a dagger to her heart. She wished to 
 see no one. But it is not easy to live alone, 
 while the soul is ardent, and its situation un- 
 fortunate. The employments of solitude re- 
 quire peace of mind : if that be lost, forced 
 gaiety, however troublesome, is more service- 
 able than meditation. If we could trace mad- 
 ness to its source, we should surely find that 
 it originated in the power of one single thought, 
 which excluded all mental variety. Corinne's 
 imagination consumed herself, unless diverted 
 by external excitement. 
 
 What a life now succeeded that which she 
 had led for nearly a year ! scarce a day had 
 passed that Oswald did not spend with her. 
 He followed her eA r ery movement, eagerly 
 caught each word that she uttered. His 
 mind excited hers ; their intercourse was ani- 
 mated not less by the points of difference 
 than those of resemblance between their re- 
 
 i spective characters. His soothing attentions, 
 I his fond looks were a constant source of en- 
 I joyment to her ; when the least inquietude dis- 
 turbed her, Oswald would take her hand in 
 his, press it to his heart, and peace, ay, more 
 than peace a vague, delicious hope, would 
 spring up in the bosom of Corinne. Now all 
 was barren without and gloomy within her. 
 The only interesting event was the arrival of 
 a letter from him ; and the irregularity of the ; 
 post, during winter, every day tormented her j 
 with expectations, often disappointed. Each 
 morning she walked on the banks of the ca- 
 nal, now covered by large-leaved water lilies, j 
 watching for the black gondola, which she 
 had learned to distinguish afar off. How did 
 j her heart beat, as she perceived it ! Some- 
 times the messenger would answer, " No let- i 
 ters for you, madame," and carelessly proceed j 
 to other matters, as if nothing were so simple ; 
 as to have no letters : another time he would i 
 say, " Yes, madame, here are some." She j 
 ran over them all with a trembling hand : if j 
 the well-known characters of Oswald met not i 
 her eye, the day was terrible, the night sleep- ! 
 less, the morrow redoubled her anxiety and j 
 suspense. " Surely," she thought, " he might j 
 write more frequently ;" and her next letter 
 reproached his silence. He justified himself; 
 but his style had already lost some of its ten- 
 derness : instead of expressing his own so- 
 licitude, it seemed but attempting to di-r^pa^ 
 hers. This change did not escape her : dav 
 and night would she reperuse a particular
 
 COR1NNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 137 
 
 phrase, seeking some new interpretation on 
 which to build a few days' composure. This 
 state shattered her nerves : she became su- 
 perstitious. Constantly occupied by the same 
 fear, we may draw presages from everything. 
 One day in every week she went to A^enice, 
 for the purpose of receiving her letters some 
 hours earlier : this merely varied the tortures 
 of waiting ; and in a short time she conceived 
 as great a horror for every object she encoun- 
 tered on her way, as if they had been the 
 spectres of her own thoughts, re-appearing 
 clothed in the most dreadful aspects. Once, 
 j on entering the church of St. Mark, she re- 
 membered how, on her 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 ap- 
 proach the altar ; heard him vow before his 
 God to love her for ever ; they knelt together, 
 and she received the nuptial crown. The or- 
 gan, then playing, and the lights that shone 
 through 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 ; and from that moment she felt 
 convinced that her love for Oswald would 
 lead her but to the grave. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LORD NELVIL 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 called on death a thousand times a 
 j day. At last he once more resorted to his 
 ' habitual procrastination, telling himself that 
 he would go to Venice, since he could not re- 
 solve to write Corinne the truth, and make 
 her his judge ; but then he daily expected 
 that his regiment would embark. He was 
 free from all engagement with Lucy. He be- 
 lieved 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 for ever ? 
 He resolved to hide from her the obstacles 
 which he had encountered from her stepmo- 
 ther, because he still hoped ultimately to sur- 
 mount them. 
 
 Meanwhile the tone of his letters was much 
 
 altered ; he would not communicate to her all 
 that was passing in his mind, but he could no 
 longer express himself with the same free- 
 dom. His letters were brief, or filled with 
 subjects remote from his future prospects. 
 Any one, save Corinne, would have guessed 
 all ; but passion rendered her at once quick 
 sighted and credulous. In such a state we 
 see nothing in a natural manner ; but discover 
 what is concealed, while blind to that which 
 should seem clearest. We cannot brook the 
 idea of suffering so much without some ex- 
 traordinary caus ; we will not confess to 
 ourselves that such despair may be produced 
 by the simplest circumstances. 
 
 Though Oswald pitied her, and blamed 
 himself, his correspondence betrayed an irri- 
 tation which it did not explain ; wildly re- 
 proaching 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 disordered by the most fatal 
 images : she could not believe that the being 
 capable of writing with such abrupt and heart- 
 less bitterness was the same Oswald she had 
 known so generous, sb tender. She felt a 
 resistless desire to see and speak with him 
 once more. " Let me hear him tell me," she 
 cried, " that it is he who thus mercilessly 
 stabs her whose least pain once so strongly 
 affected him ; let him say so, and I submit : 
 but some infernal power seems to inspire Jhis 
 language ; it is not Oswald who writes thus 
 to me. They have slandered me to him : 
 some treachery must be exerted, or I could 
 not be used thus." 
 
 One day Corinne adopted the resolution of 
 going to Scotland, if we may so call the im- 
 pulse of an imperious grief, which would fain 
 alter its present situation at all hazards. She 
 dared not write nor speak to any one on this 
 subject, still flattering herself that some for- 
 tunate chance would prevent her acting on a 
 plan which, nevertheless, soothed her imagi- 
 nation, 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 whole 
 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 not one of 
 them could bring her aught, save restless 
 nights and despairing days. 
 
 One evening she was informed that a fe- 
 male was earnestly requesting to see her : 
 she consented ; and the weman entered her 
 presence dressed in black, and veiled, to con- 
 ceal as much as possible, a face deformed by
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 the most frightful malady. Thus wronged by 
 nature, she consoled herself by collecting 
 alms for the poor ; demanding them nobly, 
 and with an affecting confidence of success. 
 Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her 
 prayers in return. This poor being who was 
 resigned to her own fate, was astonished to 
 behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and 
 celebrated, a prey to sorrow. " Would to 
 God, madam !" she cried, " you were as calm 
 as I !" What an address from such an object 
 to the most brilliant woman in Italy, thus 
 sunk down in despair ! 
 
 Alas ! the power of love is too vast in souls 
 like hers. s Happy are they who consecrate 
 to heaven the sentiments no earthly ties can 
 merit. That time was not yet come for poor 
 Corinne; she still deceived herself; still 
 sought for bliss ; she prayed, 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 that is in. the world that we can re- 
 nounce the thing we love. Every other sac- 
 rifice 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 indecision, 
 Corinne received a letter from Oswald, telling 
 her that his regiment would embark in six 
 weeks, and that, as its colonel, he could not 
 profii by this delay to visit Venice, without 
 injuring his reputation. There was but just 
 time for Corinne to reach England, ere he 
 must leave it, perhaps for evfer. This thought 
 decided her ; she was not ignorant of her own 
 rashness ; she judged herself more severely 
 than any one else could. Pity her, then! 
 What woman has a right to " cast the first 
 stone' 1 '' at the unfortunate sister, who justifies 
 not her fault, hopes for no pleasure, but flies 
 from one misfortune to another, as if driven 
 on bv persecuting spirits ? 
 
 Her letter to Castel Forte thus concludes : 
 " Adieu, my faithful protector ! Adieu, my 
 friends in Rome ! 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 such as 
 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 ! Even now, while I am obeying the 
 will of passion, I see the shades of evening in 
 the distance, I hear a voice divine that whis- 
 pers me, ' Still these fond agitations, hapless 
 wretch ! the abode of endless rest awaits thee.' 
 God! grant me the presence of mine Os T 
 
 wald orrce more, but one last moment ! The 
 very memory of his features now is darkened 
 by despair ; but is there not something hea- 
 venly in his look 1 Did not the air become 
 more pure, more brilliant, as he approached < 
 You, my friend, have seen him with me, have 
 witnessed his kind cares, and the respect with 
 which he inspired others for the woman of Ins 
 choice. How can I live without him ] Par- 
 don my ingratitude : ought I thus to requite 
 thy disinterested constancy'? But I am no 
 longer worthy any blessing ; and might pass 
 for insane, had I not still the miserable con- 
 sciousness of my own madness. Farewell, 
 then yes, farewell !" 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 How much to be pitied is the feeling, deli- 
 cate woman, who commits a great imprudence 
 for a man whose love she knows inferior to 
 her own ! She has none hiit herself to sup- 
 port her. If she* had risked repose and cha- 
 racter to do' some sign-a service {. t her idol, 
 she may be envied. iS-;veet is the self-devotion 
 that braves all danger '10 save a life that is 
 dear to us, or solace the oistress which rends 
 a heart.responsive to our own. But thus to 
 travel unknown lards, to arrive witliout 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 1 Co- 
 rinne was free. She sacrificed but her own 
 peace and glory. Her conduct was irrational, 
 imprudent indeed, but if could overcloud no 
 destiny save her own ; her passion was fatal 
 to herself alone. 
 
 On landing in England, Corinne learnt from 
 the papers that Lord Nelvil's departure was 
 still delayed. She saw no society in London 
 except the family of a Danker, to whom she 
 had been recommended under a fictitious name. , 
 He was interested in her at first sight, and 
 enjoined his wife and daughter to pay her all 
 the attentions in /their power. She fell dan- 
 gerously ill on arriving, and, for a fortnight, 
 her new /riends watched over her with the 
 most tender care. She heard that Lord Xel- 
 vil was in Scotland, but must shortly rejoin 
 his regiment in London. She knew not how 
 to announce herself, as she had not written to 
 him respecting her intentions indeed Oswald 
 had received no letter from her for three 
 months. He mentally accused her of infidel-
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY.' 
 
 139 
 
 ity. as if he had any right to complain. On 
 his return to tovTn, he first went to his agents, 
 where he hoped to find let'ers from Italy : 
 there were none ; and, as he was musing over 
 this silence, he encountered .Mr. Edgarmond, 
 who asked him for news of Corinne. " I hear 
 nothing of her, ' he replied, irritably. " That 
 I can easily understand," added Edgarmond : 
 " these Italian's always forget a foreigner, once 
 out of sight : one ought never to heed it : they 
 would be too delightful if they united constan- 
 cy 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 constitute 
 her happiness : but so soon to forget ! This 
 blights the past as well as the future." 
 
 Despite his father's will, he had resolved 
 not to see Lucy more ; and even scorned him- 
 self for the impression she had made on him. 
 Condemned as he was to defeat the hopes of 
 Corinne, hj felt that, at least, he ought 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 melting her to his 
 wishes would be marrying her daughter ; for 
 she feared Corinne might frustrate this union, 
 if she resumed her name, and was received by 
 her family. Fate had hitherto spared Corinne 
 the pang of suspecting Oswald's interest in 
 her sister. Never was she herself more wur- 
 thy of him than at this period of their separa- 
 tion. The candid, honest-hearted people by 
 whom she was surrounded in her illness, had 
 given her a sincere taste for English habits 
 and manners. The few persons she saw were 
 anything but distinguished, yet possessed re- 
 markable strength and correctness of mind. 
 Their affection for her was less professing 
 than that to which she had been accustomed, 
 but evinced with every opportunity by fresh 
 good offices. The austerity of Lady Edgar- 
 mond, 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 circumstances that it 
 would have been better for her own peace had 
 she never been untaught her dislike. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE banker's family, who were for ever 
 studying how to prove their friendship, pressed 
 Corinne to see Mrs. Siddons perform Isabella, 
 in the Fatal Marriage, one of the characters" 
 in which that great actress best displayed her 
 admirable genius. Corinne refused for some 
 time :' at last she remembered that Lord Nel- 
 vil had often compared her manner of recita- 
 tion with that of Mrs. Siddons ; she was 
 therefore anxious to see her, and, thickly 
 veiled, went to a small box, whence she could 
 see all, herself unseen. She knew not if Os- 
 wald was in London, but feared to be recog- 
 nized by any one who might have met her in 
 Italy. The commanding beauty and deep 
 sensibility of the heroine so riveted her atten-, 
 tion, that, during the earliest acts, her eyes 
 were never turned from the stage. 
 
 English declamation is better calculated 
 than any other to touch the soul, especially 
 when such fine talents give it all its power and 
 originality. It is less artificial, less conven- 
 tional, than that of France. The impressions 
 produced are more immediate for thus would 
 true despair express itself : the plots and ver- 
 sification of English dramas too are less re- 
 mote 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 attached* to general rules (33) ; 
 but in England you may risk anything, if in- 
 spired by nature. The long groans that ap- 
 pear ridiculous if described, make those shud- 
 der who hear them. Mrs. Siddons, the most 
 nobly mannered woman who ever adorned a 
 theatre, lost none of her dignity by prostrating 
 herself qn the earth. There is no action but 
 may become graceful, if prompted by an im- 
 pulse, which rises from the depths of the 
 breast, and lords it over the mind which con- 
 ceives it, still more than over its witnesses. 
 Various nations have 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 savage to the king, there 
 jp 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 seveji years had 
 embellished her form. The death of a rich 
 relation had obliged Lady Edgarmond to visit 
 London, and settle the succession of his for- 
 tune. Lucy was full dressed ; and it was 
 long since so beauteous a girl had le"en seen, 
 even in England, where the women are so
 
 140 
 
 CORIXNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 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 ex- 
 aggeration be possible) the charm of that fair 
 complexion, those golden curls, and innocent 
 blue eyes that image of life's spring ! She 
 felt almost degraded in setting her ownmerita! 
 acquirements in competition with gifts thus 
 lavished by Heaven itself. 
 
 Suddenly, in an opposite box, she perceived 
 Lord Nelvil, whose gaze was fixed on Lucy. 
 What a moment for Corinne ! She once more 
 beheld that face, for which she so long search- 
 ed her memory every instant, as if the image 
 could ever be effaced she beheld it again 
 absorbed by the beauty of another. Oswald 
 could not have suspected the presence of Co- 
 rinne ; but if his eyes had even wandered to- 
 wards her, she might, from such a chance, 
 have drawn a happy omen. Mrs. Siddons re- 
 appeared, and Lord Nelvil looked but on her. 
 Corinne breathed again, trusting that mere 
 curiosity had drawn his glance towards Lucy. 
 The tragedy became every moment more af- 
 fecting ; and the fair girl was bathed in tears, 
 which she strove to conceal, by retiring to the 
 back of her box. Nelvil noticed this with 
 increased interest. At last the dreadful in- 
 stant came when Isabella, "laughing at the 
 fruitless efforts of those who would restrain 
 her, stabs herself to the heart. That despair- 
 ing laugh is the most difficult 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 that no 
 one might experience when taking full revenge 
 upon some savage foe. It was evident that 
 Lucy's agitation had alarmed her mother, who 
 turned anxiously towards her. Oswald rose, 
 as if he would have flown to them ; but he 
 soon reseated himself, and Corinne felt some 
 relief; yet she sighed, "My sister Lucy, 
 once so dear to me, has a feeling heart ; why 
 should I then wish to deprive her of a blessing 
 she may enjoy without impediment, without 
 any sacrifice on Oswald'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 
 assembled to look on her ; and exclamations 
 in praise of her beauty were heard from all 
 sides, which greatly embarrassed her : the in- 
 firm Lady Edgarmond was ill able to brave 
 the throng, in spite of the cares of her child, and 
 
 the politeness shown them both ; but they 
 j knew no one, therefore no gentleman dared jl 
 ' accost them. Lord Nelvil, seeing their situa- ' 
 tion, hastened to offer each an arm. Lu-y. 
 blushing and downcast, availed herself of tins 
 attention. They passed close by Corinne ; 
 Oswald little suspected that his poor friend 
 was witnessing a sight so painful to her : for 
 he enjoyed the pride of thus escorting one of 
 the handsomest girls in England through the 
 numerous admirers who followed her steps. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CORINXE returned to her dwelling in cruel 
 disquiet ; not knowing what steps to take, how i 
 to apprise Nelvil of her arrival, nor what to ' 
 say in defence of her motives ; for every in- 
 stant decreased her confidence in^his love : it 
 seemed sometimes as if it were some stranger j 
 that she sought, some passionately beloved ; 
 stranger, who could not even recognize her. 
 She sent to his house the next evening, and \ 
 was informed that he had gone to Lady Ed- '. 
 garmond's ; the same answer was brought her 
 on the following day, with tidings that her j 
 ladyship was ill, and would return to North- 
 umberland on her recovery. Corinne waited 
 for her removal ere she let Oswald know she ' 
 was in England. Every evening she walked i 
 by her step-mother's residence, and saw his 
 carriage at its door. An inexpressible oppres- ' 
 sion seized on her heart ; yet she dailv per- j 
 severed, and daily received the same shock, i 
 She erred, however, in supposing that Oswald j 
 was there as the suitor of Lucy. 
 
 As he led Lady Edgarmond to her carriage, 
 after the play, she told him that Corinne was 
 concerned in the will of their late kinsman ; 
 and begged that he would write to Italy on 
 the arrangements made in this affair. As 
 Oswald promised to call, he fancied he felt the 
 hand of Lucy tremble. Corinne's silence per- 
 suaded him that he was no longer dear to her ; 
 and the emotion of this young girl gave him 
 the idea that she was interested in him. Yet 
 he thought not of breaking his promise to Co- 
 rinne : the ring she held was a pledge that he 
 would never marry another without her con- 
 sent. He sought her step-mother next day, 
 merely on her account ; but Lady Edgarmond 
 was so ill, and her daughter so uneasy at find- 
 ing herself in London without another rela- 
 tive near her, without even knowing to what 
 physician she should apply, that, in duty to
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 the friends of his father, Oswald felt he ought 
 to devote his time to their service. 
 
 The cold, proud Lady Edgarmond had never 
 softened so much as she did now ; letting him 
 visit hr every day without his having said a 
 word that could be construed into a proposal 
 foi her daughter, whose beauty, rank, and for- 
 tune, rendered her one of the first matches in 
 England. Since her appearance in public, 
 her address had been eagerly inquired, and her 
 door besieged by the most distinguished per- 
 sons in the kingdom ; yet her mother went 
 nowhere, received no one but Lord Nelvil. 
 Could he avoid feeling flattered by this silent 
 and delicate generosity, which trusted him 
 without conditions, without complaint 1 yet 
 every time he went did he fear that his pre- 
 sence would be interpreted into an engage- 
 ment. 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 be- 
 side her but himself. She had never breathed 
 a word that could assure him of her prefer- 
 ence ; yet he fancied he detected it in the 
 light but sudden changes of her cheek, the 
 abrupt fall of- her lashes, and the ra'pidity of 
 her breathing. He studied her young heart 
 with tender interest ; and her reserve left him 
 always uncertain as to the nature of her sen- 
 timents. The highest eloquence of passion 
 cannot entirely 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 pro- 
 mise 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 im- 
 pulses of a more animated character. How 
 then can we prolong the heart's enchantment, 
 since doubt and confidence, rapture and mise- 
 ry, alike destroy^it in the end ? These hea- 
 venly joys belong not to our fate : they never 
 cross our path, save to remind us of our im- 
 mortal origin and hopes. 
 
 Lady Edgarmond was better ; and talked 
 of departing, ir. two days, for her estate in 
 Scotland, near that of Lord Nelvil, whither 
 he had purposed going before the embarkation 
 of his regiment. : 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 Nelvil shortly followed her, and 
 fancied that her lids were wet with tears : he 
 sighed, 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 ! He wished to atone for the pain he 
 had inflicted. It is delightful to rekindle 
 smiles on a countenance so nearly infantine. 
 Grief is out of place, where even reflection 
 has yet left no trace. There was to be a re- 
 view in Hyde Park on the morrow : he there- 
 fore entreated Lady Edgarmond to drive there 
 with her daughter, and afterwards permit his 
 riding on horseback with Lucy beside her car- 
 riage. Miss Edgarmond had said that she 
 was fond of this exercise, and looked at her 
 mother with -appealing submission : after a 
 little deliberation, the invalid held out her 
 wasted 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 viva- 
 city she had never before betrayed, took her 
 mother'^ hand, and kissed it gratefully. He 
 had not the courage to deprive an innocent 
 being, who led so lonely a life, of an amuse- 
 ment she so much desired. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 FOR a fortnight Corinne had endured the 
 severest "anxiety ; every morning she hesitat- 
 ed whether she should write to Oswald ; ev- 
 ery evening she had the inexpressible grief of 
 knowing that he was with Lucy. Her suffer- 
 ings made her daily more timid : she blushed 
 to think that he might not approve the step 
 she had taken. " Perhaps," she often said, 
 " all thought of Italy is banished from his. 
 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 six- 
 teen, the fresh and diffident soul that conse- 
 crates to him its first emotions." 
 
 Her imagination was so stricken with the 
 advantages of her young sister that she was 
 abashed, disarmed, depreciatingly discouraged 
 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 contending, 
 made her defer from day to day the dreaded 
 yet desired moment of her meeting with Os- 
 wald. She learned that his regiment would 
 oe reviewed, and resolved on being present. 
 She thought it prqbable that Lucy would be 
 there : if so, she would trust her own eyes 
 to judge the state of Nelvil's heart. At iirst 
 she thought of dressing herself with care,
 
 142 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 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 remem- 
 bered the ethereal aspect of her sister ; and, 
 throwing aside her rich array, assumed a black 
 "Venetian garb, covered her head and figure 
 with the mantle worn in that country, and 
 threw herself into a coach. In Hyde" Park 
 she found groups of gentlemen, attired with 
 simple elegance, escorting their fair and mo- 
 dest ladies. The virtues proper to each sex 
 seemed thus to meet. 
 
 Scarcely was she there ere she beheld Os- 
 wald at the head of his corps : its men looked 
 up to him with confidence and respect. The 
 uniform lent him a more imposing air than 
 usual, and he reined his charger with perfectly 
 graceful dexterity. The band played pieces 
 of music at once bold and sweet, which 
 seemed nobly enjoining 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 1 What matters 
 more or less of personal fame, amid so much 
 true merit ? and what glory could equal that 
 of being called Lord Nelvil's worthy wife 1" 
 
 The martial instruments recalled to her 
 mind the perils he must brave so soon. Un- 
 seen 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 im- 
 plore thee to preserve !" At this *moment, 
 Lady Edgarmond's carriage drove up. Nel- 
 vil 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- 
 ing well, for such had once been bent on her. 
 The horses he had provided for Lady Edgar- 
 mond 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 njy car of triumph into an 
 abyss of misery. 1 love him, and the joys of 
 life are lost. I love him, and the gifts of na- 
 ture fade. Pardon him, oh, 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 beholding the 
 face of this unknown. Her heart beat vio- 
 lently ; and all her fear was that she should 
 faint and be discovered ; but she restrained 
 her feelings; and Lord Nelvil relinquished 
 the idea which had seized 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 Edgarmond, and showed 
 her a very gentle horse, which his servants 
 had brought thither for Lucy : her mother 
 consented, and bade him be very careful of 
 her. He dismounted, and, hat in hand, con- 
 versed through the carriage door with so feel- 
 ing an expression, that Corinne could attri- 
 bute this regard for the mother to nothing less 
 than an attachment for the daughter. Lucy 
 left the carriage : a riding habit charmingly 
 defined the elegant outline of her figure : she 
 wore a black hat with white plumes, her 
 fair silken locks floating airily about her smil- 
 ing face. Oswald placed his 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 sat her 
 little foot in his hand, then sprang so lightly 
 to her saddle, that she seemed one of those 
 sylphid shapes which fancy paints in colors 
 so delicate. She started at a rapid pace. 
 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 
 he conjectured that she had lost her command 
 of the animal. Oswald turned pale as death, 
 spurring his own steed to an incredible fleet- 
 ness ; in a second he overtook that of L-icy, 
 leaped from his seat, and threw himself be- 
 fore her. She shuddered in her turn lest she 
 should harm him ; but with one arm he seized 
 her rein, supporting her with the other, while 
 in dismounting she gently leaned against him. 
 What more needed Corinne to convince her 
 of Oswald's love for Lucy ] Did she not see 
 all the signs of interest which formerly he 
 lavished on herself? Nay, to her eternal de- 
 spair, did she not read in his eyes a more re- 
 vering deference than he had ever shown to 
 her 1 Twice she drew the ring from her fin- 
 ger, 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 sky, who does not 
 tremble at attracting the attention of a crowd 1 
 She was returning to her coach ; and, as she 
 crossed a somewhat deserted walk' Oswald 
 again noticed the black figure he before had 
 seen ; and it now made a stronger impression 
 on him than at first : he attributed his emo- 
 tion to remorse, at having, for the first time, 
 felt his heart faithless to the image of Co- 
 rinne ; and when he returned home he took 
 the resolution of starting for Scotland, as his 
 regiment was not to embark for some time.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 FROM this moment Corinne's reason was 
 affected, and her strength decayed. She be- 
 an a letter to Lord Nelvil, full of bitter up- 
 >raidings, and then tore it up.- " What avail 
 reproaches ?" she thought : " could love be 
 the most pure, most generous of our senti- 
 ments, if it were not wholly free ! Another 
 Pace, another voice, command the secret of 
 his heart : all is said that can be said." She 
 began a new letter, depicting the monotony 
 he would find in an 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, no ! we must not 
 thus value our own inclinations above all 
 price. This life, full as it is of wishes, must 
 have an end: and even before death comes, 
 meditation may wean us from its selfishness." 
 Once more she resumed her pen, to* tell but 
 of her misery ; yet, in expressing it, she felt 
 such pity for herself, that her tears flowed 
 over every word. " No," she said again, " I 
 cannot send this : if he resisted it, I should 
 hate him ; if he yielded, how know I but it 
 would be by a sacrifice, after which he would 
 be haunted by the memory of another ? I 
 had better see him, speak with him, and re- 
 turn his ringr." She folded it in paper, on 
 which she only, wrote, " Ypu are free ;" and, 
 putting it in her bosom, awaited the evening 
 ere she could approach. In open day she 
 would have blushed before all she met ; and 
 yet she sought to anticipate the moment of 
 his visit to Lady Edgarmond. At six o'clock, 
 therefore, she set forth, trembling like a con- 
 demned criminal, we so much fear those we 
 love, when once our confidence is lost. The 
 object of a passionate affection is, in the eye? 
 of woman, either her surest protector or most 
 dreaded master. Corinne stopped her equi- 
 page at Lord Nelvil's door, and in a hesitating 
 voice asked the porter if he was at home : 
 but the man replied, "My Lord set out for 
 Scotland half an hour ago, madame." This 
 intelligence pressed heavily on her heart : 
 , she had shrunk froro the thought of meeting 
 I Oswald, but her soul had surmounted that in- 
 expressible emotion. The effort was made : 
 she believed herself about to hear his voice, 
 and now must take some new resolution ere 
 she could regain, it : wait some days longer, 
 and stoop to one 'step more. Yet, at all haz- 
 
 ards, she must see him again , and the 
 day she departed for Scotland. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ERE quitting London, Nelvil again called 
 on his agents ; and, on finding no letter from 
 Corinne, bitterly asked himself if he ought to 
 give up the certainty of permanent domestic 
 peace for one who no longer remembered 
 him. Yet he decided on writing once more, 
 to inquire the cause of this silence, and assure 
 her, that, till she sent back his ring, he would 
 never be the husband of another. He com- 
 pleted his journey in a very gloomy mood, 
 loving Lucy almost unconsciously, for he had, 
 as yet, scarcely lieard her speak twenty 
 words yet regretting Corrinne, and the cir- 
 cumstances which separated him from her, 
 by fits yielding to the innocent beauty of the 
 one, and retracing the brilliant grace and 
 sublime eloquence of the other. Had he but 
 known that Corinne loved him better than 
 ever, and had quitted everything to follow 
 him, he would never have seen Lucy more ; 
 but he believed himself forgotten, and told his 
 heart that a cool manner might oft conceal 
 deep feelings. He was deceived. Impas- 
 sioned spirits must betray themselves a thou- 
 sand ways : that which can always be con- 
 trolled must needs be weak. 
 
 Another event added to his interest in 
 Lucy. In returning to his estate, he passed 
 so near her mother's that curiosity urged 
 him to visit it. He asked to be shown the 
 room in which Miss Edgarmond usually stu- 
 died : 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 
 Nelvil had given her lessons, Lucy had 
 erected a marble pedes^.1, on which was 
 graven, " To the memory of my second 
 lather.'' A book lay on the table. Oswald 
 opened it, and found a collection of his father's 
 thoughts, who n in the first page, had written, 
 " To her who has solaced me in my 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 revered dead was 
 so warmly expressed. He interpreted Lucy's 
 silence on this subject into a delicacy which 
 feared to extort his vows by any idea of duty. 
 " It was she, then," he cried, " who softened 
 the pangs I dealt him ; and shall I desert her
 
 144 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 while her mother is dying, and she has no 
 comforter but myself! Ah, Corinne : bril- 
 ,liant and admired as thou art, thou dost not, 
 like Lucy, stand in need of one devoted 
 friend !" Alas ! she was no longer brilliant, 
 no longer admired, that Corinne who was 
 wandering from town to town, without even 
 gaining sight of the being for whom she had 
 lost all, and whom she had not the strength to 
 avoid.. She was taken ill at an inn haif-way 
 between London and Edinburgh, and, in spite 
 of all her efforts, was unable to continue he* 
 journey. She often thought, during her long 
 nights of suffering, that if she died there none 
 but Theresina would know the name to be 
 inscribed 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 worshippers ! 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 anxiety. 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 hap- 
 piest 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 from the house, Corinne per- 
 ceived that a carriage had been overturned. 
 She stopped her own, and saw an old gentle- 
 man extricated from that which had broken 
 down, much alarmed by the shock. Corinne 
 hurried 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 Nelvil had often mentioned that name, 
 and directed the conversation to the only sub- 
 ject which interested her in life. Mr. Dick- 
 | son was the most communicative man in the 
 j world ; and, ignorant who his companion was, 
 j believed her an English lady, with no private 
 I interest in the questions she asked, therefore 
 told her all he knew most minutely : her atten- 
 tions had conciliated him ; and, in return, he 
 trusted that his confidence might entertain 
 her.- He described how he had informed 
 Lord Nelvil of his parent's wishes, and re- 
 peated an extract from the late lord's letter, 
 often exclaiming, " His father expressly for- 
 bade Oswald's marriage with this Italian, 
 and they cannot brave his will without insult- 
 ing his memory." Mr. Dickson added, that 
 Oswald loved Lucy, was beloved by her ; that 
 her mother strongly desired their union, but 
 that this foreign engagement prevented it. 
 
 " How !" said Corinne, striving to disguise 
 her agitation : " do you think that the sole 
 barrier to his happiness with Miss Edgar- 
 mond V "I aai sure of it," he answered, 
 delighted at her inquiries. " It is but three 
 days since Lord Nelvil said to me, ' If I were 
 free, I would marry Lucy.' " " If he were 
 free !" sighed Corinne. At that moment the 
 carriage stopped at the 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 EDGARMOND had been two days on 
 her estate, where, that night, she had invited 
 all her neighbors and tenants ; and there was 
 Oswald with Lucy, %vhen Corinne arrived. 
 She saw many carriages in the avenue ; and 
 alighted on the spot where her father had 
 once treated her with such tenderness. What 
 a contrast between those days, when she had 
 thought herself so unfortunate, and her pre- 
 sent situation ! Thus are we punished for oui 
 fancied woes, by real calamities, which but 
 too well teach us. what true sorrow means. 
 Corinne bade her servant ask the cause of all 
 this light and bustle. A domestic replied, 
 " Lady Edgarmond gives a ball to-night ; 
 which my master, Lord Nelvil, has opened 
 with the heiress." Corinne shuddered ; but 
 a painfuJ curiosity prompted her to approach 
 the place where so much misery threatened 
 her ; and motioning for her people to with- 
 draw, she entered the open gates alone : the 
 obscurity permitted her to walk the park un- 
 seen. 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 gravity 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 county was inquisitive to know whether 
 she loved Oswald, the unusually observant 
 looks she met prevented her ever raising her 
 eyes to his ; and her embarrassment was
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 145 
 
 such, that ehe could scarcely hear or see any- 
 thing. This deeply affected him at first ; but 
 as it never varied, lie soon began to weary a 
 j little ; and compared this long range of men 
 I and .women, and their monotonous music, with 
 I the animated airs and graceful dances of Italy. 
 ' These reflections plunged him into a reverie ; 
 I' and Corinne might yet have tasted some mo- 
 ! nients of happiness could she have guessed 
 !j his thoughts; but, like a stranger on her pa- 
 I' ternal soil, alone, though so near the man she 
 ji had hoped to call her husband, she roved at 
 j : hazard through the dark walks of the 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 know- 
 ing what she now desired. 
 
 The mansion was belli on an eminence ; a 
 
 river ran at its base ; there were many trees 
 
 on one bank ; the other was formed of rocks, 
 
 covered with briars. Corinne drew near the 
 
 water, whose murmur blended with the distant 
 
 music : the gay lamps were reflected on its 
 
 surface ; while" the pale light of the moon 
 
 j : alone irradiated the wilds on the opposite side. 
 
 Jj She thought of Hamlet, in which a spectre 
 
 j i wanders round the festal palace, ^ru* o-op, 
 
 Ij and this forsaken woman might have found 
 
 Jj eternal oblivion. "To-morrow," she cried, 
 
 '; " when he strays here with a band of joyous 
 
 ji friends, if his triumphant steps encountered 
 
 j the remains of her who was once so dear to 
 
 j him, would he not suffer something like what 
 
 j I bear now 1 would not his grief avenge me 1 
 
 \ yet, no, no ! it is not vengeance I would seek 
 
 ; in death, only repose." Silently she contem- 
 
 i plated this stream, flowing in rapid regularity : 
 
 ] fair nature! better ordered than the human 
 
 ; soul. She remembered the day on which 
 
 I Xelvil had saved the drowning man. " How 
 
 I good he was then !" she wept forth, "and may 
 
 I be still : why blame him for my woes 1 he 
 
 I may not guess them perhaps if he could see 
 
 me " She determined, in the midst of 
 
 this fete, to demand a moment's interview with 
 Lord Nelvil ; and walked towards 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, 
 
 I 1 that she was obliged to sit down on a stone 
 1 1 bench which faced the windows. The throng 
 1 1 of rustics, assembled to look in upon the dan- 
 gers, prevented her being seen. Oswald, at 
 [j this moment, came to a balcony, to breathe 
 
 j the fresh evening air. Some roses that grew 
 I there reminded him of Corinne's favorite per- 
 fume, and he started. This long entertainment 
 | tired him, accustomed as he had been to her 
 i good taste and intelligence ; and he felt that 
 
 10 
 
 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 mood, a fellow- | 
 guest joined him, and his adorer once more 
 heard him speak. What inexplicable sensa- 
 tions are awakenSd by the voice we love ! 
 What a confusion of softness and of dread ! 
 There are impressions of such force, that our 
 poor feeble nature is terrified at itself, while 
 we experience them. 
 
 " Don't you think this a charming ball V 
 asked the gentleman. "Yes," returned Os- 
 wald, abstractedly, "yes, indeed!" and he 
 sighed. That sigh, that melancholy tone, 
 thrilled Corinne's heart with joy. She thought 
 herself secure of regaining his, of again being 
 understood by him, and rose, precipitately, to 
 bid a servant call Lord Nelvil : 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 l\y garden a female simply drest 
 in white, h',t curiosity was kindled. She 
 leant forward, and gazed attentively, believing 
 that s k ^ recognized the features of her sister, 
 v u ., 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 : Corinne 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, in- 
 stilled into her mind the strongest sense of 
 devotion, she was persuaded that the image 
 of her sister had appeared, gliding before her 
 to their fathers tomb, as if to reproach her 
 for holding a fete in that scene ere she had 
 fulfilled her sacred duty to his honored dust : 
 as soon as she was secure from observation, 
 she left the ball. Corinne, astonished at see- 
 ing her alone in the garden, imagined that 
 Oswald soon would follow her, and that per- 
 haps 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, must 
 lead to Lord Edgarmond's grave ; and, ac- 
 cusing herself of not having earlier borne 
 thither her own regrets, followed her sister at 
 some distance, uns'een. 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 readj to explain 
 herself, and, in their father's name, demand 
 her rank and her betrothed ; but the fair girl
 
 146 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 made a few harried steps towards the tomb, 
 and the victim's courage failed. 
 
 There is such timidity, even in the most 
 I impetuous female heart, that. a trifie will re- 
 strain, 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 wa softly illumined 
 by the moonbeams, and Corinne's heart melted 
 with the purest generosity. She contemplated 
 the chaste and pious expression of that almost 
 childish visage, and remembered how she had 
 watched over it in infancy : her own youth 
 was waning, while Lucy had before her a long 
 futurity, that ought not to be troubled by any 
 recollections which she might shame at con- 
 fessing, either before the world or to her own 
 conscience. " If i accost her," thought Co- 
 rinne, " that soul, so peaceful now, will be 
 disturbed, perhaps for ever. I have already 
 borne so much, that I can suffer on ; but the 
 innocent Lucy would pass, in a moment, from 
 
 rrfect calm to the most cruel agitation. Can 
 , who have lulled her to sleep on my bosom, 
 hurl her into the ocean of grief?" Love still 
 combated this disinterested elevation of rnind, 
 when Lucy said aloud, " Pray for me, O ray 
 father!" Corinne sank on her knees, and 
 mutually besought a pa.ternal benediction on 
 them both, with tears more stainless than those 
 of love. Lucy audibly continued, "Dear sis- 
 ter, intercede for me in heaven ! Friend of 
 rny childhood, protect me now,!" How Co- 
 rinne's bosom yearned towards her, as Lucy, 
 with added fervor, resumed, "Pardon me, 
 father, a brief forgetfulness, caused by the 
 sentiment yourself commanded ! I am not, 
 sure, to blame for loving higi you chose to be 
 my husband. Achieve your wqrk ! Inspire 
 him to select me as the partner of his life ! I 
 shall never be happy, save with him ; but my 
 fluttering heart shall not betray its secret. 
 Oh, my God ! My father, console your child ! 
 
 render her worthy the esteem of Oswald i " 
 " Yes," 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 ca- 
 pable, she took from her breast the paper !j 
 which contained Oswald's ring, and rapidly :j 
 withdrew. She fe.lt that in sending this, "i 
 without letting him know where she was, she i 
 should break all their ties, and yield him to j| 
 her sister. In the presence of that toinb, she 
 had been more conscious than ever of the 
 obstacles which separated them : her own 
 father, as well as Oswald's, seemed to con- 
 demn their love. Lucy appeared deserving 
 of him ; and Corinne, at least for the moment, 
 ! was proud to sacrifice herself, that he might 
 1 live at peace with his country, his family, and 
 j his own heart. The music which she heard 
 I from the house sustained her firmness : she 
 
 I 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 letter 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 
 Nelvil's, who, by chance, was carrying others 
 into the house. All things conspired to ban- 
 ish her last hope : she made a few steps to- 
 wards the gate, 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 death-like 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. 
 
 BOOK XVIII. 
 
 THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 COUNT D'ERFEUIL having passed some time 
 in Switzerland, wearied of nature 'mid the 
 Alps, as he had tired of the arts at Rome, and 
 
 suddenly resolved to visit England. He had 
 heard that he would find much depth of thought 
 there, and woke one morning to the conviction 
 of that being the very thing he wished to meet. 
 This third search after pleasure had succeeded
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 147 
 
 no better than its predecessors, but his regard 
 
 , for Nelvil spurred him on ; and he assured 
 
 himself, another morning, that friendship was 
 
 spair was the only sensation of her breast. 
 D'Erfeuil entered her room, and, finding her 
 even paler than while in her sivoon, anxiously 
 
 the greatest bliss on earth ; therefore he went j asked her the news.. She replied gravely, 
 
 to Scotland. Not seeing Oswald at his home, 
 but learning that he had gone to Lady Edgar- 
 mond's, the Count leaped on his horse to fol- 
 low ; 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 honor, at recognizing through their 
 mortal paleness, the features of Corinne ! 
 With the liveliest sympathy he helped his 
 servant to arrange some branches as a litter, 
 intending to convey her to Lady Edgarmond's, 
 when Theresina, who till now had remained 
 in her mistress's carriage, alarmed at her ab- 
 sence, and, certain that no one but Lord Nel- 
 vil could have reduced her lady to this state, 
 begged that she might be borne to the neigh- 
 boring 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 proved faithful, 
 while the man ef sentiment was breaking her 
 heart. This contrast struck Corinne when 
 she recovered her senses, and she thanked 
 d'Erfeuil with great feeling : he replied by 
 striving to console her, more capable of noble 
 actions than of serious conversation. Corinne 
 found him useful, but could not make him her 
 friend. She strove to recall her reason, and 
 think over what had passed ; but it was long 
 ere she could remember all she had done, and 
 from what motive. Then, perhaps, she thought 
 her sacrifice too great ; and hoped, at least, to 
 bid Lord Nelvil a last adieu, ere she left Eng- 
 land ; but the day after she regained her facul- 
 ties chance threw a newspaper in her way, 
 which contained the following paragraph : 
 
 " Lady Edgarmond has lately learned that 
 her step-daughter, who she believed had died 
 in Italy, is still enjoying great literary cele- 
 brity at Rome under the name of Corinne. 
 Her ladyship, much to her own honor, ac- 
 knowledges the fair poet, and is desirous of 
 sharing with her the fortune left by Lord Ed- 
 garmond's brother, who died -in India. The 
 marriage contract was yesterday signed be- 
 tween his lordship's youngest daughter (the 
 only child of his widow) and Lord Nelvil, who. 
 on Sunday next, leads Miss Lucy Edgarmond 
 to the altar." 
 
 Unfortunately Corinne lost not her con- 
 sciousness 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 ; 
 
 shall accompany you," he ardent- 
 ' I've nothin? to detain ine here, 
 
 " I am no longer ill ; to-morrow is the Sab- 
 bath ; I will go to Plymouth, and embark for 
 Italy." "I 
 
 ly returned. * I've nothing ti 
 and shall be charmed at travelling with you." 
 " How truly good ydn are !" she said :"" we 
 ought not to judge from appearances." Then, 
 after checking herself, added, " I accept your 
 guidance to the seaport, because I 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 
 support her beneath this sorrow. Nothing 
 was left of the impetuous Corinne. The ac- 
 tive powers of her life were all exhausted ; 
 and this annihilation, for which she could 
 scarcely account, restored her composure. 
 Grief had subdued her. Sooner or later the 
 most rebellious heads must bow to the same 
 yoke. 
 
 " It is to-day !" sighed Corinne, as she 
 arose, " it is to-day !" and descended to her 
 carriage. On Sunday, Corinne left Scotland 
 with the Count d'Erfeuil. He questioned her, 
 but she could not reply. They passed a 
 church : she asked his leave to enter for a 
 moment; then, kneeling before the altar, 
 prayed for Oswald and for Lucy : but when 
 she would have risen she staggered, and could 
 not take one step without the support of The- 
 resina and the Count, who had followed her. 
 All present made way for her, with every 
 demonstration of pity. " I look very mise- 
 rable, then 1" she said : " the young and love- 
 ly, 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 Co- 
 rinne, he soon wearied of her sadness, and 
 strove to draw her from it, as if we had only 
 to say we will forget all the woes of life, and 
 do so. Sometimes he cried r " I told you how 
 it would be." Strange mode of comforting ; 
 but such is the satisfaction which vanity tastes 
 at the expense of misfortune. 'Corinne fruit- 
 lessly 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 com- 
 prehended those secrets of the heart that 
 can only be consoled by those who can divine 
 them. Corinne was displeased with herself, 
 as not sufficiently grateful for the Count's de- 
 votion to her service ; but in his looks, his 
 words, his accents, there was so much which 
 
 and from this moment the resignation of de- I wandered in search of amusement, that she
 
 148 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 was often on the point of forgetting- his gene- 
 rous actions, as he did himself. It is doubt- 
 less very magnanimous to set small price on 
 our own good deeds, but that indifference, so 
 admirable in itself, may be carried to an ex- 
 treme which approaches an unfeeling levity. 
 
 Corinne, during her delirium, had betrayed 
 nearly all her secrets the papers had since 
 apprised d'Erfeuil of the rest. He often 
 wished to talk of what he called her " affairs" 
 but that word alone sufficed to freeze her con- 
 fidence ; and she entreated him to spare her 
 the pain of breathing Lord Nelvil's name. In 
 parting with the Count, Corinne knew not how 
 to express herself; for she was at once glad 
 to anticipate being alone, and grieved \o lose 
 a man who had behaved so well towards her. 
 She strove to thank him, but he begged her 
 so naturally 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 Italy ; 
 for she did not wish her step-mother to know 
 she had been in England. " Nor Nelvil V 
 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 I 
 am uneasy about you V " Really !" she ex- 
 claimed, smiling. " Not without cause, I be- 
 lieve." He offered her his arm to the vessel : 
 at that moment she turned towards England, 
 the country she must never more behold, 
 where dwelt the sole object of her love and 
 grief, and her 'eyes filled with the first tears 
 she had shed in d'Erfeuil's presence. " Love- 
 ly Corinne!" he said, "foroetthat ingrate ! 
 think of the friends so tenderly attached to 
 you, and recollect your advantages with plea- 
 sure." 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 
 captain's care ; busied himself most endear- 
 ingly on all the details that could render her 
 passage agreeable ; and, when rowed ashore, 
 waved his handkerchief to the ship as long 
 as he could be, seen. Corinne returned his 
 salute. Alas ! was this the friend on whose 
 attentions she ought to have been thrown ? 
 
 Light feelings last long : they are not bound 
 so tight that they can break. They are ob- 
 scured or brought to light by circumstances, 
 while deep affections fly, never to return ; and 
 in their places leave naught but cureless 
 wounds. 
 
 CHAPTER II. * 
 
 A FAVORABLE breeze bore Corinne to Leg- 
 horn in less than a month. She suffered from 
 fever the whole time ; and her debility was 
 such, that grief of mind mingling with ihe 
 pain of illness, all her sensations were con- 
 fused. She hesitated, on landing, whether 
 she should proceed to Rome, or no ; but though 
 her best friends awaited her, she felt an insur- 
 mountable repugnance to living in the scenes 
 where she had known Oswald. She thought 
 of that doer through which he came to her 
 twice every day ; and the prospect of being 
 there without him was too dreary. She de- 
 cided on going to Florence ; and, as she be- 
 lieved that her life could not long resist her 
 sorrows, she thus intended to deiach herself 
 by degrees from the world, by living alone, 
 far from" those who loved her, far from the 
 city that witnessed her success, whose inhabit- 
 ants would strive to re-animate her mind, 
 and expect her to appear what she had been, 
 while her discouraged heart found every effort 
 odious. 
 
 In crossing fertile Tuscany, a,nd approach- 
 ing flower-perfumed Florence, Corinne felt 
 but an added sadness. How dreadful the de- 
 spair which such skies fail to calm ! One 
 must feel either love or religion, in ord~r to 
 appreciate nature ; and she had lost the first 
 of earthly blessings, without having yet re- 
 covered the peace which piety alone can af- 
 ford the unfortunate. Tuacany, a well-culti- 
 vated, smiling land, strikes not the imagina- 
 tion as do the environs of Rome and Naples. 
 The primitive institutions of its early inhabit- 
 ants have 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 Sienna, the public square 
 wherein the people assembled, the balcony 
 from which their magistrate harangued them, 
 must catch, the least reflecting eye, as proofs 
 that (here once flourished a democratic gov- 
 ernment. 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 sounded like a per- 
 petual melody. It is a strange sensation to 
 believe one's self amid a people all equally 
 educated, all elegant ; such is the illusion 
 which, for a moment, the purity of their lan- 
 guage creates. 
 
 The sight of Florence recalls its history, 
 previous to the Medicean sway. The palaces 
 of its best families are built like fortresses : 
 without, are still seen the iron rings to which 
 the standards of each party were attached. 
 All things seem to have been morn arranged
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 149 
 
 for the support of individual powers, than for 
 their union in a common cause. The city ap- 
 pears formed for civil war. There are tow- 
 ers 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 con- 
 structed, because their lords would not let 
 them extend to the ground on which that of 
 some foe had been razed. Here the Pazzi 
 conspired against the De Medici ; there the 
 Guelfs assassinated the Ghibellines. The 
 marks of struggling rivalry are everywhere 
 visible, though but in senseless stones. No- 
 thing is now left for any pretenders -but an in- 
 glorious state, not worth disputing. The life 
 led in Florence has become singularly mo- 
 notonous ; its natives walk every afternoon 
 on the banks of the Arno, and every evening 
 ask one another if they have been there. 
 Corinne took her residence 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 in- 
 activity, retired to her pillow, rose again, 
 opened a hook, without the power to compre- 
 hend a line of it. Oft did she remain whole 
 hours at her window ; then would walk rap- 
 idly 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 her 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 effect from visiting the churches 
 of fair Florence.' She walked beneath the 
 fine trees on the river's bank, in a lovely eve 
 of June. Roses embalmed the air, and every 
 face expressed the general felicity from which 
 she felt herself excluded ; yet she unenvyingly 
 blessed her God for his kind care of man. 
 " I am an exception fo the universal order," 
 she said ; " there is happiness for every one 
 but me : this power of suffering, beneath 
 which I die, is then peculiar to myself. My 
 
 God ! why was I selected for such a doom T 
 May I not say. like thy Divine Son, ' Father, 
 let this cup be taken from me T' " 
 
 The active air of the inhabitants astonished 
 her : since she had lost all interest in life she 
 knew not why ethers seemed occupied ; and 
 slowly pacing the large stone pavements of 
 Florence, she forgot where she had designed 
 to go. At last, she found herself before the 
 far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghi- 
 berti for the font of St. John's, which stands 
 beside the cathedral. For some time she ex- 
 amined this stupendous work ; where, wrought Ji 
 in bronze, the divers nations, though of mi- ' 
 nute proportions, are distinctly marked by 
 their varied physiognomies; all of which ex- 
 press some thought of tbeir artist. "What |j 
 patience," cried Corinne ; " what respect for h 
 posterity ! yet how few scrutinize these doors : i 
 through which they daily pass, in heedless- 
 ness, ignorance, or disdain ! How difficult is 
 it to escape oblivion ! how vast the power of 
 death !" 
 
 In this cathedral was Julian de Medici as- 
 sassinated. Not far thence, in the church of 
 St. Lorenzo, is shown the marble chapel, en- 
 riched with precious stones, where rise the 
 tombs of that high family, and Michael An- 
 gelo's statues of Julian and Lorenzo : the 
 latter, meditating vengeance on the murder of 
 his brother, deserves the honor of having been 
 called ' la pensee de Michel Angela .'' 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." An- 
 gelo, who cultivated letters (without which 
 imagination of all kinds must soon decay), 
 replied : 
 
 " Grato m'6 il sono e piu 1'esser d'y ?aseo. 
 Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura, 
 Non veder, non sentir m'e gran ventara ; 
 Pero non ini destar, deh paila basso !" 
 
 " 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 ; there- 
 fore 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 see the grave energy 
 of the middle ages, its perseverance, its pas- 
 sions, but no ideal beauty. He was the genius 
 of his own school ; and imitated no one, not 
 even the ancients. His tomb is the church 
 of Santa Croce. At his desire it faces a win- 
 dow whence may be seen the dome built by 
 Filippo Brunelleschi ; as if his ashes would
 
 150 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 stir, even beneath the marble, at the sight of 
 a cupola copied from that of St. Peter's. 
 Santa Croce contains some of the most illus- 
 trious dead in Europe. Galileo, persecuted 
 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 : Aretino, who 
 consecrated his days to mirth, and found no- 
 thing serious in life except its end : Boccac- 
 cio, whose laughing fancy resisted the united 
 scourges of civil war and plague : a picture 
 in honor of Dante, showing that the Floren- 
 tines, who permitted him to perish in exile, 
 were not the less vain of his glory (34) ; with 
 many other worthy names, and some cele- 
 brated in their own day, but echoing less 
 forcibly from age to age, so that their sound 
 is now almost unheard. (35.) 
 
 This church, adorned with noble recollec- 
 tions, rekindled the enthusiasm of Corinne, 
 which the living had repressed. The silent 
 presence of the great revived, for a moment, 
 that emulation which once she felt for fame. 
 She stepped more steadfastly, and the high 
 thoughts of other days arose within her breast. 
 Some 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 dead ! well 
 may you boast them ; they are the only noble 
 relics left ye. Ah ! why then, Oswald, have 
 you stifled all the gifts Heaven granted me, 
 with which I ought to excite the sympathy of 
 kindred minds 1 Oh, God !" she added, sink- 
 ing 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 different careers for mortals : genius, 
 which illustrates our noblest virtues, devotes 
 itself to generous humanity and truth, may 
 trust to be received into 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 sunk, and I'm alone e'en here." 
 
 " Ah !" cried Corinne, " that is mine an- 
 swer. What should embolden me to toil 1 
 what pride can I ever feel ? who would parti- 
 cipate in my success, or interest himself in 
 my defeats ! Oh, I should need his look for 
 my reward V Another epitaph fixed her 
 attention, that of a youth who says. 
 
 " Pity me not if you can guess how many pangs the 
 grave hath spared me." 
 
 How did these words wean her from life ! 
 
 amid the tumult of a city, this church opened 
 to teach mankind the best of secrets, if they 
 would learn : but no ; they pass it by, and an 
 incredible fcrgetfulness of death keeps the 
 world alive. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE spring of feeling which had consoled 
 Corinne for a few moments, led her next 
 morning to the gallery : she hoped to recover 
 her taste, and draw some pleasure from her 
 former pursuits. The fine arts are still re- 
 publican in Florence. The pictures and sta- 
 tues are shown at all hours, with the greatest 
 ease. Well-informed men, paid by the gov- 
 ernment, like public functionaries, explain all 
 these chefx-cTceuvres. This lingering respect 
 for talent has ever pervaded Italy, particularly 
 Florence, where the Medici extorted pardon ; 
 for their power over human actions, by the , 
 free scope they left for human minds. The I 
 common people love the arts, and blend this ! 
 taste with their devotion, which is more regu- 
 lar in Tuscany than in any other Italian state ; 
 but they frequently confound mythologic fig- 
 ures 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 " Cassandra 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 more 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 coun- 
 tenances afford rich material for thought. 
 The conqueror looks astonished and indignant 
 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 heart with the 
 most touching ignorance : her fine face bear- 
 ing the stamp of that fatality which left the 
 ancients no resource, even in religion. Niobe 
 lifts her eyes to heaven, but without hope ; 
 for the gods themselves are her enemies.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 151 
 
 On her return home, Corinne strove to re- 
 flect 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 im- 
 provisation ! In vain she sought for words, 
 or wrote unmeaning onea, that dismayed her 
 on perusal, as would the ravings of delirium. 
 Incapable of turning her thoughts from her 
 own situation, she then strove to describe it ; 
 but no longer could she command those uni- 
 versal sentiments that find echoes in all 
 hearts. Hers were now but long unvaried 
 wailings, like theory 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, bul 
 
 superiority of intellect and of soul. This su- 
 periority has a most favorable influence on the 
 character; for extent of knowledge renders >l 
 us very indulgent, and great depth of feeling !j 
 inspires great goodness of heart." 
 
 "Ah ! how is it, that two beings who have 
 confided to each other their inmost thoughts, 
 who have talked together of God, of the im- 
 mortality of the soul, of suffering ; how is it 
 that they have suddenly become strangers to 
 each other ? What an inexplicable mystery 
 is love ! How admirable, or how worthless ! 
 Religious as the faith of the martyr, or colder 
 than the most simple friendship ! Does this 
 most involuntary of all our emotions come 
 from rieaveri or front earth 1 Ought we to submit 
 to it, or combat ugainst it ? Ah ! what storms 
 
 not heart-breakingly. The best melancholy J break^ in the depths of the heart !' 
 letry is that inspired by a kind of rapture, 
 
 4 sp 
 
 which still tells of mental strength and enjoy- 
 ment. Real grief is a foe to intellectual fer- 
 tility : it produces a gloomy agitation, that 
 incessantly returns to the same point, like the 
 knight who, pursued by an evil genius, sought 
 a thousand roads for escape, yet always found 
 himself at the spot from whence he started. 
 
 The state of Corinne's health completed the 
 I confusion of her mind. The following are a 
 I few of the reflections she wrote, while making 
 a fruitless effort to become capable of a con- 
 nected work. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FRAGMENTS OF THE THOUGHTS OF CORINXE. 
 
 '' MY talent exists no longer. I regret its 
 loss. It would have consoled me to know- 
 that my name would once more reach his ears 
 invested with some glory : that on reading 
 something which I had written, a sympathy 
 with me might yet again be awakened in his 
 bosom." 
 
 " It was folly in me to hope that after re- 
 turning to his own country, and entering into 
 those habits of life which are peculiar to it, 
 \\ he would still retain the ideas and the feelings 
 i which could alone re-unite us. There is so 
 much to be said against such a being as I am, 
 so much to which no other reply can be made 
 but that I have talent that I have a soul. 
 But what reply is that for the generality of 
 men V 
 
 " They are wrong, however, in dreading 
 
 ; Talent should be a resource. ' When Do- 
 menichino was imprisoned in a convent, he 
 painted glorious pictures on its walls, and left 
 chefs d'ceuvres to mark where he had been. 
 But he suffered from external causes. The 
 malady was.not in the soul. When it is there, 
 no effort is possible, for the spring of all ex- 
 ertion is gone." 
 
 " Sometimes I look upon myself as a stran- 
 ger might do, and an emotion of pity comes 
 over me. I was once spiritual, true, affec- 
 tionate, generous, full of sensibility. Why 
 have all these qualities been turned into in- 
 struments of suffering ? Is the world indeed 
 so cruel 1 Must traits like these only expose 
 us to evil instead of giving us strength to re- 
 sist it." ' 
 
 " I was born with some talent ; but. cele- 
 brated as I may be, I shall die without having 
 given the world an idea of what I might have 
 been. Had I but been happy had not the 
 fever of the heart devoured me, 1 should have 
 contemplated from a high point of view the 
 destiny of man. I should have discovered 
 hidden relations which he bears with the pre- 
 sent and the future world ; but now the hand 
 of sorrow presses heavily upon me. How 
 can I think freely when I feel its stifling 
 grasp at every breath I draw ]" 
 
 " Why was he not tempted to render happy 
 one whom he alone could understand, one who 
 spoke to him only from the bottom of her 
 heart? Ah! separation is a light thing for 
 the woman who loves at hazard ; but for her 
 who must admire the being that she loves, 
 whose judgment is penetrating although her 
 imagination may be fervid, there is for her 
 but one object in the universe." 
 
 " I had learnt of life from the poets. It is 
 not as they have painted it. There is some- 
 thing arid in the reality which we attempt io 
 vain to change." 
 
 " When I call to mind my successes, I er-
 
 152 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 perience a feeling of irritation. Why was I 
 called charming if I was not to be loved ? 
 Why was 1 inspired with confidence, to make 
 it only the more terrible to be deceived 1 
 Will he find in another more sensibility more 
 tenderness than in me 1 No ! he will find 
 less, and he will be satisfied. He will find 
 himself at peace with society society' with 
 its heartless joys and sorrows." 
 
 " In the presence of the sun and of the 
 starry spheres, we feel no other want than to 
 love and to be worthy of being loved. But 
 society society ! How hard it renders the 
 heart, how frivolous the mind ! How it makes 
 us live for what others may say of "us ! If men 
 could but once meet one another, freed from 
 that influence which each is subject to from 
 the rest, what a pure air would be breathed 
 over the s'oul ! What new ideas, what new 
 sentiments would refresh it !" 
 
 " Nature herself is cruel. Thosa looks 
 which once had a charm are fast fading. In 
 
 in shall I then experience the most tender 
 emotions. The dimmed eye will no longer 
 express the feelings of the soul, will no longer 
 melt with my^ prayers." 
 
 " There is' an anguish within me, \vhich I 
 shall never express, not even in writing. I 
 have not the strength to do it. Love only 
 can sound those abysses." 
 
 " How men are privileged, that they can go 
 to war, brave death, give themselves to the 
 enthusiasm of honor and of danger ! But 
 there is -no relief, from without, for woman. 
 Her existence, motionless under the visitation 
 of sorrow, is a long and slow torture." 
 
 " Sometimes, when I hear music, it recalls 
 the talents which I once had the lyre the 
 dance the improvisation. I then feel a de- 
 sire to escape irom suffering, and to taste of 
 joy once more. But soon an inward feeling 
 makes me shrink back. I should seem like a 
 shade that would still linger upon earth, after 
 the rays of morning and the approach of the 
 living warn it to disappear." 
 
 " I.regret that I am no longer alive to the at- 
 tractions which the world offers. They did me 
 good. The reflections of solitude carried me 
 too far, and my talent gained by the variety of 
 my impressions. Now, there is something fix- 
 ed in my looks, as in my thoughts. Gaiety, 
 grace, imagination, whither have ye fled ! 
 Oh ! that I could once more, if but for a mo- 
 ment, taste the blessing of hope ! But it is 
 too late. The desert is inexorable. The 
 drop of water, and the river, are dried up ; 
 and the happiness of day is as difficult as that 
 of life itself." 
 
 " He has wronged me deeply. Yet when 
 I compare him with other men, how artificial, 
 narrow, worthless they seem, while he is like 
 
 an angel, but an angel with a flaming sword, 
 which has consumed me. He whom we love 
 is the avenger of the faults we have commit- 
 ted on earth. The divinity delegates to him 
 his retributory power." 
 
 ' It is not first love that is ineffaceable ; we 
 love then because our affections crave an ob- 
 ject. But when, after we have known life, 
 and our judgment is matured ; we meet at 
 last the mind and the heart which we have till 
 tken sought for in vain, imagination is lost 
 in reality, and reason itself aggravates our 
 sufferings." 
 
 " Wtiat folly, will most persons say, it is to 
 die for love ; as if there were not a thousand 
 other modes of happiness ! Enthusiasm of ' 
 every kind is ridiculous to those who do not 
 feel it. Poetry, disinterestedness, love, reli- j 
 gion, all have the same origin, and there are ' 
 men to whom all those sentiments are but so 
 many different forms of madness. To such, 
 everything is folly which reaches beyond the 
 care for their individual existence." " 
 
 " My chief misery is in the reflection that 
 he alone understood my character, and per- 
 haps he will one day learn that I alone .can 
 appreciate him. I am at once the easiest and ; 
 the most difficult person in the world. The ' 
 society of all good beings is agreeable to me ; 
 for a time, but for an intimacy, a fixed affec- i 
 tion, there could be no other than Oswald for 
 me in the world. Imagination, talent, sensi- 
 bility, what a union ! Where else can it be 
 found 1 And he, the cruel, possessed of all ; 
 these qualities, or at least all their charms." j 
 
 " What can I have to say to others ? To ! 
 whom shall I speak ? What object, what in- | 
 terest is left me 1 The most cruel griefs and i 
 the most delicious joys have been mine. ! 
 What can I now fear, what can I now hope 1 
 The pale future is to me naught but the spec- 
 tre of the past." 
 
 " Ah ! why are happy situations so transi- 
 tory T Is suffering the order of nature ! 
 Pain is to the body a transitory convulsion, 
 but it is an habitual state of the soul. 
 
 Jlhi ! null' ultra che pianto al mondo dura. 
 
 " Everything in life is transitory but grief." 
 
 PKTEAF* *. 
 
 " Another life ! another life ! There u my 
 hope. But such is the power which the pre- 
 sent exerts over us, that when we look for- 
 ward to a future world we count on th*j mo- 
 tians which have occupied us here, iii the 
 mythologies of the north, the shades of the 
 huntsman are represented as pursuing the 
 shades of the stags athwart the clouds But 
 why talk we of shades'? Where is rulity ? 
 There is nothing real but suffering. T lat
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 15-3 
 
 alone holds faithfully to the promise which it 
 gives." 
 
 " I dream continually of immortality, not 
 of that which man can give, not of the 
 praise of those coming generations, who, ac- 
 cording to the expression of Dante, are to 
 call the present time ancient : that immor- 
 tality interests me no longer. But I do not 
 believe in the annihilation of the soul. No, 
 my God, I do not believe that. It is for thee, 
 that heart which a mortal has rejected, if 
 thou wilt deign to receive such a sacrifice." 
 
 " I feel that I have not long to live, and the 
 thought spreads a calm over my soul. 'Tis 
 sweet to sink thus slowly away, to feel the 
 sense of pain gradually exhausting itself." 
 
 " I do not know why it is that under the 
 infliction of suffering we are more susceptible 
 of superstition than of piety. I seem to see 
 an omen in everything that happens. Ah ! 
 how sweet a thing is devotion to the happy ! 
 What gratitude to the Supreme Being must 
 the wife of Oswald experience !" 
 
 " Doubtless it is the tendency of grief to re- 
 fine the character. We connect in imagina- 
 tion our sufferings with our faults. To 
 our own eyes, at least, a visible bond seems 
 to unite them. But this salutary effect has a 
 limit. It will not be till I have summoned 
 away every resource that I shall be able to 
 secure 
 
 'Trnnquillo varco 
 A piu tranquilla vita.' 
 
 ' A tranquil passage to a life more tranquil.' " 
 
 "When I shall be wholly prostrated by 
 sickness, a calm will spread over my heart. 
 There is much innocence in the thought of a 
 being who is about to die, and I welcome the 
 feelings which that situation inspires." 
 
 " Inexplicable enigma of life, passion ! 
 Neither suffering nor genius can penetrate 
 its mystery : will it be revealed unto prayer 1 
 Perhaps the most simple thought would ex- 
 plain all. Perhaps we have a thousand times 
 approached it in our reveries." But the last 
 step is impossible, and our vain efforts do but 
 fatigue the soul. It is time that mine should 
 be at rest. 
 
 1 Fermosl al fin il cor che balzo tanto.'* 
 
 l/ippolito Pindemonte." 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 PRINCE CASTEL FORTE quitted Rome, to 
 fix himself near Corinne. She felt most 
 
 ' That bean which beat eo quick, at last is still. 
 
 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 tailing health robbed 
 her of all the strength required, even for a 
 momentary triumph over her absorbing griefs. 
 That interest, which the heart's courtesy in- 
 spires, she could still at times evince; but her 
 desire to please was lost for ever. Unhappy 
 love freezes all our affections : our own souls 
 grow inexplicable to us. More than we gain- 
 ed while we were happy we lose by the re- 
 verse. That added life which made us enjoy 
 nature lent an enchantment to our intercourse 
 with society ; but the heart's vast hope once 
 lost, existence is impoverished, and all spon- 
 taneous impulses are paralysed. Therefore a 
 thousand duties command women, and men 
 still more, to respect and fear the, passion they 
 awaken, since it may devastate the mind as 
 well as the heart. 
 
 Prince Castel Forte endeavored to lead 
 Corinne to the topics which formerly inter- 
 ested her. But he might speak for some 
 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 a dialogue, for a few se- 
 conds, and then she relapsed into silence. 
 Sometimes, after an effort like this, she 
 would smile in pity of herself, and beg par- 
 don of her friend for the wanderings which 
 she could not control. 
 
 He ventured at one time to talk of Oswald, 
 and thought that she took a bitter pleasure in 
 the subject ; but it left her so shaken that she 
 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, unites with timidity on hers, in pre- 
 venting perfect confidence. Besides, what 
 would it avail 1 It can only be of service to 
 such wounds as would cure themselves with- 
 out it. 
 
 The amiable prince used the utmost man- 
 agement in the choice of his topics. She 
 would thank him, by pressing his hand, and 
 once, after a walk on the banks of the Arno, 
 she began some sally of gaiety with her ac- 
 customed 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 generous 
 friend ; I would fain make myself agreeable ; 
 it will not be : bear with me as I am." W T hat 
 most distressed him, was the shock her con- 
 stitution had received : no immediate danger 
 threatened her, yet it was impossible that she
 
 154 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 could live long, unless she regained some 
 vigor. If she endeavored to speak on aught 
 that concerned the soul, her wan tremor was 
 painful to behold : and he strove to divert her 
 from this strain. 
 
 At this time the prince received a letter 
 from Lord Nelvil, replete with professions, 
 which would have deeply affected Corinne : 
 he deliberated for hours together on the pro- 
 priety of showing it to her ; but anticipating 
 the violence of its effects on one so feeble, he 
 forbore. Even while he was thus deliberat- 
 ing, another letter reached him, announcing 
 his Lordship's departure for America. Cas- 
 tel Forte then decided on saying nothing to 
 Corinne. Perhaps he erred : one of- her 
 greatest griefs was Nelvil's silence ; she 
 
 scarce dared own it to herself; but though 
 for ever separated from him, one recollection, 
 one regret, would have been very precious to 
 her : as it was, he gave her, slie thought, 
 no opportunity of hearing his name, left her 
 no opportunity for breathing it. The sorrow, 
 of which no one speaks to us, which gains no 
 changes from time, 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 themselves, that they may re- 
 concentrate their own powers. 
 
 BOOK XIX . 
 OSWALD'S RETURN TO ITALY. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 LET us now return to the events which oc- 
 curred in Scotland, after the sad fete at which 
 Corinne made her self-sacrifice. Lord Nel- 
 vil's 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 violent 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' stepdame's feelings against her; for 
 he still loved enough to be unjust, forgetting 
 how long he had renounced the idea of mar- 
 rying her, how much Lucy had pleased him ; 
 he looked on himself as the blameless vic- 
 tim of an inconstant woman : perplexity and 
 despair beset him ; but over them both tower- 
 ed a feeling of pride prompting him to rise 
 superior to his wronger. This boasted pride 
 rarely exists unless self-love predominates 
 over affection. Had Nelvil now valued Co- 
 rinne as in their days at Rome and Naples 
 not all his "wrongs supposed" could have 
 torn her from his heart. 
 
 Lady Edgarmond detected his distress. The 
 fatal malady beneath which she labored in- 
 creased her ardent interest in her daughter. 
 She knew the poor child's heart, and feared 
 that she had compromised her happiness for 
 ever ; therefore she seldom lost sight of Nel- 
 vil, but read his secrets with that- discernment 
 which is deemed peculiar to our sex, but which 
 belongs solely to the unremitted attention 
 which a real interest teaches us. On the pre- 
 text of transferring Corinne's inheritance, she 
 besought Lord Nelvil's company next morn- 
 ing, and shortly discovered his dissatisfaction 
 with Corinne ; she nattered his resentment by 
 j the prospect of a noble vengeance, offering to 
 I recognize her husband's daughter. The sud- 
 | den change amazed him ; yet though its con- 
 ! dition was unexplained, he comprehended it ; 
 ' and, in one of those moments at w r hich we act 
 i more quickly than we can think, demanded 
 I Lucyls hand. Her mother, scarce able to 
 i restrain her joy, so as not to say yes too hasti- 
 | ly, consented : and he left her presence, bound 
 i by an engagement, which, when he entered it, 
 j he had not dreamt of undertaking. 
 
 While Lady Edgarmond prepared Lucy to 
 
 receive him, he paced the garden in violent 
 
 agitation, telling himself that she had merely 
 
 j pleased him because he knew little of her, 
 
 i and that it was madness to found the Itappi- 
 
 | ness of his life on the charm of a mystery that
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 155 
 
 must inevitably be dissipated. He then re- 
 traced his letters to Corinne, too plainly show- 
 ing his internal struggles. " She's right !" 
 he sighed : " I have not the courage fit to 
 make her blest : but yet it should have cost 
 her more to lose me that cold brief line 
 yet who knows but her tears might have fallen 
 on it !" His own burst forth in spite of him. 
 These reveries hurried him on unconsciously 
 so far, that he was long sought in vain by the 
 servant sent to tell him, that Lady Edgarmond 
 desired his return. Astonished at his own 
 lack of eagerness,, he obeyed. 
 
 On re-entering the drawing-room, he found 
 Lucy kneeling, her head reclined on the bo- 
 som of her parent, with a most touching grace. 
 As she heard his footsteps, she raised her 
 flowing eyes, and, extending her hand to him, 
 said simply, " My Lord, I know you will not 
 separate me from my mother." This inno- 
 cent manner of announcing hei consent much 
 interested Oswald, who, sinking on his knees, 
 besought Lady Edgarmond's permission to 
 imprint on that blushing forehead the first 
 kiss which had ever awakened more than 
 childlike emotions in the breast whose beauty 
 less enchanted him than did its celestial mo- 
 desty. 
 
 The days which preceded that chosen for 
 their marriage were spent in the needful ar- 
 rangements. Lucy spoke more than usual ; 
 but all she said was so nobly natural, that Os- 
 wald loved and approved her every word, and 
 yet he felt a void beside her. Their conver- 
 sation consisted but of questions and answers ; 
 she neither-started nor prolonged any subject : 
 all went well, but without that exhaustless 
 animation with which it is so difficult for those 
 who have once enjoyed it to dispense. Lord 
 Nelvil thought of Corinne ; but, as he no longer 
 heard her named, hoped that her image would 
 at last become merely an object of his vague 
 regret. 
 
 When Lucy learnt from her mother that 
 her sister still lived in Italy, she much wished 
 to talk of ^er with Oswald, but Lady Edgar- 
 mond forbade ; and the girl, habitually sub- 
 missive, asked not the reason of this prohibi- 
 tion. On the morning of his marriage the 
 hapless Corinne haunted Nelvil fearfully ; but 
 he addressed his father's spirit, confessing that 
 it was to win his heavenly benediction his son 
 accomplished thus his will on earth. Re-as- 
 sured by these meditations, he sought his 
 bride, reproaching himself for having allowed 
 his thoughts to wander from her. A descend- 
 ing angel could not have chosen a face more 
 fit than hers to give mortality a dream of hea- 
 venly virtue. At the altar, Lady Edgarmond 
 was even more agitated than her daughter ; for 
 all important steps alarm us the mere the 
 
 greater our experience. Lucy was all hope ; 
 childhood still mingled with her youth, and 
 blended joy with love. In leaving the church 
 she leaned timidly on Oswald's arm, as if to 
 assure herself of his protection : he looked on 
 her tenderly, as if he felt at the bottom of his 
 heart, a foe who menaced her repose, and from 
 whom he had promised to defend her. Lady 
 Edgarmond, on their return, said to her son- 
 in-law, " My mind is easy : I have confided 
 to you the happiness of my : daughter ; and 
 have so short a time to live, that it is a comfort 
 for me to think my place will be so well sup- 
 plied." Lord Nelvil was much affected by 
 these words, and anxiously mused on the du- 
 ties they imposed. A few days elapsed : 
 Lucy had begun to meet her husband's eye 
 with confidence, and make her mind known 
 to him, when unlucky incidents disturbed the 
 union commenced under these favorable aus- 
 pices. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 MR. DICKSON paid his respects to the young 
 couple, apologising for not having been pre- 
 sent at their marriage. He had been ill, he 
 said, from the effects of a fall, though kindly 
 assisted by the most charming woman in the 
 world. Oswald, at this moment, was playing 
 at battledore with Lucy, who was very grace- 
 ful at this exercise. Her bridegroom gazed 
 on her, and listened not to Mr. Dickson, who 
 at last called to him from the other end of the | 
 room. " My Lord, the fair unknown, who 
 came to my aid, had certainly heard much | 
 about you, for she asked me many questions | 
 concerning your fate." "Who do you mean 1 ?" | 
 said Nelvil, continuing his game. " A love- i 
 ly creature, my Lord, although she looked 
 changed by suffering, and could not speak of 
 you without emotion." These words attract- 
 ed Oswald's attention ; but Lucy, perfectly un- 
 concerned, joined her mother, who had just 
 sent for her. Lord Nelvil no.w asked Mr. 
 Dickson what lady it was who had thus spoken 
 of him. " I know not," he replied : " her ac- 
 cent proved her^English, though I have rarely 
 found a person of address so obliging and 
 easy among our countrywomen. She took as 
 much care of a poor old man like me as if she 
 had been my own child: while [ was beside 
 her, I did not feel my bruises ; but, my dear 
 Oswald, have you been faithless here as well 
 as in Italy ? My beauteous benefactress trem-
 
 156 
 
 CORLMNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 I bled and turned pale at naming you." " Just 
 heaven!" exclaimed Nelvil, "you said anEng- 
 ; lishwoman V " Oh yes : you know foreign- 
 I ers never pronounce our language without a 
 certain intonation." " And her face 1" " The 
 most expressive I ever saw, though fearfully 
 pale and thin." This description suited not 
 the brilliant Corinne ; yet might she not have 
 suffered much, if in England, and unable to 
 find the being she sought ? This dread fell 
 suddenly on Oswald, who continued his ques- 
 tions with extreme uneasiness. Mr. Dickson 
 replied that the lady conversed with an ele- 
 gance which, he had never before met, that 
 I the gentlest kindness spoke from her sad and 
 : languid eyes. " Did you notice their color ?" 
 j asked Oswald. " Magnificently dark !" The 
 j inquirer trembled. " Was her conversation 
 | animated. V "No," continued Mr. Dickson, 
 ! " from time to time she interrogated, or an- 
 
 swe,red me, in a few words, but what she did 
 ; say was delightful." He would have pro- 
 
 ceeded, but Lady Nelvil, with her mother, 
 . rejoined them; and Oswald hastily retired, 
 j 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 
 i; passed : terrified at anticipating the despair of 
 j|*Oswald, if he were assured Corinne had fol- 
 j! lowed him to Scotland; foreseeing, too, that 
 !] he would resume this topic, she, instructed 
 j Mr. Dickson as to what she wished said to 
 ; i her son-iri-law. In effect, on a second inter- 
 view, the old gentleman only increased 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 sup- 
 posed it a petition for charity." " I received 
 n-me such : could you find this man V " Yes. 
 my Lord, directly : he lives in the village." 
 " Go, bring him to me !" said Nelvil ; and un- 
 able to wjiit patiently, walked out to meet him 
 at the end ot 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 V " My Lord, ye see I'm 
 blind ; how could I know ?" " Do you think 
 it was a female 1" " Yes, my Lord ! for suo 
 had a sweet voice, though indeed it was almost 
 stifled with weeping." "And what did she 
 ay to you V- " Oh, sir, she said, ' Good 
 old man, give this to Oswald's servant,' and 
 there stopped, but soon she added, ' 1 mean 
 Lord Nelvil's.' " " Ah, Corinne !" exclaimed 
 Oswald, and grew so faint that he was forced 
 to support himself on the old man's arm, who 
 
 continued, " I was sitting under a tree whnn 
 she gave me the message, and wished to do it 
 quick, but could scarce raise myself, being so 
 old now : well, after giving me more silver 
 than I'd had for long before, she lent me her 
 hand, poor thing! it trembled just as your 
 Lordship's does this minute." '"Enough!" 
 sighed Nelvil. " 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 prey- 
 ed on his mind : he made a thousand useless 
 inquiries, unable to conceive the possibility of : 
 Corinne's having been in Scotland without ! 
 seeking him. He formed various conjectures, ', 
 as to her motives ; and, in spite of all his en- 
 deavors to conceal it, this affliction was evi- 
 dent to Lady Edgarmond, 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'Erfeuil joined the Nelvils ere the 
 Prince's reply arrived. He said no more of j 
 Corinne than was necessary, yet felt vexed at 
 their not perceiving that he had an important 
 secret in his power, though too discreet to be- 
 tray it. His insinuations at first took no ef- i 
 feet upon Oswald : but, when he detected that 
 they referred to Corinne, he was all curiosity. 
 The Count having brought him to this, de- 
 fended his own trust pretty bravely ; at last, 
 however, his friend drew forth the whole 
 truth. It was a pleasure for d'Erfeuil to re- 
 late how grateful Corinne had felt, and it 
 what a wretched state he had found her : he 
 ran on, without observing how he agonized 
 Lord Nelvil : his only thought was that of be- 
 ing hero of his own story ; when he ceased, he 
 was much afflicted at the mischief he had done. 
 Oswald had commanded himself till then, but 
 suddenly became distracted with regret ; ac- 
 cused himself as the most barbarous and un- ji 
 grateful of men ; dwelt on Corinne's devoted 
 tenderness ; her generosity at the very mo- 
 ment when she believed him most culpable. 
 He contrasted this with the heartless fickle- 
 ness by which he had requited her ; incessant- 
 ly repeating that no one ever loved him as she 
 did ; and that he should in some way be ulti- 
 mately 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 derived from the dangers he was 
 about to brave.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 157 
 
 In th : ^ 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 regrets, 
 after having so wronged her by his love, and 
 left Britain with a sense of remorse which 
 nearly rendered life insupportable. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 LUCY was afflicted by his departure; yet 
 his recent gloom had so increased her natural 
 tiir.i'lify, that she had never found courage to 
 confid'3 in him her hopes of becoming a mo- 
 
 I ther; but left it to Lady Edgarmond to send 
 j these tidings, after him. Nelvil, unable to 
 I: guess what passed in his wife's heart, had 
 | thoug'it her farewell cold ; compared her silent 
 
 I 1 subnrr ision with the eloquence of Corinne, and 
 hesity.led not to believe that Lucy loved him but 
 feeblv ; yet, during his absence, scarcely could 
 even the birth of their daughter divert her 
 mind from his perils. Another grief was 
 add*- 1 to all this. 
 
 P'Erfeuil spent a year in Scotland, strong- 
 ly persuaded that he had not revealed the se- 
 cret of Corinne's sojourn there ; but he said so 
 rm'ch that implied it, and found such difficulty, 
 wren conversation flagged, in avoiding the 
 t!v-me most interesting to Lady Nelvil, that she 
 at Jast learnt the whole truth. Innocent as she 
 v :.s, it required even less art than she possessed 
 if draw d'Erfeuil out upon a favorite subject. 
 : I idy Edgarmond was too ill to be present at 
 tt ese conversations ; but when she questioned 
 j her daughter on the melancholy she detected, 
 I Lucy told all. Her mother spoke very se- 
 verely on Corinne's pursuit of Oswald. Lucy 
 was alternately jealous of her sister, and in- 
 dignant against her husband, for deserting one 
 to whom he had been so dear. She could not 
 help trembling for her own peace, with a man 
 who had thus wrecked that of another. She 
 had ever cherished a grateful recollection of her 
 early instructress, which now blended with 
 sympathy : far from feeling flattered with Os- 
 wald's sacrifice, she was tormented by the idea 
 j I that he. had chosen her merely because her posi- 
 ;' tiim in the world was more advantageous than 
 I that of Corinne. She remembered his hesitation 
 ! before marriage, his sadness so soon after, and 
 everything confirmed the cruel belief that her 
 husband loved her not. Lady Edgarmond might 
 have been of great serf-ice to her daughter, had 1 
 
 she striven to calm her; but she too intolerantly 
 anathematised all sentiments that deviated from 
 the line of duty; nor dreamt of tenderly lead- j. 
 ing a wanderer back, thinking that the cnly way j j 
 to awake conscience was by showing resent- 
 ment. She was mortified that so lovely a 
 woman should be so ill appreciated ; and ag- 
 gravated Lucy's fears, in order to excite her 
 pride. Lady Nelvil, more gentle and en- 
 lightened than her mother, could not rigorous- 
 ly follow such advice ; yet her letters to Os- 
 wald were always far colder than her heart. 
 Meanwhile he was distinguishing himself no- 
 bly, exposing his life, not merely in honorable 
 enthusiasm, but in a positive love of peril. 
 He appeared most gay when most actively em- 
 ployed, and would blush with pleasure when 
 the tumult of battle commenced. At such mo- 
 ments a weight seemed lifted . from his heart, 
 and he could breathe with ease. The popu- 
 larity- he enjoyed among his fellow soldiers 
 animated the existence it could not render hap- 
 py, and almost blinded him as to the past and 
 the future. He grew accustomed to the luke- 
 warm correspondence of his wife. When he re- 
 membered her, it was as a being worthy of his 
 protection, and whose mind he ought to spare 
 from all deeply seiious thoughts. But in 
 those splendid tropic nights, that gave so 
 grand an idea of nature and its Author, the 
 image of Corinne was often with him ; when 
 both war and climate menaced his life each 
 hour, he thought himself less guilty since death 
 was so near. At the approach of eternity, we 
 forgive our enemies, and in the same situation 
 we have more indulgence for ourselves. He 
 thought but of the tears which his death would 
 cause Corinne, not upon those his errors had 
 extorted. It was natural he should think most 
 of her; they had so often talked of immor- 
 tality, and sounded every depth of solemn 
 feeling : he fancied 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. Spite 
 of absence, distance, time, and every change, 
 they seemed to understand each other still. 
 
 At last his regiment was ordered home. 
 The monotony of shipboard pleased him less 
 than had the stir of arms. External excite- 
 ment supplied some of the imaginative joys 
 he owed to his intercourse 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 at 
 England.
 
 158 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 NELVIL had now to renew his acquaintance 
 wieh his own family, after four years' separa- 
 tion. He ateifced at Lady Edgarmond's castle 
 in NorthumbeWand. 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 affection for 
 his daughter. The young wife was now nearly 
 twenty. Her beauty had attained a dignity 
 which inspired Nelvil with respect. Lady 
 Edgartnond was too infirm to leave her bed ; 
 yet, although her illness tried her temper, she 
 received her son-in-law with satisfaction ; hav- 
 ing feared that she should die in his absence, 
 and leave her daughter alone Upon the world. 
 Oswald, so long accustomed to a military ca- 
 reer, found it very difficult to remain nearly 
 all day in' the chamber of an invalid, who re- 
 ceived no one but himself and wife. Lucy 
 dearly loved her lord ; but, believing her affec- 
 tion unprized, concealed what she knew of his 
 passion for Corinne, and became more silent 
 than ever. Mild as she was, her mother had 
 so influenced her, that when Oswald hinted 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 bet- 
 ter taught, she would have treasured up his 
 slightest word, that she might study how to 
 please him. Lady Edgarmond evinced a 
 rowing distaste. for all deviations from her 
 .abituaT routine : her nerves shrunk from eve- 
 ry sound. She would have reduced life to a 
 state of stagnation, 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 general 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 per- 
 suaded that it was adopted merely to discoun- 
 tenance Oswald's Italian predilections. " You 
 must struggle most perseveringly," would her 
 mother say, " against any return of that dan- 
 gerous infatuation." Lord Nelvil had a great 
 I reverence for duty ; but he understood it in a 
 
 wider sense than that of Lady Edgarmond : 
 tracing it to its source, he found tnat it might 
 perfectly accord with natural inclination, in- 
 stead of requiring perpetual combats and sac- 
 rifices. Virtue, he thought, far from rendering 
 life a torture, contributes to the duration of its 
 happiness, and may be considered as a sort of 
 prescience granted " to man alone beneath the 
 heaven." 
 
 Sometimes/ in explaining those ideas, he 
 yielded to the pleasure of using the expres- 
 sions of Coririne. Lady Edgarmond discov- 
 ered much ill-hurnor when he allowed himself 
 to think and sp / eak in this manner. New doc- 
 trines 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 Oswald 
 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 compre-r 
 hension ; and not knowing where to seek con- 
 geniality, sunk into despondence. He wrote 
 to Castel Forte for news of Corinne ; but the 
 war prevented the letter's arrival. His health 
 suffered from the cold of England ; and the 
 physicians assured him that his chest would 
 be again attacked, if he did not pass the win- 
 ter in Italy. He told this to his wife and 
 mother, adding, that the war between France , 
 and England must at present prevent his tour. 
 " And when peace is concluded," said Lady 
 Edgarmond, " I should hope, my Lord, that 
 you would not think of returning to Italy." 
 " If his health depends 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 com- 
 plained, Lucy's heart was divided between her 
 dread of his departure for Italy, and her fond- 
 ness, which over-rated 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 ab- 
 sorbed 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 de- 
 spair. Oswald set up every night with her. 
 It was no\v December ; and these cares were 
 highly injurious to him, though they seemed 
 much to gratify the sufferer, whose faults dis- 
 appeared just as her agonies would have ex- 
 cused them. The approach of death stills all 
 the tumults of soul from which most of our 
 errors proceed. On her last night she joined 
 the hands of Oswald ancl Lucy, pressed them
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 159 
 
 to her heart, and raised her eyes to heaven ; 
 m longer deploring the voice which could have 
 added nothing to the impressiveness of that 
 action, that look. In a few seconds she ex- 
 pired. 
 
 Lord Nelvil, who had supported himself 
 with great effort, fjr her sake, now became 
 dangerously ill, and poor Lucy's distress was 
 thus 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 be warm again." When 
 he recovered his senses he was surprised at 
 finding that Lucy had prepared everything 
 for his voyage : she merely repeated the ad- 
 vice of his physicians, adding, " If you will 
 permit it, I shall accompany you ; and our 
 child ought not to be parted from her parents." 
 " No, no, we will not part," he answered ; 
 " but if this journey would pain you, I re- 
 nounce it." "That will not -pain me," she 
 j replied. Oswald took her hand, and gazed 
 j inquiringly on her : she would have explained 
 | herself; but the memory of her mother's ad- 
 i; vice never to betray a sign of jealousy, re- 
 proved 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 tidings of her ?" " Never since 
 I left for America." " Well, my Lord, we 
 shall learn all in Italy." " Are you then in- 
 terested in her still V' " Yes ; I have not 
 forgotten the tenderness she showed my child- 
 hood." " We ought not to forget," sighed 
 Nelvil ; 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 in Italy, after 
 receiving her pardon and adieu. He little 
 deemed that his delirium had betrayed him, 
 and did injustice to the mind of his wife ; be- 
 cause it had rather wshown him the opinion of 
 others than what she felt herself, he believed 
 she loved him as much as she could love, but 
 he knew nothing of her sensibility ; at present 
 her pride disguised it ; but, had she been per- 
 fectly happy, she would have thought it im- 
 proper to avow a passionate affection even for 
 her own husband ; capable as she was of it, 
 education convinced her that it would be im- 
 modest to profess this feeling; but nothing 
 else could teach her to take pleasure in speak- 
 ing of anything else. 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 OSWALD, disliking all recollections of France, 
 crossed it very hastily. Lucy evinced neither ' 
 wish nor will of any kind, but left it for him 
 to decide everything. They reached the 
 base of the mountains that separate Dauphine 
 from Savoy, and ascended the Pas des Echel- 
 les on foot : this road is dug in the ?ocks ; its 
 entrance resembles a deep cavern ; it is dark 
 throughout, even in the brightest days of sum- 
 mer,. 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 these regions 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 
 Nelvil. While we live among plains, the 
 earth seems only made to bear and nourish 
 man ; but in picturesque countries we see the 
 impress of their Creator's power and genius. 
 Yet maa is everywhere at home with nature : 
 the roads he frames ascend the steep, or fathom 
 the abyss ; nothing is inaccessible to him, save 
 the great mystery of his own being. 
 
 In Morienne the winter was more rigorously 
 felt at every step : one might fancy one's self 
 wending northward, in approaching Mont Ce- 
 nis. "Lucy, who had never travelled before, 
 was alarmed at finding the ice rendered 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 truly moral, or 
 whether the hope of growing dearer to Os- || 
 waldj by constantly associating her image with 
 that of her beloved child, had not deadened 
 her to the risks Juliet would thus incur. Lucy 
 was apt to perplex her mind with secret scru- 
 ples 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 somewhat tranquillized 
 her spirit. The landscape now took a more 
 terrific character ; the snow fell heavily on 
 ground already covered with it. They seem- 
 ed entering the Hell of Ice described by Dante. 
 From the foot of the precipices to the mount- 
 ain tops all varieties were concealed. The 
 pines, now clothed in white, were mirrored in ( 
 the water like spectral trees. Oswald and 
 Lucy gazed in silence : speech would have 
 seemed presumptuous : nature was frozen into | 
 dumbness, and they remained mute like her. ., 
 Suddenly they perceived, on an immense ex- . 
 tent of snow, a long file of darkly clad figures i 
 carrying a bier towards a church. These ' 
 priests, the only living beings who broke this 
 desert solitude, preserved their wonted pace. 
 The thought of death lent it a gravity which j
 
 :ieo 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 iivit even the bleakness of the air tempted 
 them to forget. Here was the mourning of 
 nature and of man for vegetable and for hn- 
 man life. No color was left,- that black and 
 that white, thus united, struck the soul with 
 awe. " What a sad omen !" sighed Lady 
 Nelvil. " Lucy," interrupted Oswald, " trust 
 me, it is not for you." " Alas !" he thought, 
 u it was not beneath such auspices that I travel- 
 led with Corinne. Where is she now ? may 
 not these gloomy objects be but warnings of 
 what I am to suffer]" Lucy's nerves v\-ere 
 shaken by the terrors of her journey. This 
 kind of fear is almost unknown to an intrepid 
 man ; and she mistook for carelessness of her, 
 Oswald's ignorance of such alarm's possible 
 existence. The common people, who have 
 no better exercise for fancy, love to exagge- 
 rate 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 immova- 
 ble monster, guarding the vales that lead to 
 the land of promise. They watch the weather 
 for formidable symptoms, and beg all foreign- 
 ers to avoid crossing Mont Cenis during la 
 tourmente. 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 Nelvil, who was too much occu- 
 pied by the sensation of returning to Italy to 
 think on these reports. The possible end and 
 aim of his pilgrimage agitated his wife still 
 more than did the 
 
 journey itself, and she judg 
 favorably. In the mornim 
 
 ed everything unfavorably 
 of their ascent, several peasants beset her 
 with forebodings; those hired to carry her up 
 the mountain, however, assured her there was 
 nothing to apprehend : she looked at Nelvil, 
 and saw that he laughed at these 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 the centre of the flat which pre- 
 cedes the descent, when a violent hurricane 
 arose. Drifts of snow blinded Lucy's bear- 
 ers, and often hid Oswald from her view. The 
 religious men who devote their lives to succor 
 travellers OH the Alps began to ring their alarm 
 bell ; yet, tlngh 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 night at this monastery ; but, as 
 she said nothing, he thought it best to hasten 
 on, while daylight lasted. Lucy's bearers in- 
 
 them to descend. "Yes," she said, "since 
 my lord does not oppose it." She erred in 
 thus suppressing her feelings : the presence of 
 her child would have excused them ; but, while 
 we love one by whom we cannot deem our- 
 selves 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 child to her heart with strong 
 emotion. Oswald observed this, and quitting 
 his saddle, joined the men who carried her 
 litter. The grateful zeal with which he did 
 this filled her eyes with tears ; but, at that in- 
 stant, the whirlwind rose so furiously that her 
 bearers fell on their knees, exclaiming, " Oh 
 God, protect us !" Lucy regained her cour- 
 age ; and, raising herself, held Juliet towards 
 Lord Nelvil. " Take your child, my love !" 
 she said. Oswald received it, answering, 
 "And you too come. I can carry ye both !" 
 " No," she said, " only save her .'" " Save !" 
 he repeated : " is there any danger 1; Unhap- 
 py wretches why did you not tell us?" 
 " They did," interrupted Lucy. " And you 
 concealed it from me ? How have I merited 
 this cruel reserve V He wrapped his cloak 
 round Juliet, and cast down his eyes in deep 
 disquietude ; but Heaven most mercifully ap- 
 peased the storm, and lent a ray which showed 
 them the fertile plains of Piedmont. In an- 
 other hour they arrived unharmed at Nova- 
 laise, the first Italian town after crossing Mont 
 Cenis. 
 
 On entering the inn Lucy embraced her 
 child, and returned fervent thanks to God. 
 Oswald leaned pensively near the fire, and, 
 when she arose, held out lis hand to her, say- 
 ing, " You were alarmed then, my love ?" 
 "Yes, dear." "Why would you go on?" 
 
 You seemed impatient to proceed. 
 
 JJo 
 
 you not know that, above all things, I dread 
 exposing you to pain or danger 1" " It is for 
 Juliet that they are to be dreaded," 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 pic- 
 ture, that Oswald gazed on them with tender 
 admiratior ; but Lucy's silence discouraged 
 the feeling which might else have led to a mu- 
 tual understanding. They arrived at Turin, 
 where the season was unusually severe. The 1 
 vast apartments of Italy were destined to re- |l 
 ceive the sun. Their freshness in summer is ' 
 
 quired, with some uneasiness, if she wished i most welcome ; but, in the depth of winter.
 
 CORINNE , OR, ITALY. 
 
 161 
 
 they seem cheerless deserts ; and their pos- 
 sessors feel like pigmies in the abode of giants. 
 The death of Alfieri had just occasioned a 
 general mourning among his proud country- 
 men. Nelvil no longer recognized the gaiety 
 formerly so dear to him. The absence of her 
 he loved disenchanted hot * nature and art : 
 I he sought intelligence of "aer, and learnt that 
 ' for five years she had p -Wished nothing, but 
 lived in seclusion at F\ r . -ence. He resolved 
 on going thither ; not *- remain, and thus vio- 
 late the affection he e d to Lucy, but to tell 
 Cnrinne how ignorar fte had been of her resi- 
 dence in Scotland In crossing Lombardy he 
 sighed, " How beautiful this was, when all 
 those elms wet i in full leaf, with vines linking 
 them togea<sr! "How beautiful it was," 
 thought Liny, " 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 were pursuing them with 
 all the avidity of fire. Lucy sought in vain 
 for the charm of Italy : it seemed that every- 
 thing conspired to veil it in gloom for Oswald 
 and herself. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SINCE Lord Nelvil had been in England he 
 had not spoken a word of the language ; it 
 even made him ill to hear it. On the evening 
 of his arrival at Milan he heard a tap at the 
 door, which was followed by the entrance of a 
 man, whose dark and prominent features would 
 have been expressive if animated by natural 
 enthusiasm : they wore an unvaryingly gra- 
 cious style, 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, or 
 child, just as truly ; and so exaggerated, that 
 the speaker seemed to think poetry ought 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 seemed but to indicate more 
 plainly the unmeaning insipidity of all he said. 
 Nothing could be more painful to Oswald than 
 to hear the Roman tongue thus spoken, for the 
 first time after so long an interval, to see his 
 dearest memories travestied, and feel his me- 
 lancholy renewed by an object so ridiculous. 
 Lucy guessed all this, and would have dis- 
 
 11 
 
 missed the improvisatore ; but it was impossi- 
 ble to make him hear her : he paced the cham- 
 ber 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 bade him depart. 
 
 " Poetic language," said Oswald, " is so 
 easily parodied here, that it ought to be for- 
 bidden all save those who are worthy to em- 
 ploy it." " True," observed Lucy, perhaps a 
 little too pointedly : " it is very disagreeable to 
 be reminded of what you admire, by such a 
 burlesque as we have just endured." " Not 
 so," he answered ; " the contrast only makea 
 me more deeply feel the power of genius. 
 This same language, which may be so mise- 
 rably degraded, became celestial poetry from 
 the lips of Corinne your sister." Lucy felt 
 overwhelmed : he had not pronounced that 
 name to her before ; the addition of your sister 
 sounded as if conveying a reproach. She 
 was half suffocated ; and had she given way 
 to her tears, this moment might have proved 
 the sweetest in her life ; but she restrained 
 them, and the embarrassment between herself 
 and husband became more painful than before. 
 On the next day the sun broke forth, like an 
 exile returning to his own land. They avail- 
 ed themselves of his brightness to visit Milan 
 Cathedral, the chef-d'oeuvre of Gothic archi- 
 tecture : it is built in the form of a cross, 
 fair image of suffering in the midst of wealth 
 and enjoyment. Lofty as it is, the ornaments 
 are as elaborate as those lavished on some 
 minute object of admiration. What time and 
 patience must it have cost ! This persever- j 
 ance towards the same aim is transmitted from | 
 age to age, and the human race, stable at least 
 in thought, can leave us proofs of this, imper- 
 ishable almost as thought itself. A gothic 
 building engenders true religion : it has been 
 said that the popes have consecrated more 
 wealth to the building of modern temples than 
 devotion to the memory of old churches. The 
 light, falling through colored glass, the singu- 
 lar for&s of the architecture, unite to give a 
 silent image of that infinite mystery which 
 the soul (or ever feels, and never comprehends. 
 
 Lord and Lady Nelvil left Milan when the 
 earth was covered with snow. This is a sad- 
 der sight in Italy than elsewhere, because it 
 is unusual : the natives lament bad weather as 
 a public calamity. Oswald was vain of his 
 favorite country, and angry that it would not 
 smile its best for Lucy. They passed through 
 Placenta, Parma, and Modena. The churches 
 and palaces of each are too vast,m proportion 
 to the number and fortunes of the inhabitants : 
 one would say that these towns were prepar- 
 ed for the recep- v ioa of some great personages,
 
 162 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 who as yet had but sent some of their retinue 
 forward. On the morning of their reaching 
 Taro, the floods were thundering from the 
 AJps and Appenines, with such frightful ra- 
 pidity, that their roar scarce announced them 
 ere they came. Bridges are hardly practica- 
 ble over rivers that so often rise above the 
 level of the plain. Oswald and Lucy found 
 their course suddenly checked. All boats had 
 been washed away by the current ; and they 
 were obliged to wait till the Italians, who 
 never hurry themselves, chose to bring them 
 back. The fog confounded the water with 
 the sky ; and the whole spectacle rather re- 
 sembled the description of Styx, than the 
 bounteous streams lent to refresh the burning 
 south. Lucy, trembling lest the intense cold 
 should huTt her child, bore it into a fisher's 
 hut, in the centre of which a fire had been 
 kindled, as is done in Russia. 
 
 " Where is your lovely Italy ?" she asked 
 Oswald, with a smile. " I know not when I 
 shall regain her," he answered, sadly. Ap- 
 proaching Parma, and all the cities on that 
 road, they perceived from far the flat-terraced 
 roofs that gave Italy so original an air. 
 Churches and spires stand forth boldly amid 
 these buildings ; and, after seeing them, the 
 northern pointed roofs, so constructed to per- 
 mit the snow to slide off, create a very un- 
 pleasant 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 her arms, that she 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 Correggio loved to paint, that 
 Oswald looked from the ideal to the real with 
 surprise. As she noticed this her eyes fell, 
 and the resemblance became still more stcong. 
 Correggio is, perhaps, the only painter who 
 knew how to give downcast eyes an expres- 
 sion affecting as those raised to heaven. The 
 veil he throws over such looks, far from de- 
 creasing their thoughtful 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 melancloly interest : its adorers oft 
 return to bid such fleeting beauty a fond fare- 
 well. 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 
 for ever." 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 when his language made her 
 
 blest, she dreaded to disturb that moment'* 
 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 VII. 
 
 LORD NELVIL'S health improved, yet cruel 
 anxiety still agitated his heart. He con- 
 stantly sought tidings of Corinne, but every- 
 where heard the same report as at Turin 
 namely, that nothing was known of her, since 
 she saw no one and wrote no longer. It was 
 not thus that the name of Corinne was for- 
 merly announced ! Could the man who had 
 destroyed her peace and fame forgive him- 
 self! 
 
 Travellers drawing near Bologna are at- 
 tracted 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 cen- 
 turies ; its aspect is irresistibly oppressive. 
 Bologna boasts a great number of highly-in- 
 formed men : but the common people are dis- 
 agreeable. Lucy listened for the melodious 
 Italian of which she had been told ; but the 
 Bolognese dialect painfully disappointed her. 
 Nothing more harsh can exist 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 popula- 
 tion like that of the Lazzaroni eat and sleep 
 beneath the numerous arcades that border the 
 streets : during winter they carry a little fire 
 in an earthen vessel. In cold weather no 
 
 htly music is heard in Italy : it is replaced 
 in Bologna by a clamor truly alarming to for- 
 eigners. 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 per- 
 mits people to live thus in public engen- 
 ders many savage habits (36). Lord and 
 Lady Nelvil could not walk forth without be- 
 ing assailed by beggars, the scourge of Italy. 
 As they passed the 'prisons, whose barred 
 windows look upon the street, the captives 
 demanded alms with immoderate laughter. 
 " It is not thus," said Lucy, " that our people 
 show themselves the fellow-citizens of their 
 betters. Oh, Oswald ! can such a country 
 please you V " Heaven forbid," he replied,
 
 CORINNE- OR ITALY 
 
 163 
 
 " that I should ever forget my own ! but when 
 you have passed the Appenines you will hear 
 the Tuscans, meet intellectual and animated 
 beings, who, I hope, will render you less se- 
 vere." 
 
 Italians, indeed, must be judged according 
 to circumstances. Sometimes the evil that 
 hath been spoken of them seems but true ; at 
 others, most unjust. All that has previously 
 been described of their governments and reli- 
 gion proves that much may be asserted against 
 them generally, yet that many private virtues 
 are to be found amongst them. The individ- 
 uals chance throws on the acquaintance of our 
 travellers decide the notions of our whole 
 race : such judgment, of course, can find no 
 basis in the institutions, manners, or public 
 
 spirit of the country. Oswald and Lucy vis- 
 ited the collections of pictures that enrich Bo- 
 logna. Among them was Domenichino's Si- 
 byl ; before which Nelvil unconsciously lin- 
 gered so long, that his wife at last dared ask 
 him, if this beauty said more to his heart than 
 Correggio's Madonna had done. He under- 
 stood, and was amazed at so significant an 
 appeal : 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. 
 
 BOOK XX 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AFTER what had passed in the gallery of 
 Bologna, Oswald, for the first time, compre- 
 hended 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 explanation as much as 
 she had done. 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 one whose 
 character he so imperfectly knew. They 
 crossed the Appenines. 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 markets teemed with oranges and pome- 
 granates. The Tuscan tongue was- audible ; 
 and all Oswald's dearest memories revived, 
 though now unmixed with hope. The mild 
 air of the south acted also upon Lucy's feel- 
 ings, she would have been more confiding, 
 had he encouraged her, but they were both 
 restrained by an equal timidity, mutually sus- 
 picious of each other's feelings, and not daring 
 to communicate the thoughts which they en- 
 tertained. Had Corinne been in the situation 
 of either, she would soon have learned the 
 other's secret ; but the more congenial they 
 
 were, in natural reserve, the less easy was it 
 for them to break the restraint which kept 
 their hearts asunder. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 As soon as they arrived in Florence, Nelvil 
 wrote to Castel Forte ; and in a few minutes 
 the Prince came to him. It was some time 
 ere either spoke ; at last Nelvil asked for 
 Corinne. " 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 learnt 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 meher intentions, for I carefully avoid 
 your name." " Have the goodness, Prince," 
 said Oswald, " to give her the letter I wrote 
 you nearly five years since ; it contained a 
 detail of all the circumstances that prevented 
 my hearing of her journey to Scotland before 
 I married. When she has read it, ask her to
 
 164 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 receive me. I long to justify myself with her, 
 if possible. Her esteem is essential to me, 
 though I no longer pretend to more." 
 will obey your desires, my Lord," said Castel 
 Forte, " and wish that I may in any way be of 
 service." 
 
 Lady Nelvil now entered the room. Os- 
 wald 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 followed him. " Lady 
 Nelvil is very beautiful," said the Prince : 
 " so fresh and young ! Alas ! my poor friend 
 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 myself." He could ut- 
 ter no more, and for the rest of the day was 
 gloomily silent. Lucy sought not to disturb 
 teian ; her 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 s"he V " That she will not see you," 
 answered the Prince. "And her motives V 
 " I found her yesterday, in spite her weakness, 
 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 al- 
 ready. The foe who should have thrown me 
 into prison, banished and proscribed me, would 
 not have torn my heart as he has. I have 
 suffered more than woman ever suffered al- 
 ternate -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 has deceived me, voluntary or 
 involuntary it is 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 gen- 
 erous sacrifice ? No ! he is happy now, pos- 
 sessing all the advantage* best appreciated by 
 the world. I am dying ; lot him leave me in 
 peace /' " 
 
 " These wo*d are very harsh," sighed Os- 
 wald. " She is changed "jy suffering," ad- 
 | mitted 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 
 ay so. The injuries we may do women hurt 
 not UB in public opinion. The fragile idol of 
 
 to-day may be broken to-morrow, without 
 finding one protector ; for that very reason do 
 I respect the sex, whose moral welfare can 
 find its safety but in our bosoms. A moral 
 stab is punished by the law ; but breaking a 
 tender heart is a theme for jest. I would for- 
 give murder by the poniard soonest." " Be- 
 lieve me," cried Nelvil, " I, too, have been 
 wretched, that is my sole extenuation ; but 
 formerly she would have listened to it, now it 
 avails me nothing ; yet I will write to her : 
 I still believe, in spite of all that parts us, she 
 may yet understand me." " I will bear your 
 letter, my Lord ; but I entreat you temper it 
 well ; you guess not what you are to her. 
 Years can but deepen an impression, when no 
 new one has divided its empire. Would you 
 know in what state she is in at present * A 
 fantasy, from which my prayers could not 
 divert her, will give you an idea of it." 
 He opened the door of another room ; and 
 Nelvil 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 happiness breathed from 
 each feature. The memories of that festal 
 time came back on Oswald's heart ; but 
 as he yielded to them, the prince took his 
 hand, drew aside a crape from another picture, 
 and showed him Corinne painted that same 
 year, in the black dress, such as she had 
 never abandoned since her return from Eng- 
 land. 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 veil- 
 ed her languid eyes, and threw a shadow over 
 the tintless cheek : beneath was written this 
 line, from the pastor Fido, 
 
 " A pcnsa e\ puo dir, ' Quesla fu rosa !' " 
 ' Scarcely can we now say, ' This was a rose !' " 
 
 ' How !" cried Lord Nelvil ; " looks she 
 like this V " Within the last fortnight still 
 worse," returned the Prince : and Oswald 
 rushed 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 open- 
 ed it, saying, " Think not the worse of me,
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 165 
 
 my dear, for 
 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, exclaimed, 
 "Shall I, then, make poor Lucy wretched 
 too ? What is my life worth, if it serves but 
 to render all who love me miserable V 
 
 LETTER FROM LORD NELVIL TO CORINNE. 
 
 " Were you not the most generous of hu- 
 man beings, what could I say to you, who 
 might weigh me so low by your reproaches, 
 or still lower by your griefs 1 I have done 
 such ill to her I loved, that I almost believe 
 myself a monster. Am I, Corinne ? I suf- 
 fer so much, that I cannot think myself an 
 utter barbarian ! You know, when first I met 
 you, I was a prey to despair, that nearly 
 brought me to the grave : I sought not happi- 
 ness, but struggled long against your attrac- 
 tios ; even when it triumphed, presentiments 
 of misfortune lingered still. Sometimes I be- 
 lieved you destined by my father to make me 
 once more feel myself as well beloved as I 
 had been by him ; then again did I fear that I 
 was disobeying his will, in marrying a for- 
 eigner, and departing from the line of my du- 
 ties and my situation in life. On my return- 
 ing to England this sentiment prevailed, sanc- 
 tioned as it was by parental authority. Had 
 he still lived I should have felt a right to 
 combat it ; but the dead cannot hear us, and 
 the irrevocable command of those now pow- 
 erless, possesses a touching and a sacred 
 force. 
 
 " Once more surrounded by the ties of 
 country, I met your sister, selected for me by 
 my sire, and so well according with my wish 
 for a regular, a quiet life. My weakness of 
 character makes me dread some kinds of agi- 
 tation. My mind is easily seduced by new 
 hopes ; but my sick soul shrinks from resolves 
 that interfere with its original habits or affec- 
 tions. Yet, Corinne, had I known you were 
 in England, that proof of tenderness would 
 have decided me. Ah! wherefore vaunt I 
 what I would have done * Should we have 
 been content ? Am I capable of being so ? 
 Could I ever have chosen any one fate, with- 
 out still pining after some other 1 
 
 " When you restored my liberty I fell into 
 the common error, telling myself that so su- 
 perior a woman might easily be estranged 
 from me. Corinne, I have wounded your 
 heart, I know ; but I thought mine the only 
 sacrifice : I deemed you would forget me. I 
 cannot deny that Lucy is worthy of a still 
 wanner attachment than I could give her ; 
 but since I learnt your voyage to England, 
 
 and the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has 
 been a perpetual pain. I sought for death, 
 certain that when you heard I was no more, 
 you would forgive me. Doubtless you can 
 oppose to this years of fidelity and regret, 
 such as my ingratitude ill merits ; yet think 
 a thousand complicated circumstances in- 
 vade the constancy of man. Imagine, if pos- 
 sible, that I have neither given nor received 
 felicity ; that my heart has been lonely since 
 I left you, scarce daring even to commune 
 with itself ; that the mother of my child, who 
 has so many titles to my love, is a stranger to 
 my history and feelings ; in truth, that my ha- 
 bitual sadness has reduced me to the state 
 from which your cares, Corinne, once extri- 
 cated me. If 1 have returned' to Italy, not 
 for my health (you cannot suspect me of any 
 love for life), but to bid you farewell, can you 
 refuse to see me but once more ? I wish it, 
 because I think it would benefit you ; my own 
 sufferings less prompt this desire. What use 
 were it that I am miserable, that a dreadful 
 weight presses upon my heart, if I came 
 hither without obtaining pardon from you ? I 
 ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being 
 so ; but I feel certain that you would be so- 
 laced, if you could think upon me as your 
 friend, and read, in Oswald's looks and accents, 
 how dear you are to the criminal whose fate 
 is far more altered than his heart 
 
 " I respect the ties I have formed, and love 
 your sister ; but the human breast, wild and 
 inconsistent as it is, can reconcile that affec- 
 tion with what I 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 prostrate before you, through 
 all my faults and duties, you would perceive 
 what you are to me still, and that conversa- 
 tion would leave a blame for both. Our health 
 is failing : Heaven may not accord us length 
 of days. Let then whichever may be des- 
 tined to precede the other, feed regretted by 
 the dear friend left behind. The innocent 
 alone deserve such joy ; but may it not be 
 granted to the guilty 1 
 
 " Corinne, sublime soul ! you who can read 
 all hearts, guess what I cannot add, and com- 
 prehend me, as you used to do. Let me but 
 see you ; let my pallid lips touch your weak 
 hand ! It was not I alone who wrought this 
 ruin. No ; the same sentiment consumed us 
 both ; destiny struck two hearts, devoting one 
 to crime ; and that one, Corinne, may not be 
 the least pitiable." 
 
 ANSWER OF CORINNE. 
 
 " If I required but to see and pardon you, I 
 could not for an instant refuse. Why is it
 
 166 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 that I do not feel resentment, although the 
 pangs you have caused me are so dreadful ? 
 1 must still love you, since I do not 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 feel- 
 ings, when, the same blow struck both my ad- 
 miration and my love. What would have 
 become of me without Heaven's help 1 Eve- 
 rything 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 bliss, our bane, alike tend to 
 this purpose ; and you were chosen to uproot 
 the too strong hold I had on earth. 
 
 " Yet when I heard of your arrival in Italy, 
 when I saw your hand-writing, learnt that 
 you were but on the other side of the river, a 
 fearful tumult rose within me : incessantly 
 was I obliged to tell myself, ' My sister is his 
 wife.' To see you again appeared felicity : 
 I will not deny that my heart, inebriated 
 afresh, preferred these indefinite raptures to 
 an age of calm ! but Providence has not aban- 
 doned me in this peril. Are you not the hus- 
 band of another 1 What, then, have I to say 
 to you ] Is it for me to die in your arms ? 
 What would my conscience surfer, 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 re- 
 nouncing it. This resolution may appease 
 my soul. Such happiness as I felt while you 
 loved me, is not in harmony with our mortal 
 state ; it agitates us, because we feel its fleet- 
 ness : but religi6us meditation, that aims at 
 self-improvement, and refers every cause to 
 duty, is a state of peace ; and I know not 
 what ravages the mere sound of your voice 
 would make on the repose I believe I have 
 regained. It has much afflicted me to learn 
 that your health is impaired. Alas ! it is not 
 I who can watch over it ; but it is I who suffer 
 with you. May God bless and prolong your 
 days, my lord ! Be happy, but be so through 
 piety. A.secret community with the Divinity 
 gives us in ourselves the power of confiding 
 to a Being who consoles us : it makes two 
 friends of one spirit. Do you still seek for 
 what the world calls happiness 7 Where will 
 you find more than my tenderness would have 
 bestowed 7 Know you that in the deserts of 
 the New World I should have blest my lot, 
 had you permitted me to follow you ? I could 
 have served you like a slave, have knelt 
 
 before you as a heavenly being, had you but 
 loved me truly. What have you done with 
 so much faith 1 You have changed it into an 
 affliction peerless as itself. Outrage me not, 
 then, by one hope of happiness, except in 
 prayer ; let our thoughts meet in heaven ! 
 
 " Yet when I feel myself about to die, per- 
 haps I will be taken somewhere whence I 
 may behold you pass. Assuredly when my 
 failing eyes can see no other object, your 
 image will be with me ; but might not a re- 
 cent review of your features render it more 
 distinct 1 Deities of old were never present j 
 at the hour of death, I would forbid you mine ; 
 but that I wish this recent impression traced 
 
 on my sinking soul. Oswald, Oswald 1 
 
 what have I said ! behold how weak I am, 
 when abandoned to your recollection ! 
 
 " Why has not Lucy sought me "I Though 
 she is your wife, she is still my sister. I 
 have some kind and even generous things to 
 tell her. And your child why have- they 
 not brought her to me ? I ought not to meet 
 you ; but those about you are my family. Do 
 they disown me still 1 or fear they that poor 
 little Juliet would be scared at seeing me T 
 Ghost as I look, I yet could smile upon your 
 daughter. Adieu, my lord, adieu ! Remem- 
 ber that I might call you brother, as my sis- 
 ter's spouse. At least you will mourn for me 
 externally, and, as a kinsman, follow my re- 
 mains to Rome. Let them be borne along 
 the road where my triumphal car once pass- 
 ed ; and pause upon the spot where you re- 
 stored my crown. Yet no, I am wrong, Os- 
 wald : I would exact nothing that could afflict 
 you ; only one tear, and sometimes a fond 
 look towards the heaven where I shall soon 
 await you." 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MANY days elapsed ere Oswald could re- 
 gain his composure : he avoided the presence 
 of his wife, and passed whole hours on the 
 banks of the river that flowed by the house of 
 Corinne ; often tempted to plunge amid its 
 waves, that they might bear his body to the 
 abode he never must enter living. Amazed 
 as he was at Corinne's wish to see her sister, 
 he longed to gratify it ; yet how introduce the 
 subject ! He saw that Lucy was hurt by his 
 distress, and hoped that she would question 
 him ; but she forbore, merely expressing a 
 desire to visit Rome or Naplss : fcs ilways
 
 CORINNE; OR, ITALY. 
 
 167 
 
 begged a brief delay, and Lucy, with cold 
 dignity, was silent. 
 
 Oswald, at least, could secure Corinne the 
 presence of his little daughter, and secretly 
 bade the nurse take Juliet to her. He met 
 them on their return, and asked the child how 
 she enjoyed her visit. She replied by an 
 Italian phrase, and with an accent so resem- 
 bling Corinne's, that her father started. 
 " Who taught you that, dear V he asked. 
 " The lady," she replied. " And how did she 
 behave to you 1" " Oh, she kissed me, and 
 cried ; I don't know why ; but it made her 
 worse, for she looks very ill, papa." " Do 
 you like this lady, my child ?" " That I do. 
 I'll go to her every day. She has promised 
 to teach me all she knows : and says that 
 she wishes me to resemble Corinne : who is 
 that, father 1 the lady did not tell me." Lord 
 Nelvil could not answer : he withdrew to 
 conceal his agitation, but bade the nurse take 
 Juliet daily to Corinne. Perhaps he erred in 
 disposing of his child without her mother's 
 consent ; but in a few days the young 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 education. 
 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 all this anything but a design to 
 win Nelvil back. She was divided between 
 the natural wish of being sole directress for 
 her daughter, and self-reproach at the idea of 
 withholding her from such valuable instruc- 
 tions. One day Oswald came in as Juliet 
 was practising a music lesson. She held a 
 lyre proportioned to her size ; and her pretty 
 arms fell into Corinne's own attitude so per- 
 fectly, that he felt gazing on the miniature 
 copy of a fine picture, with the added grace 
 of childish innocence. He could not speak, 
 but sunk, 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 Juliet ceased, her father took 
 her on his knee, and said, " The lady on the 
 banks of the Arno taught you this, did she 
 not V " 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 be- 
 lieve it was the 17th of November." " My 
 God '." cried Oswald, bursting into tears. 
 
 Lucy now stepped forward, and taking 
 Juliet by the hand, said, hastily, " My lord, it 
 its too much to rob me of my child's affection ; 
 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 where. He was fearfully alarmed 
 at her absence ; but she shortly returned, with 
 a calm and gentle air, such as he little ex- 
 pected. He would now have confided in her, 
 and gained her pardon by sincerity, "but she 
 replied, " Explanation, indeed, is needful to 
 us both ; yet, my dear lord, permit me still to 
 defer it : you will soon know my motives for 
 this request." 
 
 Her address, he perceived, was more ani- 
 mated than usual ; and every day its warmth, 
 its interest, increased. He could not under- 
 stand this change ; its cause is soon told. All 
 that Lucy so long had hidden in her heart, 
 escaped in the brief reproach she made her 
 husband ; and, as usually happens to persons 
 who suddenly break from their habitual char- 
 acter, she now ran into extremes, resolving 
 to seek Corinne, and ask her if she had deter- 
 mined perpetually to disturb her wedded 
 peace ; but, as she arrived at her sister's 
 door, her diffidence returned ; nor could she 
 have 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 frank- 
 ness which it was impossible for Lucy not 
 to follow. Such was that mind's ascendency 
 over every one, that, in her presence, neither 
 dissimulation nor constraint could be pre- 
 served. Her pale looks and her weakness 
 confirmed her assertion, that she had not long 
 to live : this sad truth added weight to her 
 counsels. All Castel Forte had told her, and 
 ail she had guessed from Oswald's letters, 
 proved that reserve and coldness separated 
 Lucy and himself from each other. She en- 
 tered very simply on this delicate subject : 
 her perfect knowledge of the husband's char- 
 acter enabled her to point out why he re- 
 quired to find spontaneously in those he loved 
 the confidence which he could not solicit, and 
 to be received with cheerfulness proportioned 
 ;o his own susceptibility of discouragement. 
 She described her past self-impartiality, as if 
 speaking of another, and showed how agree- 
 able 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 lor the loss 
 of virtue. 
 
 " Many women," said she, " have been 
 beloved, not merely in spite of, but for the 
 sake of their very errors ; because they 
 strove to extort a pardon by being ever agree- 
 able, and having so much need of indulgence 
 dared impose no laws on others. Therefore,
 
 168 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 dear sister, pride not yourself in your per- 
 fections ; let your charm consist in seeming 
 to forget them ; be Corinne and Lucy in one : 
 nor let your own worth excuse to you a mo- 
 ment's neglect of your graces, nor your self- 
 respect render your manners repulsive. Were 
 your dignity ill founded, it might wound him 
 less ; for an over-exertion of certain rights 
 chills the heart more than do unjust preten-' 
 sions. Love delights in paying more than is 
 due, where nothing is exacted." Lucy thank- 
 ed her sister with much tenderness for the 
 interest thus generously evinced in her wel- 
 fare ; 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 ir. 
 you and in his child ; nor ever taste one rap- 
 ture that reminded him not of Corinne." 
 Lady Nelvil returned to her every day, and, 
 with the most amiable delicacy, studied to 
 resemble the being so dear to her lord. His 
 curiosity increased, as he remarked the fresh 
 attractions she thus acquired : he knew that 
 she must owe them to Corinne ; yet, Lucy 
 
 mand this of you now.*' Oswald was fear- 
 fully agitated, wondering what subject she 
 had chosen, and whether she would recite 
 herself: the bare possibility of .coking on 
 her threw him into extreme confrsion. The 
 morning came, and winter frowned on it with 
 all the sternness of the north : the wind 
 howled, the rain beat violently against the 
 windows, and, by an eccentricity more fre- 
 quent in Italy than elsewhere, the thunder 
 added a sense of dread to all this gloom. Os- 
 wald conld not speak : everything around 
 him increased the desolation of his soul. He 
 entered the hall wkh Lucy : it was immensely 
 crowded. In an obscure recess was placed a 
 sofa, whereon Corinne was to recline, being 
 too ill to read her own verses. Dreading to 
 show herself, changed as she was, she had 
 chosen those means of seeing Oswald unseen. 
 As soon as she knew that he was there, she 
 veiled her face, and was supported to this 
 couch ; from time to time staying to take 
 breath, as if that short space had been a painful 
 journey : the last steps of life are ever slow 
 and difficult. Seating herself, her eyes sought 
 
 having promised to keep the secret of their j Oswald, found him, and involuntarily startii 
 meetings, no explanation occurred. The suf- 
 ferer proposed yet to see the wedded pair 
 together, but not till she was assured that she 
 had but a few moments to live ; but she in- 
 volved this plan in so much mystery, that 
 Lucy knew not in what manner it was to be 
 accomplished. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 CORINNE desired to bid Nelvil and Italy 
 such a farewell as might recall the days on 
 which her genius shone with full splendor. 
 A pardonable weakness! Love and glory 
 were ever blended in her mind ; and, at the 
 moment when her heart was about to resign 
 all earthly ties, she wished Oswald to fed, 
 once more, that it was the greatest woman of 
 her day he had destroyed the woman who 
 best knew how to love and think whose 
 brilliant success he had obscured in misery 
 and death. 
 
 She had no longer the strength required by 
 an improvisatrice ; but in solitude, since Os- 
 wald's return, had resumed her zest for writing 
 poetry : she, therefore, named a day for as- 
 sembling, in one of the . galleries, all who 
 desired to hear her verses, begging Lucy to 
 bring her husband ; addirgj " I feel I may de- 
 
 up, she spread her arms ; but instantly fell 
 back, turning away her face, like Dido when 
 she met ^Eneas in a world which human 
 passions should not penetrate. Castel Forte 
 detained Lord Nelvil, who, now utterly beside 
 himself, would have flown to fall at her feet : 
 the Prince reminded him of the respect he 
 owed Corinne before the world. 
 
 A young girl, dressed in white, and crown- 
 ed with flowers, now appeared on the stage 
 which had been erected. Her meek and 
 peaceful face touchingly contrasted the senti- 
 ments she was about to breathe ; it was Co- 
 rinne's taste, which thus mingled something 
 sweet with thoughts in themselves too dreary. 
 Music nobly and affectingly prepared the au- 
 ditors. The hapless Oswald could not tear 
 his eyes from Corinne ; she was to him as an 
 apparition that haunts a night of fever ; it 
 was through his own deep sighs that he heard 
 the death-song of the swan, which the woman 
 he had so much wronged, addressed to his 
 heart. 
 
 THE LAST BOKO Or COBINXB. 
 
 Take ye my solemn farewell ! O my friends, 
 Already nipht is darkening on my eyes; 
 But is not Heaven most beautiful by night 7 
 Thousands of stars shine in the kindling sky, 
 Which is an azure desert during day. 
 Thus do the gathering of eternal shade* 
 Reveal innumerable thoughts, half lost 
 In the full daylight of prosperity. 
 But weaken'd in the voice which might instruct; 
 The soul retires <vithin itself, and seeks 
 To gather round itself Its falling fire.
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 169 
 
 From my first days of youth, my inward hope 
 Was to do honor to the Roman name ; 
 That name at which the startled heart yet beats. 
 Ye have allow 'd me fame, O generous land! 
 Ye banish not a woman from the shrine! 
 Ye do not sacrifice immortal gifts 
 To passing jealousies. Ye who Btill yield 
 Applause to Genius in ita daring flight ; 
 Victor without the vanquished, Conqueror, 
 Yet without spoil ; who, from eternity, 
 Draws riches for all time. 
 
 Nature and Life ! with what deep confidence 
 Ye did inspire me. I deera'd all grief arose 
 From that we did not feel, or think enough ; 
 And that we might, even on this our earth, 
 Beforehand taste that heavenly happiness, 
 Which is but length in our enthusiasm, 
 But constancy in love. 
 
 No, I repent it not, this generous faith ; 
 No that caused not the bitter tears I've shed, 
 Watering the dust which doth await me now. 
 I had accomplished all my drstiny 
 I had been worthy all the gifts of Heaven, 
 If I had only vow'd my sounding lyre 
 To celebrate that goodness all divine, 
 Made manifest throughout the universe. 
 
 And thou, my God .Oh, thou wilt not reject 
 The offering of the mind ; for poetry, 
 Its homage is religious, and the wings 
 Of Bought but serve to draw more near to the*. 
 
 Religion has no limits, and no bonds ; 
 The vast, the infinite, and the eternal, 
 Never from her may Genius separate. 
 Imagination from its earliest flight, 
 Past o'er the bounds of life : and the sublime 
 In the reflection of divinity. 
 
 Alas ! my God, had I loved only thee ; 
 If I had raised my head aloft in heaven 
 From passionate affections shelter'd there, 
 I had not now been crush'd before my time 
 Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreami 
 Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives, 
 I only know it by my strength of grief ^ 
 Under the features of an enemy 
 I recognize it now. 
 
 Farewell, my birth place ! farewell, my own land 
 Farewell, remembrances of infancy, 
 Farewell ! Ah, what have ye to do with death 1 
 And ye, who in my writings may have found 
 Feelings, whose echo was within your soul, 
 Oh, friends of mine where'er ye be, farewell! 
 Corinne has suffer'd much but suffer'd not 
 la an unworthy cause : she has not lost 
 At least, her claim on pity. 
 
 Beautiful Italy ! it is in rain 
 To promise me your loveliness ; my heart 
 Is worn and wasted ; what can ye avail ? 
 Would ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs 1 
 Would ye recall my happiness, and thus 
 Make me revolt against my fate t 
 
 Meekly I do submit myself. Ob, ye 
 Who may survive me, when the spring returns, 
 Remember how I loved its loveliness ! 
 How oft I sang its perfumes and its air. 
 I pray you sometimes to recall a line 
 From out my songs, my soul is written there i 
 But fatal Muses, love and misery 
 Taught my best poetry. 
 
 When the designs of mighty Providence 
 Are work'd in us, hrtemal music marks 
 The coming of the angel of the grave : 
 Nor fearful, nor yet terrible, he spreads 
 His white wings ; and, though compass'd by night, 
 A thousand omens tell of his approach. 
 
 If the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear 
 His voice ; and when night falls, the shadows round 
 Seem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe. 
 At noon, whem life see* only the clear iky 
 Feels only the bright sun, the fated one 
 Whom Death hath called, upon the distance marks 
 The heavy shade which is so soon to shroud 
 All nature from their eyes. 
 
 Youth, hope, emotions of the heart ye all 
 Are now no more. Far from me vain regrets ; 
 If I can yet obtain some falling tears, 
 If I can yet believe myself beloved, 
 It B because I am about to die. 
 Could I recall my fleeting life, that life, 
 Soon would it turn upon me all its stings. 
 
 And Rome ! Rome, where my ashes will be borae ! 
 Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive, 
 It with a tremb! ing step, I join the shades, 
 The multitude c-f your illustrious dead ! 
 Forgive me for aiy pity of myself. 
 Feelings, and I oble thoughts, such thoughts perchance, 
 As might have yielded fruit expire with me. 
 Of all the powers of mind which nature gave, 
 The power of suffering has been the sole one, 
 Which I have used to its extent. 
 
 It matters not. I do obey. Whate'er 
 .May be the mighty mystery of death, 
 That mystery at least must give repose. 
 Ye do not answer me, ye silent tombs ! 
 Merciful God, thou dost not answer me ! 
 I made my choice on earth, and now my heart 
 Has no asylum. Ye decide for me, 
 And sach a destiny is best. L. E. L. 
 
 Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The 
 hall resounded with deep, sad murmurs of ap- 
 plause. Lord Nelvil 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 1 
 were entertained of saving her. Lucy hast- | 
 ened to her, so afflicted by her husband's i 
 grief, that she threw herself at her sister's j 
 feet, imploring her to admit him ; but Corinne ' 
 refused. " I forgive him," she said, " for 
 having broken my heart. Men know not 
 what they do ; the world persuades them that 
 it is sport to fill a. heart with rapture, 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 se- 
 cret 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 about 
 to enter, spite her prohibition, sometimes mo- 
 tionless with sorrow. Lucy passed from one 
 to the other, like an angel of peace, between 
 despair ami death. One evening Corinne ap-
 
 170 
 
 CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 peared more easy, and the parents went for a 
 short time to their child, whom they had 
 not seen for three days. During their ab- 
 sence the dying woman performed all the du- 
 ties 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 
 sympathy in vain ; my faults sprung but from 
 passions not guilty in themselves, though hu- 
 man pride and weakness led them to excess 
 and error. Think you, my father you who 
 have so much longer experience than I that 
 God will pardon me V " Yes, child, I hope 
 so is not your heart now wholly his V " 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, nor the inspired, but for the sufferer, 
 the dying ; they need his mercy." She then 
 perceived Castel Forte, who wept beside her 
 bed, and hplding out her hand to him, ex- 
 claimed, " 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 ; friends can but follow us to 
 the brink ; there begin thoughts too deep, too 
 troubled, to be confided." She begged they 
 would remove her to a sofa, whence she could 
 gaze upon the sky. 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 point- 
 ed to it with a dying hand one sigh and 
 that hand sunk powerless. ( 
 
 Oswald fell into such distraction that Lucy 
 trembled for his life. He followed the fune- 
 ral train to Rome ; then retired to Tivoli, 
 where he remained long, without seeing even 
 his wife and child. At last, duty and affec- 
 tion restored him to them : they returned to 
 England. Lord Nelvil's domestic life became 
 most exemplary : but did he ever pardon his 
 pa&t conduct ? Could the approving world 
 console him t After the fate he had enjoyed, 
 could he content himself with common life 1 
 I know not : nor will I, on that head, either 
 absolve or condemn him
 
 NOTES. 
 
 (1) Ancona is not much better supplied to this day. 
 
 (2) This observation is made in a letter on Rome, by 
 M. Humboldt, brother to the celebrated traveller, and 
 Prussian minister at Rome ; a gentleman whose writings 
 and conversation alike do honor to his learning and 
 originality. 
 
 (3) Ail eiception must be made in favor of Monti, who 
 reads verse as well as he writes it. There can be fuw 
 greater dramatic treats than to hear him recite the episode 
 of Ugolino of Francesca, or the death of Clorinda. 
 
 (4) Lord Ne) vil must have alluded to the beautiful line* 
 of Propertius, 
 
 "Ut caput in mainis ubi non est ponere signis ; 
 Ponitur hie imos ante corona pedes." 
 
 (5) A Frenchma 
 during the last i 
 
 commanded the castle of St. AngeU 
 arnoned by the Neapo- 
 
 litans to surrender, replied, that he would do BO whe 
 the bronze angel sheathed his sword, 
 
 (6) These facts are found in " A History of the Italian 
 Republics, during the middle Ages," by M. Sismondi, of 
 Geneva; an author of profound sagacity, equally consci- 
 entious and energKic. 
 
 (7) "Eine Welt zwar bistdu, oRoml doch ohne die 
 Libe War? die Welt nicht die Welt, ware denn Rom iwcht 
 nfcht Rom," says Goethe, the poet and philosopher, of all 
 our modern men of letters the most remarkable for imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 (8) It is said that the building of St. Peter's was one 
 of the principal causes of the Reformation ; aa it cost the 
 popes so much, that they multiplied the sale of Indulgences. 
 
 (9) Mineralogists affirm that these lions are not basaltic, 
 because the volcanic stone now so called was never found 
 in Egypt ; but as Pliny and Winckelman (the historian of 
 the arts) both give them that name, I avail myself of its 
 primitive acceptation. , 
 
 (10) Carpite nunc, tauri, de septem collibus herbas, 
 Duin licet, hie magnx jam locus urbis erit. 
 
 TlBULJUS. 
 
 Hoc quodcumque vides, hospes quam maxima Roma est, 
 Ante Phrygem ^Enean collis et herba fuit, tc. 
 
 PROPKRTIUS. 
 
 (11) Augustus expired at Nola, on his way to the waters 
 of Krundisium, which were prescribed him. He left Rome 
 in a dying state. 
 
 (12) Viximus insignes inter utramque facem. 
 
 PtiOPtRTlVB. 
 
 (13) Plin. Hist. Nat, 1. 3. Tiberis, quam libet magno- 
 rum navium ei Italo mari capax, rerum in toto orbe nas- 
 ceRtium mercator placidiseimus, pluribus probe solus quam 
 ceteriin omnibus terris amnes, accolitur, aspiciturque villis. 
 Nullique fluviorum minus licet, include utrinque laterihus : 
 nee tamen ipse pugnat, quanquam creber ac subitis incre- 
 mentis, et nuijqu:im magis aquis quam in ipsaurbe tagnan- 
 tibus. Quin iino vates inlelligitur potius ac monitur, auctu 
 semper religiosus verius quam saevus. 
 
 (14) The dancing of Madame Recamier g2ve me the 
 idea which I endeavored to express. This celebrated 
 beauty, in the midst of afflictions, displayed so touching a 
 resignation, so total a forgetfulness of self, that her moral 
 
 extraordinary as her personal grace. 
 
 (15) Mr. Roscoe, author of the " History of the Medici," 
 has since published that of Leo X., which recounts the 
 proofs of admiring esteem given by the princes and people 
 of Italy to men of letters; impartially adding, that many 
 of the popes have emulated this liberality. 
 
 (16) Cesarotti, Verri, and Bettinelli, three modem au- 
 thors, have instilled inore thought into Italian prose than 
 has been bestowed on it for many years. 
 
 (17) Giovanni Pindemonte has published a series of 
 dramas founded on Italian history ; a most praiseworthy 
 enterprise. The name of Pindemonte is aJso ennobled by 
 Hippolixx, one of Italy's sweetest modern poets. 
 
 (18) Alfieri's posthumous works have been printed. 
 It will ke seen, by the eccentric experiment which he tried 
 on his '.ragedy of Abel, that he himself thought hia style 
 too austere, and that the stage required entertainments of 
 greater fancy and variety. 
 
 (19) I have allowed myself to borrow some passages 
 from a discourse on death, which may be found in ' The 
 Course of Relijrious Morals," by M. Necker. Annher 
 work of his, "The Importance of Religious Opinions, ' had 
 a more brilliant success, and is sometimes confused with 
 this, which appeared when public interest was distracted 
 by political events ; but I dare affirm, that " The Course of 
 Religiois Morals" is my father's most eloquent production. 
 No statesman, I believe, ever before composed volumes far 
 the Christian pulpit ; and this kind of writing, from a man 
 who had so much to do with men, shows a knowledge af 
 the human heart, and the indulgence that knowledge in- 
 spires. It appears that, in two respects, these Essays are 
 completely original. A religious man is usually a recluse. 
 Men cf the world are seldom religious. Where, thec, 
 shall we find united such observation of life, and such 
 elevatoo of soul, that looks beyond it? I should say 
 iV-arles of finding my opinion attributed to partiality, that 
 this book is one of the first among those which console the 
 feelics heart, and interest the reflective mind, on the great 
 questions which are incessantly agitating them both. 
 
 (20'- From a journal called " Europe," I have derived 
 many valuable observations on painting, an inexhaustible 
 subject for theii author, M. Frederic Schlegel, and for Ger- 
 man reasoners in general. 
 
 (21) The historical pictures here described are David's 
 Brutus, Drouet's Mari us, and Gerard's Belisarius. The 
 Dido is by Rehberg, a German painter ; Clorinda, in the 
 gallery of Florence ; Macbeth, from an English collection 
 of pi:tures from Shakspeare ; the Phedra is Guerin's ; the 
 two landscapes of Cincinnati and Ossian are at Rome; 
 their artist, Mr. WalHs. an Englishman. 
 
 (22) I asked a little Tuscan girl which was the prettiest, 
 her sister or herself. " Ah," she replied, " the best face is 
 mine." 
 
 (23) An Italian postilion, beholding his horse expire, 
 prayed for him, crying, "St Anthony, have pity on hU 
 soul !" 
 
 (24) The reader who wishes to know more of the Ro- 
 man Carnival, should read the charming description of 
 Goethe ; a picture faithful as it is animated. 
 
 (25) There is an exquisite account of the lake Albano, 
 iu a collection of poems by Madame Brur.n (formerly 
 Munter), one of the most talented and imaginative women 
 of her country. 
 
 (26) Discourse " On the Duty of Children to the* Pa- 
 rents," by M. Jfecker. See note 19.
 
 172 
 
 NOTES TO CORINNE ; OR, ITALY. 
 
 (27) On Indulgence. The same. 
 
 (28) Mr. Elliot saved the life of an old Neapolitan in 
 the manner attributed to Lord Nelvil. 
 
 (29) This name must not be confused with that of Go- 
 rilla, an Italian improvisatrice. The Grecian Corinnawas 
 famed for lyric poetry. Pindar himself received lessons 
 from her. 
 
 (30) An old tradition supports the imaginative prejudice 
 which persuaded Corinne that the diamond could forewarn 
 its wearer of the giver's treachery. Frequent allusions 
 are made to this legend by Spanish poets, in their peculiar 
 manner. In one of Calderon's tragedies, Ferdinand, Prince 
 of Portugal, prefers death in chaius before the crime of 
 surrendering to a Moorish king the Christian city which 
 his brother, King Edward, oflers for his ransom. The 
 Moor, enraged at this refusal, subjects the noble youth to 
 the basest ignominy. Ferdinand, in reproof, reminds him 
 that mercy and generosity are the truest characteristics of 
 supreme power He cites all that is royal in the universe, 
 the lion, the dolphin, the eagle amid animals; and seeks 
 even among plants and stones for traits of natural goodness, 
 which have been attributed to those who lord it ovtr the 
 rest. Thus, he says, the diamond, which resists the blow 
 of steel, resolves itself to dust, that it may inform its mas- 
 ter if treason threatens him. It is impossible to know 
 whethei <k* mode of considering all nature as connected 
 with the oeetiny and sentiments of man is mathematically 
 correct ; but it is ever pleasing to imagination ; and poetry, 
 especially that of Spain, has owed it many great beauties. 
 Calderon is only known to me by the German truislation 
 of Wilhetai Schlegel ; but this author, one of his own 
 country's finest poets, has the art of transporting into 'his 
 native language, with the rarest perfection, tlie poetic 
 graces of Spanish, English, and Italian giving a lively 
 iiea of the original, be it what it may. * 
 
 each country's tragic acting with 
 
 (31) M. Dubreuil, a very skilful French physician, fell 
 ill of a fatal distemper. His popularity filled the sick room 
 with visitants. Calling to his intimate friend, M. Peraeja, 
 as eminent a men as himself, he said, tr Send away all 
 these people; you know my fever is contagious ; no one 
 but yourself ought to he with me now." Happy the friend 
 who ever heard such words ! Pemeja died fifteen daya 
 after his heart's brother. 
 
 (32) Among the comic Italian authors who have de- 
 scribed their country's manners, must be reckoned the Che- 
 valier Rossi, a Roman, who singularly unitea observation 
 with satire. 
 
 (33) Talmn, having passed some years in London, 
 blended the charms of i 
 
 admirable talent. 
 
 (34) After the death of Dante, the Florentines, ashamed 
 of havirig permitted him to perish far from his home, sent 
 a deputation to the pope for his remains, interred at Raven- 
 na. The pope refused; rightly deeming that the land 
 which had sheltered him in exile must have become his 
 country, and deserved not to be thus robbed of the glory 
 that shone around his tomb. 
 
 (35) Alfieri said, that it was in the church of Sanra 
 Croce he first felt a love for fame. The epitaph he com- 
 posed for himself and the Countess d' Albani is most simply 
 and affectingly expressive of long and perfect friendship. 
 
 (36) It was announced at Bologna that a solar eclipec 
 would lake place one day at two. The people flocked to see 
 it; and, impatient at its delay, called on it to begin, as if M 
 were an actor, who kept them waiting. At last it com- 
 menced ; but as the cloudy weather prevented its producing 
 any great effect, they set up the most violent kissings 
 angry that the spectacle fell so far ihort of their cxpecti- 
 
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