CORINNE;

OR,

ITALY.

—"Udrallo il bel paese,
Ch' Apennin parte, e 'l mar circonda e l'Alpe."
PETRARCA.

BY

MADAME DE STAËL

TRANSLATED BY ISABEL HILL;

WITH

METRICAL VERSIONS OF THE ODES BY L. E. LANDON

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,

(SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN).

1833

[Contents]

[Translator's Preface.]

Whatever defects may exist in my attempt at rendering "Corinne" into English, be it remembered, that we have many words for one meaning—in French there are several significations for the same word. Repetition, an elegance in French, is a barbarism in English. Thus I had to contend with a tautology almost unmanageable, and even a reiteration of the same sentiments. Sentences, harmonious in French, lost all agreeable cadence, until entirely reconstructed. Madame de Staël's diffuse manner obliged me also to transpose pretty freely. I found, in so doing, many self-contradictions, some of which I could not efface. Her boldness of condensation, too, and love of vague, mysterious sublimity, often left me in doubt as to what might be hidden beneath the dazzling veil of her eloquence. It may appear profanation to have altered a syllable; but, having been accustomed to consult the taste of my own country, I could not outrage it by being more literal. I have taken the liberty of making British peasants and children speak their native idiom, and have added a few explanatory notes; occasionally availing myself of quotations from more recent authorities than that of the Baroness. Lest I should unconsciously have committed any great mistake, be it known that the printers of her "eighth corrected and revised edition" gave Corinne a military instead of a literary career, and made the Roman mob throw handfuls of bon mots into the carriages during the carnival.

Miss Landon had kindly undertaken to render the lyric portions of the work; but we feared for awhile, that our own Improvisatrice would be prevented by circumstances from gracing the volume by her name. I, therefore, translated Corinne's compositions into rhyme. Only one of my essays, however, "The Fragment of Corinne's Thoughts," was required. I am conscious of its imperfect regularity; but, having no poetical reputation at stake, I throw myself on the mercy of my judges.

ISABEL HILL.

6, CECIL STREET, STRAND.

[MADAME DE STAËL.]

Madame de Staël—Her Infancy and Education—Her Marriage—Her Personal Appearance—The Revolution—Her First Meeting and Conversation with Bonaparte—Interview with Josephine—Her Portrait and Character—Her Repartees—Exile—Delphine—Auguste de Staël and Napoleon—Private Theatricals—Corinne—Police Interference—Travels in Foreign Countries—Her Illness and Death—Effect of Napoleon's Persecution upon the Literary Position of Madame de Staël.

Jacques Necker, the father of Madame de Staël, a Genevese and a Protestant, was at the birth of his daughter Annie-Louise-Germaine Necker, in 1766, a clerk in a banking-house at Paris. He had married M'lle Curchod, a Swiss like himself, and who had, some years before, been the object of the first and last love of Gibbon the historian. Madame Necker undertook the education of Louise, plied her with books and tasks, and introduced her, even in infancy, to her own circle of brilliant and accomplished men. "At the age of eleven," writes a lady who was at the time her companion, "she spoke with a warmth and facility which were already eloquent. In society she talked but little, but so animated was her face that she appeared to converse with all. Every guest at her mother's house addressed her with some compliment or polite speech; she replied with ease and grace." She was encouraged to write, and her youthful productions were read in public, and some of them were even printed. This process of education, while it rendered the subject of it rather brilliant than profound, and encouraged vanity and a love of display, broke down her health, and the physicians ordered her to retire to the country, and to renounce all mental application. Her mother, disappointed and discouraged, ceased to take the same interest in her talents and progress; this indifference led Louise to attach herself more closely to her father, and developed in her what became through life her ruling passion—filial affection.

In 1776, Necker, who had in the meantime become the partner of his late employer, and had attracted attention by an essay on the corn laws, was considered by the masses as the only person capable of saving the country from bankruptcy. He was, therefore, appointed to control the finances, being the first Protestant who had held office since the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. One of his acts, five years afterward, having excited clamor among the royalists, an anonymous pamphlet appeared, in which his defence was warmly espoused and the propriety of his conduct successfully asserted. Necker detected his daughter's style in this production, and she acknowledged its authorship, being then fifteen years old. Necker resigned office, and retreated with his family to Coppet, on the borders of the Lake of Geneva.

Madame de Genlis saw M'lle Necker for the first time, when the latter was sixteen. She thus speaks of her in her memoirs: "This young lady was not pretty; her manner was very animated, and she talked a great deal, too much indeed, though always with wit and discernment. I remember that I read one of my juvenile plays to Madame Necker, her daughter being present. I cannot describe the enthusiasm and the demonstrations of M'lle Louise, while I was reading. She wept, she uttered exclamations at every page, and constantly kissed my hands. Her mother had done wrong in allowing her to pass three-quarters of her time with the throng of wits who continually surrounded her, and who held dissertations with her upon love and the passions."[1]

At the age of twenty, Louise married Baron de Staël-Holstein, the Swedish ambassador at the court of France. She sought neither a lover nor a friend in her husband; she treated marriage as a convenience, and became a wife in order to obtain that liberty and independence which were denied her as a young lady. She required that her husband should be noble and a Protestant, and as in addition to these essentials Baron de Staël was an agreeable and an honorable man, and engaged never to compel her to follow him to Sweden, she consented to marry him. In the same year, 1786, a failure of the crops, and the consequent distress of the poorer classes, compelled the king to recall Necker to the administration of the finances.

Madame de Staël is thus described, at the age of twenty-five, by a writer who, to justify the peculiar and oriental extravagance of his style, assumed the character of a Greek poet: "Zulmé advances; her large dark eyes sparkle with genius; her hair, black as ebony, falls on her shoulders in wavy ringlets; her features are more striking than delicate, and express superiority to her sex. 'There she is,' all exclaim when she appears, and at once become breathless. When she sings, she extemporizes the words of her song, the ecstasy of improvisation animates her face, and holds the audience in rapt attention. When the song ceases, she talks of the great truths of nature, the immortality of the soul, the love of liberty, of the fascination and danger of the passions. Her features meanwhile wear an expression superior to beauty; her physiognomy is full of play and variety. When she ceases, a murmur of approbation thrills through the room; she looks down modestly; her long lashes sink over her flashing eyes, and the sun is clouded over."

The Revolution now advanced with rapid steps. Necker, whose capabilities as a financier have been generally acknowledged, was totally deficient in the higher qualities of the statesman. He sought to assume a middle position between the court and the people, but failing of success, was in consequence dismissed on the 11th of July, 1789. Paris rose in insurrection when this event became known, and on the 14th, the Bastille was in the hands of the people. The king was forced to send an order to recall Necker, who had left the country; this overtook him at Frankfort. "What a period of happiness," writes Madame de Staël, "was our journey back to Paris! I do not believe that a similar ovation was ever extended to a man not the sovereign of the country. Women, afar off in the fields, threw themselves on their knees, as the carriage passed: the most prominent citizens acted as postilions, and in many towns people detached the horses and dragged the carriage themselves. Oh, nothing can equal the emotions of a woman who hears the name of a beloved parent repeated with eulogy by a whole people!" This triumph was of short duration. In a little more than a year, Necker, who had opposed some of the more radical measures of reform in the National Assembly, lost the confidence of the people, resigned, and again withdrew to Switzerland. He was now accompanied by the revilings and maledictions of the populace, and even narrowly escaped with his life.

Madame de Staël remained at Paris, and speedily became involved in the intrigues of the day. Her salon was the rendezvous of the royalists and Girondins, and the scene of ardent political discussions. In the midst of the sanguinary excesses of '92, she fearlessly used her influence to shelter and save her friends. She took them to her own house, which, being the residence of an ambassador, she presumed would be inviolable. But one night the police appeared at the gate, and required that the doors be opened for a rigid search. Madame de Staël met them at the threshold, spoke to them of the rights of ambassadors and of the vengeance of Sweden, and by dint of wit, argument and intrepidity, persuaded them to abandon their designs. She was soon compelled to flee, however, and take refuge with her father at Coppet. Here she wrote and published an appeal in behalf of Marie Antoinette, and "Reflections on the Peace of 1783." The fall of Robespierre, in July, 1794, enabled her to return to Paris, whither she hastened, upon the news of his execution.

Her residence in the capital formed an event in the annals of society at that period. The most distinguished foreigners and the best men in France flocked around her. She gave her influence to the government of the Directory, being desirous of the establishment of some guaranty for the preservation of order and of individual security.

"Madame de Staël," says de Goncourt, "was a man of genius as early as the year 1795. It was by her hand, that France signed a treaty of alliance with existing institutions, and for a period accepted the Directory. Who obtained her the victory? Herself, with the aid of a friend who was the scribe of her dictation, the aid-de-camp and the notary-public of her thought, Benjamin Constant. The daughter of Necker forbade France to recall its line of kings: she retained the republic: she condemned the throne. She agitated victoriously in behalf of the maintenance of the representative system. The human right of victory was equivalent, with her, to the divine right of birth."[2]

The appearance of Bonaparte upon the stage of action produced a violent change in her life, pursuits and pleasures. She disliked and distrusted him from the first, and her drawing-room became an opposition club, or, as Napoleon himself described it, an arsenal of hostility. He, in turn, was vexed at her intellectual supremacy, and dreaded her influence. They first met at a ball given to Josephine, toward the close of the year 1797. She had long hunted him from place to place, for she was desirous of subjecting him, if possible, to the fascinations of her conversation, and he, avoiding the interview with consummate address, had always escaped her importunities. At the ball in question, he saw retreat to be impossible, and boldly seated himself in a vacant chair by her side. The following conversation, attributed to them, contains, in a concise form, the best of the authenticated sallies and repartees perpetrated by the illustrious interlocutors. After the usual preliminaries, the dialogue proceeded thus:

MADAME DE STAËL. Madame Bonaparte is a charming lady.

BONAPARTE. Any compliment passing through your lips, madame, acquires additional value.

ST. Ah! then you appreciate my opinion and my approbation? But you have doubted my capacity, you have thought me frivolous; nevertheless, my studies in diplomacy, in the history of courts——

BON. I implore Madame de Staël not to drag the Graces to the pillory of politics.

ST. I assure you, General, that your mythological compliment is totally lost upon me: I should prefer that you judge me worthy to talk reason with you.

BON. The right of your sex is to make us lose our reason: do not despise so excellent a privilege.

ST. General, I beg of you not to play with me as with a doll: I desire to be treated as a man.

BON. Then you would like to have me put on petticoats.

ST.—TO A GENTLEMAN INTERRUPTING HER.—Sir, be good enough to understand that I desire no assistance, though certainly my adversary is sufficiently powerful to render assistance necessary.

BON. Madame, it was to my aid that he was coming; my danger appalls him, and he was seeking to relieve me.

ST. In any case, I owe him small thanks for his tardy aid, since you confess that my victory seemed certain. He is a true friend, however; he stands by those he likes, even in their absence, when, usually, friendship slumbers.

BON. In that, friendship imitates its cousin—love.

ST.—NERVING HERSELF FOR AN EFFORT.—By what means, General, can an ordinary woman, without literary reputation, without superior genius, be sustained in the affection of a man she loves when separated from him by distance or a period of years? Memory, reduced to recalling her charms only, becomes gradually dim, and at last forgets, especially when the lover is a great man. But when the latter has had the good fortune to meet with a strong-minded woman, one worthy of sharing his laurels, and herself enjoying a high reputation, then the distance of time and space disappears, for it is the renown of both which serves as messenger between them, and it is through the hundred mouths of fame that each receives intelligence of the other.

BON. Madame, in what chapter of the work you are about to publish shall we read this brilliant passage?

ST. It has been the constant illusion of my soul.

BON. Ah, I understand; it is your hobby, after the manner of Sterne. So you are seeking the philosopher's stone?

ST. One would think, to hear you talk, that it is impossible to find it.

BON. There are two illusions in this world, though both flow from the same error; that of physical and that of moral alchemy. This idealistic philosophy leads to an abyss.

ST. One, nevertheless, which wit and sagacity may illumine with the rays of genius to its inmost recesses. Do you never build castles in the air, General? Do you never go and dwell in them? Do you never dream, to charm away the monotony of life?

BON. I leave dreams to sleep, and retain reason for my waking hours.

ST. Then you can never be either amused or surprised! You have a scouting party stationed to watch that outpost, the imagination?

BON. Wisdom counsels me to do so, and makes it my duty.

ST.—AFTER A MOMENT'S REFLECTION.—General, who, in your opinion, is the greatest of women?

BON. She who bears the most children.[3]

Madame de Staël turned slightly pale at this reply, and said no more. The General rose, bowed, and quitted the room. Both carried away from the interview the elements of mutual dislike and food for a life-long hostility. "Doubtless," says Lacretelle, "this last question was suggested by the vanity of the inquirer." And Bonaparte, eager to deprive the lady of the tribute she expected in his reply, made answer as we have described. "Certainly," adds Lacretelle, "it was impossible to rebuff a courtesy with greater rudeness and less discernment, for Madame de Staël was one of the powers of the day."[4]

One evening, early in the Consulate, Josephine met Madame de Staël at the house of Madame de Montesson. Bonaparte was to come somewhat later. Josephine, knowing his aversion for her, or fearing her seductions if she were successful in obtaining his attention, received her, as she advanced, in a manner so markedly cold, if not rude, that Madame de Staël recoiled without speaking, and retreated to the extremity of the room, where she dropped into a chair.

She remained for some time apart and alone. The pretty women took a malicious pleasure in the mortification of one of their own sex, while the gentlemen indulged in impertinent and unmanly remarks. At this moment, a young girl of extreme beauty and light airy step, with blond hair and blue eyes, and dressed entirely in white, left the group that had collected in the vicinity of Josephine, crossed the salon, and sat down by Madame de Staël. The latter, whose heart was as quick as her wit was ready, said to her, "You are as good as you are beautiful, my child."

"In what, pray, madame?" asked the young lady.

"In what?" returned Madame de Staël. "You ask me why I think you as kind as you are fair? Because you crossed this immense and deserted salon to come and sit by me. Upon my word, you are more courageous than I should have been."

"And yet, madame, I am naturally so timid that I should not dare to tell you my fears and trepidation: you would laugh at me, I am sure."

"Laugh at you!" exclaimed Madame de Staël, with moistened eyes and trembling voice; "laugh at you! never! never! I am your sister, henceforth, my dear, dear young friend! Will you tell me your Christian name?"

"Delphine, madame."

"Delphine! What a pretty name! I am very glad of it, for it will suit my purpose exactly. You must know, love, that I am writing a novel; and I mean it to bear your name. You shall be its god-mother; and you will find something in it which will remind you of to-day and of our acquaintance."

Madame de Staël kept her promise, and the passage in the novel of Delphine, in which the heroine, abandoned, is under similar circumstances relieved and sustained by Madame de R., was written in commemoration of this little domestic scene.[5]

Bonaparte soon entered the room, and ignorant of the treatment Madame de Staël had undergone from Josephine, accosted her graciously, and indeed took evident pains to restrain, during their conversation, his intuitive dislike of the petticoat politician.

Madame de Staël was now at the apogee of her talent and influence. Her conversation was not what is usually understood by the term. She did not require so much an interlocutor as a listener. Her improvisations were long and sustained pleas, if her object was to convince, or discursive though brilliant harangues, if she sought to display her wealth of thought and of words. Those that were accustomed to her ways rarely answered her, even if, in the heat of argument, she addressed them a question; well aware that it was rather to operate a diversion than to elicit a reply. She required the excitement of an audience, and her eloquence became richer and more rapid as the circle of her listeners widened. She preferred contradiction and dissent to a blind acceptance of her opinions, and the surest method of pleasing her was to adduce arguments that she might refute them, and which might suggest in her mind new trains of ideas. Controversy was her peculiar element, and she sometimes resorted to the charlatanical process of advocating two opposite opinions on the same occasion, in order to show the flexibility of her mind and the pliancy of her logic. In the season of foliage, she invariably carried in her hand a twig of poplar, which, when talking, she would turn and twist between her fingers; the crackling of this, she said, stimulated her brain. During the season when the poplar produces no leaves, she substituted for the twig a piece of rolled paper with which she was forced to be content, till the return of verdure. In winter, her flatterers and admirers always had a supply of these papers prepared, and presented her a quantity, on her arrival at a fête or a conversazione, that she might select her sceptre for the evening.[6] The famous twig of poplar is introduced in Gérard's portrait of Madame de Staël.[7]

She was never handsome, and without the extraordinary depth and brilliancy of her eyes, would have been a plain, if not an ugly woman. Her nose and mouth were homely, and only redeemed by her ever-varying expression. Her complexion was rough, her form massive rather than graceful, and indicated indolence rather than vivacity. Her hands were beautiful, and ill-natured people asserted that the poplar twig was a mere pretext for keeping them constantly in view. She dressed at all times without taste, and this defect became more conspicuous as she advanced in years, for at the age of forty-five she wore the colors and ornaments which would befit a young lady of twenty. Her coiffure was usually a turban, though this was not the prevailing fashion. Her partisans denied that there was any exaggeration in her toilet, though they allowed that she sought to be picturesque rather than fashionable.

Biography has preserved examples almost innumerable of the readiness of her wit and the profundity of her observation. The love of truth was one of her prominent characteristics. "I saw," she said "that Bonaparte was declining, when he no longer sought for the truth." She held long arguments on equality, and said on one occasion, "I would not refuse the opinion of the lowest of my domestics, if the slightest of my own impressions tended to justify his." Her respect for justice and moderation was evinced in her reply to the remark of a Bourbon after Napoleon's fall, to the effect that Bonaparte had neither talent nor courage: "It is degrading France and Europe too much, sir, to pretend that for fifteen years they have been subject to a simpleton and a poltroon!" She despised affectation, and said that she could not converse with an affected man or woman on account of the constant interruptions of a tedious third person—their unnatural and affected character. Of individuals accustomed to exaggerate, she said: "To put 100 for 10, why, there's no imagination in that." Her faith was sincere and unostentatious, and she would remark, after listening to lofty metaphysical discourses, "Well, I like the Lord's Prayer better than that." One of her best replies was made to Canning, in the Tuileries, after the exile of Napoleon: "Well, Madame de Staël, we have conquered you French, you see!" "If you have, sir, it was because you had the Russians and the whole continent on your side. Give us a tête-à-tête, and you will see!"

Madame de Staël's conduct as a wife was not irreproachable. Talleyrand was one of the first, though by no means the last, of her lovers. It was after his rupture with Madame de Staël that he entered upon his liaison with Madame Grandt, and it was this circumstance that led Madame de Staël to ask him the most unfortunate question of her life, for it gave him the opportunity of making the most comprehensive reply of his: "If Madame Grandt and I were to fall into the water, Talleyrand," she inquired, "which of us would you save first?" "Oh, madame," returned the minister, "YOU SWIM SO WELL!" She was revenged on him by drawing—though not very delicately—his character as a diplomatist: "He is so double-faced," she said, "that if you kick him behind, he will smile in front."

Bonaparte, early in the Consulate, sought through his brother Joseph, to attach Madame de Staël to his government; he might have done so, had he cared to conciliate her by expressing, or even feigning, deference to her talents and opinions. But he did not pursue the negotiation, and she continued her political discussions at her house, devoting her days to intrigues, and her evenings to epigrams; until Bonaparte, whose patience was exhausted, and who did not consider his power as yet fully established, directed his minister of police to banish her from Paris. She was ordered not to return within forty leagues of the city. He is said to have remarked, "I leave the whole world open to Madame de Staël, except Paris; that I reserve to myself." It was urged, too, that she had small claims to consideration; she was, though born in France, hardly a Frenchwoman, being the daughter of a Swiss and the wife of a Swede.

During a period of years, Madame de Staël remained under the ban of Bonaparte's displeasure, though, during a short interval, the intercessions of her father obtained permission for her to inhabit the capital. In 1803, she published her "Delphine," a work so immoral in its tendency that it incurred the censure of the critics and the public, and compelled the authoress to put forth a species of apology, which in its turn was considered lame and inconclusive. The character of Madame de Vernon, in "Delphine," was said to have been intended for Talleyrand, clothed in female garb.

Unable to endure the deprivation of her Parisian friends, Madame de Staël soon established herself at the distance of thirty miles from Paris. Bonaparte was told that her residence was crowded with visitors from the capital. "She affects," he said, "to speak neither of public affairs nor of me; yet it invariably happens that every one comes out of her house less attached to me than when he went in." An order for her departure was soon served upon her, and she set forth upon a pilgrimage through Germany.

In the last week of December, 1807, Napoleon, returning from Italy, stopped at the post-house of Chambéry, in Sardinia, for a fresh relay of horses. He was told that a young man of seventeen years, named Auguste de Staël, desired to speak with him. "What have I to do with these refugees of Geneva?" said Napoleon, tartly. He ordered him to be admitted, however. "Where is your mother?" said Napoleon, opening the conversation. "She is at Vienna, sire." "Ah, she must be satisfied now; she will have fine opportunities for learning German." "Sire, your majesty cannot suppose that my mother can be satisfied anywhere, separated from her friends and driven from her country. If your majesty would condescend to glance at these private letters, written by my mother, you would see, sire, what unhappiness her exile causes her." "Oh, pooh! that's the way with your mother. I do not say she is a bad woman; but her mind is insubordinate and rebellious. She was brought up in the chaos of a falling monarchy, and of a revolution running riot, and it has turned her head. If I were to allow her to return, six months would not pass before I should be obliged to shut her up in Bedlam, or put her under lock and key at the Temple. I should be sorry to do it, for it would make scandal, and injure me in public opinion. Tell your mother my mind is made up. As long as I live, she shall not again set foot in Paris."

"Sire, I am so sure that my mother would conduct herself with propriety that I pray you to grant her a trial, if it be only for six weeks." "It cannot be. She would make herself the standard-bearer of the faubourg St. Germain. She would receive visits, would return them, would make witticisms, and do a thousand follies. No, young man, no." "Will your majesty allow a son to inquire the cause of this hostility to his mother? I have been told it was the last work of my grandfather; I can assure your majesty that my mother had no hand in it." "Certainly, that book had its effect. Your grandfather was an idealist, an old maniac; at sixty years of age, to attempt to overturn my constitution and to replace it by one of his! An economist, indeed! A man who dreams financial schemes and could hardly perform the duties of a village tax-gatherer decently! Robespierre and Danton have done less harm to France than M. Necker. Your grandfather is the cause of the saturnalia which have desolated France. Upon his head be all the blood of the Revolution!" "Sire, I trust that posterity will speak more favorably of him. During his administration, he was compared with Sully and Colbert, and I trust to the justice of posterity." "Posterity will perhaps not speak of him at all," returned Napoleon.

"You are young, M. de Staël," he added, changing his tone, and taking the petitioner familiarly by the ear. "Your frankness pleases me: I like to see a son plead the cause of his mother. She confided to you a difficult mission, and you have discharged it with intelligence. I cannot give you false hopes, so I do not conceal from you that you will obtain nothing whatever. I'll have none of your mother in the city where I dwell. Women should knit stockings, and not talk politics." As Napoleon rode away from Chambéry, he said to Duroc, "Was I not rather hard with that young man? After all, I am glad of it. The thing is settled once for all. France is no place for the family of Necker."[8]

During the absence of Madame de Staël in Germany, her father died, and she hastened to return to Coppet. She collected and published his writings, and appended to them a biographical memoir. She cherished his memory with a passion bordering on monomania, which led her, whenever she saw an old man in affliction, to seek to alleviate his sorrows. She often said, upon hearing good news, "I owe this to the intercessions of my father."

She found it difficult satisfactorily to occupy her leisure. She used to say that she would prefer living on two thousand francs a year in the Rue Jean Pain Mollet at Paris, to spending one hundred thousand at Geneva. But she made no effort to obtain a recall, at least by imposing restraint upon her tongue. Knowing that she was surrounded by spies, and that her bitter allusions to Napoleon were reported at the Tuileries, she continued to exhaust her wit upon the acts of his government, and upon the tyranny of him whom she called "Robespierre on horseback."

Amateur theatricals, upon a diminutive stage built for the purpose, afforded some amusement to the exile of Coppet. The audiences were principally French residents at Geneva, whose ambition to be able to boast of their admission into Madame de Staël's intimacy, induced them to travel the wearisome road which separated the two places. While waiting for the lamps to be lighted, they ate bread and chocolate in the dark—this being the traditional lunch that a Frenchman carries in his pocket. On one occasion, the performance was Racine's tragedy of Andromaque. Madame de Staël played Hermione effectively, it would seem, but with a redundancy of gesture that somewhat marred the illusion. Madame Récamier acted Andromaque, the interesting widow; but the critics were so absorbed in the contemplation of her wondrous beauty that they have left little record of her histrionic ability. The characters of Oreste, Pylade and Pyrrhus were performed by M. de Labéboyère, Benjamin Constant and Sismondi, the historian. The two latter were very amusing, it appears, though the play being a tragedy, mirth could hardly have been the effect they desired to produce. Benjamin Constant, whose gestures were very broad and sweeping, once carried away a Grecian temple with the palm of his hand; Sismondi gave infinite zest to the representation by the purity of his Genevese accent. The prompter was M. Schlegel, the poet, critic and historian. His strong German pronunciation rendered him at best an inefficient assistant, for the actor, whose memory was treacherous, often failed to recognize the missing line, in the husky and guttural suggestions of the author of "Lucinde."

The health of Madame de Staël was now declining, and in order to recruit it she undertook a journey through Italy. On her return, she published "Corinne," a poetic description of the peninsula, in the form of a novel. Though deficient in construction and dramatic power, it possesses the highest merit as a work delineating character and descriptive of scenery, and inculcates a pure morality. Incident and plot form its least attractive features; its eloquent rhapsodies upon love, religion, virtue, nature, history and poetry, have given it an enduring place in literature. She now took up her abode at the required distance from Paris, at Chaumont-sur-Loire, where she inhabited the chateau already famous as the residence of Diane de Poitiers, Catherine de Medicis, and Nostradamus the soothsayer, and at this time in the possession of one of her most attached friends. She here wrote and prepared for the press a work on the habits, character and literature of the Germans. The manuscript was laid before the censors at Paris, who expunged certain passages, and then authorized its publication. This was in 1810.

Ten thousand copies had been already printed, when the whole edition was seized at the publishers', by gendarmes sent by Savary, the minister of police. Madame de Staël was ordered to quit France in eight days. She withdrew again to Coppet, from whence she opened a correspondence with Savary upon this arbitrary, and indeed illegal, proceeding. She had been given to understand that the motive for the suppression was her omission to mention the name of Napoleon in connection with Germany, where his armies had lately made him conspicuous. She wrote to Savary that she did not see how she could have introduced the Emperor and his "soldiery" into a purely literary work. To this Savary replied that she was misinformed upon the motive which had actuated him, and that her exile was the natural consequence of her conduct for years past. "We are not so reduced in France," he added, "as to seek for models among the nations which you admire. Your book is not French, and the air of France does not suit you." This impertinent letter was prefixed to the first edition of "Germany" published in London, in 1813.

During her residence at Coppet, Madame de Staël, now a widow and forty-two years of age, became acquainted with M. de Rocca, a French officer. She felt an interest in him even before she saw him, for he was said to be young, noble and brave; what was a still more attractive feature, he was wounded and an invalid. They first met in a public ball-room. She was dressed, it appears, in a gaudy and unbecoming style, and was followed from point to point by a train of admirers and flatterers. "Is that the famous woman?" said de Rocca. "She is very plain, and I abhor such continual aiming at effect." She spoke to him, expressed sympathy for his condition, and speedily effected a complete revolution in his opinions. From a caviller he became an admirer, and from an admirer a suitor. They were privately married, and the secret was carefully kept until the reading of her will, after her death, for she felt that the match was an ill-assorted one, and could hardly fail to excite ridicule. Besides, she was unwilling to change her name, "as it belonged to Europe," to quote her own words to De Rocca.

The tyranny to which she was subjected at the period of this marriage, by Napoleon, became annoying and perplexing. She was not only exiled from France, but warned not to go further than six miles from Coppet. Mathieu de Montmorency was exiled for visiting her, as was also Madame Récamier, as has already been narrated. M. Schlegel, who aided her in the education of her three children, was compelled to leave her. She was seized with the gloomiest apprehensions, and resolved to escape from the sphere of Napoleon's power. The prefect of Geneva was instructed, from Paris, to suggest to Madame de Staël a means of recovering the sovereign's good graces—the publication of some loyal stanzas upon the birth of Napoleon's heir. "Tell those that sent you," she replied, "that I have no wishes in connection with the King of Rome, except the desire that his mother get him a healthy wet-nurse."

She now passed her time in studying the map of Europe, in choosing an asylum, and in devising a route by which to get to it. She at last departed for England, which she approached through Russia and Sweden. Once beyond French influence, she was treated with the highest consideration and the warmest cordiality. Among the distinguished men admitted to her intimacy, Lord Byron held the first place, and she often gave him advice both upon his conduct and his verse. It was now that she published her "Germany," She had the deep satisfaction of seeing her reputation as a critic and delineator of national manners elevated by it to the highest point.

She welcomed with delight the overthrow and abdication of Napoleon, and at once returned to Paris, where she attached herself to the party advocating a representative government under Louis XVIII. The restored sovereign caused the royal treasury to pay to her family the two million francs due M. Necker at his retirement from office—a measure of justice to which Napoleon would never consent. During the Hundred Days she retired to Switzerland, totally weaned from all interest in public life. Her health began to fail, and she still further weakened it by the use of opium. She devoted herself closely to the composition of her last work, the "French Revolution," which now ranks as one of the most philosophical, though perhaps not the most impartial, histories of that period. Her sleepless nights she spent in prayer; she became gentle, patient and devout. "I think I know," she said, in her last moments, "what the passage from life to death is. I am convinced the goodness of God makes it easy; our thoughts become indistinct, and the pain is not great." She died with perfect composure, in 1817, in the fifty-first year of her age. Her husband, who was devotedly attached to her, survived her but a few months.

Madame de Staël was the most distinguished authoress of her time. As a woman, she was always independent and sincere, and her faults—vanity and an uncontrollable thirst for applause—may easily be pardoned in view of her many talents. Napoleon could have won her to his government at any moment, had he chosen to do so. It is perhaps fortunate for literature that she was compelled to live in isolation, as neither "Corinne" nor "Germany" would have been written had she been able to reside in Paris, instead of travelling to occupy her exile. It is a singular and not unfair commentary upon Napoleon's reign, that its most remarkable literary celebrity—in point of mere chronology—owed her supremacy to his persecution; and it is a permissible inference, that had his government preferred to foster and cherish her genius, Madame de Staël would have been known to posterity as little more than a precocious child, a brilliant conversationalist, an unsexed woman, and a factious politician.

[1] Mém. de Madame de Genlis, 92.

[2] Soc. Franç. sous le Directoire, 298.

[3] Napoléon et ses Contemporains, i. 229.

[4] Lac. Rév. Française, ii. 140.

[5] Vide "Delphine," vol. ii. 386.

[6] Ducrest, Mém. de Joséphine, 23.

[7] It is from a copy of this portrait, by Gérard, in the Historical Gallery of Versailles, that the most accurate likenesses of Madame de Staël are taken.

[8] Bour. viii. 101.

[CORINNE]

[BOOK I.]

OSWALD.

[CHAPTER I.]

In the year 1794, Oswald, Lord Nevil, a Scotch nobleman, left Edinburgh to pass the winter in Italy.[1] He possessed a noble 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. The heaviest of all afflictions, the loss of a father, was the cause of his malady. The remorse inspired by scrupulous delicacy still more embittered his regret, and haunted his imagination. Such sufferings we readily convince ourselves that we deserve, for violent griefs extend their influence even over the realms of conscience. At five-and-twenty he was tired of life; he judged the future by the past, and no longer relished the illusions of the heart. No one could be more devoted to the service of his friends; yet not even the good he effected gave him one sensation of pleasure. He constantly sacrificed his tastes to those of others; but this generosity alone, far from proving a total forgetfulness of self, may often be attributed to a degree of melancholy, which renders a man careless of his own doom. The indifferent considered this mood extremely graceful; but those who loved him felt that he employed himself for the happiness of others, like a man who hoped for none; and they almost repined at receiving felicity from one on whom they could never bestow it. His natural disposition was versatile, 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 exacting nothing from fate. He trusted to find, in a firm adherence to his duties, and a renouncement of all enjoyments, a security against the sorrows which had distracted him. Nothing in the world seemed worth the risk of these pangs; but while we are still capable of feeling them, to what kind of life can we fly for shelter?

Lord Nevil flattered himself that he should quit Scotland without regret, as he had remained there without pleasure; but the dangerous dreams of imaginative minds are not thus fulfilled; he was sensible of the ties which bound him to the scene of his miseries, the home of his father. There were rooms he could not approach without a shudder, and yet, when he had resolved to fly them, he felt more alone than ever. A barren dearth seized on his heart; he could no longer weep; no more recall those little local associations which had so deeply melted him; his recollections had less of life; they belonged not to the things that surrounded him. He did not think the less of those he mourned, but it became more difficult to conjure back their presence. Sometimes, too, he reproached himself for abandoning the place where his father had dwelt. "Who knows," would he sigh, "if the shades of the dead follow the objects of their affection? They may not be permitted to wander beyond the spots where their ashes repose! Perhaps, at this moment, is my father deploring my absence, powerless to recall me. Alas! may not a host of wild events have persuaded him that I have betrayed his tenderness, turned rebel to my country, to his will, and all that is sacred on earth?"

These remembrances occasioned him such insupportable despair, that, far from daring to confide them to any one, he dreaded to sound their depths himself; so easy is it, out of our own reflections, to create irreparable evils!

It costs added pain to leave one's country, when one must cross the sea. There is such solemnity in a pilgrimage, the first steps of which are on the ocean. It seems as if a gulf were opening behind you, and your return becoming impossible; besides, the sight of the main always profoundly impresses us, as the image of that infinitude which perpetually attracts the soul, and in which thought ever feels herself lost. Oswald, leaning near the helm, his eyes fixed on the waves, appeared perfectly calm. Pride and diffidence generally prevented 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 buffet the tides, and measure his strength with theirs.

"Why," he bitterly mused, "why thus constantly yield to meditation? There is such rapture in active life! in those violent exercises that make us feel the energy of existence! then death itself may appear glorious; at least it is sudden, and not preceded by decay; but that death which finds us without being bravely sought—that gloomy death which steals from you, in a night, all you held dear, which mocks your regrets, repulses your embrace, and pitilessly opposes to your desire the eternal laws of time and nature—that death inspires a kind of contempt for human destiny, for the powerlessness of grief, and all the vain efforts that wreck themselves against necessity."

Such were the torturing sentiments which characterized the wretchedness of his state. The vivacity of youth was united with the thoughts of another age; such as might well have occupied the mind of his father in his last hours; but Oswald tinted the melancholy contemplations of age with the ardor of five-and-twenty. He was weary of everything; yet, nevertheless, lamented his lost content, as if its visions still lingered.

This inconsistency, entirely at variance with the will of nature (which has placed the conclusion and the gradation of things in their rightful course), disordered the depths of his soul; but his manners were ever sweet and harmonious; nay, his grief, far from injuring his temper, taught him a still greater degree of consideration and gentleness for others.

Twice or thrice in the voyage from Harwich to Emden the sea threatened stormily. Nevil directed the sailors, reassured the passengers; and while, toiling himself, he for a moment took the pilot's place, there was a vigour and address in what he did, which could not be regarded as the simple effect of personal strength and activity, for mind pervaded it all.

When they were about to part, all on board crowded round him to take leave, thanking him for a thousand good offices, which he had forgotten: sometimes it was a child that he had nursed so long; more frequently, some old man whose steps he had supported while the wind rocked the vessel. Such an absence of personal feeling was scarcely ever known. His voyage had passed without his having devoted a moment to himself; he gave up his time to others, in melancholy benevolence. And now the whole crew cried, with one voice, "God bless you, my Lord! we wish you better."

Yet Oswald had not once complained; and the persons of a higher class, who had crossed with him, said not a word on this subject; but the common people, in whom their superiors 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 with either censure or advice.

[1] Neither of these names is Scotch. We are not informed whether the hero's Christian name is Oswald, or Nevil his family one, as well as his title. He signs the former to his letters, and constantly calls himself an Englishman.—TRANSLATOR.

[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 traverse unknown lands, to hear a language which you hardly comprehend, to look on faces unconnected with either your past or future, this is solitude without repose or dignity; for the hurry to arrive where no one awaits you, that agitation whose sole cause is curiosity, lessens you in your own esteem, while, ere new objects can become old, they have bound you by some sweet links of sentiment and habit.

Oswald felt his despondency redoubled in crossing Germany to reach Italy, obliged by war to avoid France and its frontiers, as well as the troops, who rendered the roads impassable. This necessity for attending to detail, and taking, almost every instant, a new resolution, was utterly insufferable. 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? but I want power to serve it usefully. I must not offer it the feeble existence which I drag towards the sun, to beg of him some principle of life, that may struggle against my woes. None but a father could receive me thus, and love me the more, the more 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 were better, after any great loss, to familiarize ourselves afresh with all that had surrounded us, accustom ourselves to the old familiar faces, to the house in which we had lived, and the daily duties which we ought to resume; each of these efforts jars fearfully on the heart; but nothing multiplies them like an absence.

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 chapping their hands in admiration of his dexterity grace, and courage. He loved the sense of danger. It reconciled him for the instant with that life which he thus seemed to regain, and which it would have been 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'Erfeuil, a French emigrant, who had sustained the total loss of an immense fortune with perfect 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 displayed the most brilliant valor—that of France—during the war, and an unchangeable gayety in the midst of reverses. He was anxious to visit Rome, that he might find a relative, whose heir he expected to become; and wished for a companion, or rather a friend, with whom to make the journey agreeably.

Lord Nevil's saddest recollections were attached to France; yet he was exempt from the prejudices which divided the two nations. One Frenchman had been his intimate friend, in whom he had found a union of the most estimable qualities. He therefore offered, 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 rendering this service to another, though it cost him much to resign his seclusion; and his reserve suffered greatly at the prospect of finding himself thus thrown on the society of a man he did not know.

He shortly received a visit of thanks from the Count, who possessed 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 Nevil, "you are universally beloved and respected here."—"I have friends, indeed, whom I shall sincerely regret; for in this country one meets none but the best of people; only I don't 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 towards your kinsman, Count," said Nevil, "has impressed me with the deepest regard for you."—"I did no more than my duty. Poor man! he had lavished his favors on my childhood. I could never have left him, had he lived to be a hundred; but 'tis well for him that he's gone; 'twere well for me to be with him," he added, laughing, "for I've little to hope in this world. I did my best, during the war, to get killed; but since fate would spare me, I must live on as I may."—"I shall congratulate myself on coming hither," answered Nevil, "should you do well in Rome; and if——"—"Oh, Heaven!" interrupted d'Erfeuil, "I do well enough everywhere; while we are young and cheerful, all things find their level. 'Tis neither from books nor from meditation that I have acquired my philosophy, but from being used to the world and its mishaps; nay, you see, my Lord, I have some reason for trusting to chance, since I owe to it the opportunity of travelling with you." The Count then agreed on the hour for setting forth next day, and, with a graceful bow, departed. After the mere interchange of civilities with which their journey commenced, Oswald remained silent for some hours; but perceiving that this fatigued his fellow-traveller, he asked him if he anticipated much pleasure in their Italian tour. "Oh," replied the Count, "I know what to expect, and don't look forward to the least amusement. A friend 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 capital of the world I shall be sure to find some of my countrymen to chat with; and that is all I require."—"Then you have not been tempted to learn Italian?"—"No, that was never included in the plan of my studies," he answered, with so serious an air, that one might have thought him expressing a resolution founded on the gravest motives. "The fact is," he continued, "that I like no people but the English and the French. Men must be proud, like you, or wits, like ourselves; all the rest is mere imitation." Oswald said nothing. A few moments afterwards the Count renewed the conversation by sallies of vivacity and humor, in which he played on words most ingeniously; but neither what he saw or what he felt was his theme. His discourse sprang not from within, nor from without; but, steering clear alike of reflection and imagination, found its subjects in the superficial traits of society. He named twenty persons in France and England, inquiring if Lord Nevil knew them; and relating as many pointed anecdotes, as if, in his opinion, the only language for a man of taste was the gossip of good company. Nevil pondered for some time on this singular combination of courage and frivolity, this contempt of misfortune, which would have been so heroic if it had cost more effort, instead of springing from the same source which rendered him incapable of deep affections. "An Englishman," thought he, "would have been overwhelmed by similar circumstances. Whence does this Frenchman derive 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? Does his trifling course accord better than mine with the fleetness of life? Must one fly from thought as from a foe, instead of yielding all the soul to its power?" In vain he thought to clear these doubts; he could call no aid from his own intellectual region, whose best qualities were even more ungovernable than its defects.

The Count gave none of his attention to Italy, and rendered it almost impossible for Oswald to be entertained by it. D'Erfeuil turned from his friend's admiration of a fine country, and sense of its picturesque charm; our invalid listened as oft as he could to the sound of the winds, or the murmur of the waves; the voice of nature did more for his mind than sketches of coteries held at the foot of the Alps, among ruins, or on the banks of the sea. His own grief would have been less an obstacle to the pleasure he might have tasted than was the mirth of d'Erfeuil. The regrets of a feeling heart may harmonize with a contemplation of nature and an enjoyment of the fine arts; but frivolity, under whatever form it appears, deprives attention of its power, thought of its originality, and sentiment of its depth. One strange effect of the Count's levity, was its inspiring Nevil with diffidence in all their affairs together.

The most reasoning characters are often the easiest abashed. The giddy embarrass and overawe the contemplative; and the being who calls himself 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 participate in pain. He wearied of Oswald's melancholy; and, as well from the goodness of his heart as from taste, he strove to dissipate it. "What would you have?" he often said. "Are you not young, rich, and well, if you choose? you are but fancy-sick. I have lost all, and know not 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 Nevil; "but the reverses you have known wound less than do the sorrows of the heart."—"The sorrows of the heart! ay, true, they must be the worst of all; but still you must console yourself; for a sensible man ought to banish from his mind whatever can be of no service to himself or others. Are we not placed here below to be useful first, and consequently happy? My dear Nevil, let us hold by that faith."

All this was rational enough, in the usual sense of the word; for d'Erfeuil was, in most respects, a clear-headed man. The impassioned are far more liable to weakness, than the fickle; but, instead of his mode of thinking securing the confidence of Nevil, he would fain have assured the Count that he was the happiest of human beings, to escape the infliction of his attempts at comfort. Nevertheless, d'Erfeuil became strongly attached to Lord Nevil. His resignation and simplicity, his modesty and pride, created respect 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 relations, in order to try their effect upon his friend; and, astonished at failing to vanquish his apparent coldness, he asked himself, "Am I not good-natured, frank, brave, and popular in society? What do I want, then, to make an impression on this man? May there not be some misunderstanding between us, arising, perhaps, from his not sufficiently understanding French?"

[CHAPTER IV.]

An unforeseen circumstance much increased the sensations of deference which d'Erfeuil felt towards his travelling companion. Lord Nevil's state of health obliged him to stop some days at Ancona. Mount and main conspired 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. Civilization 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 sophisticated by sordid or fashionable life; whatever is natural admits of variety. There is a slight gratification, at least for the eyes, in that diversity of dress, which seems to promise us experience in equally novel ways of feeling and of judgement. 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 ornaments of indifferent taste; but, pausing beneath 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 moment furrow the ocean, its waves as instantly efface this slight mark of servitude, and it again appears such as it was on the first day of its creation.[1]

Lord Nevil had decided to start for Rome on the morrow, when he heard, during the night, a terrific cry from the streets, and hastening from his hotel to learn the cause, beheld a conflagration which, beginning at the port, spread from house to house towards the top of the town. The flames were reflected afar off in the sea; the wind, increasing 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 repair,[2] 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 prison. The various people of the Levant, whom commerce had drawn to Ancona, betrayed their dread by the stupor of their looks. The merchants, at sight of their blazing stores, lost all presence of mind. Trembling for fortune as much as for life, the generality of men were scared from that zealous enthusiasm which suggests resources in emergency.

The shouts of sailors have ever something dreary in their sound; fear now rendered them still more appalling. The mariners of the Adriatic were clad in peculiar red and brown hoods, from which peeped their animated Italian faces, under every expression of dismay. The natives, lying on the earth, covered their heads with their cloaks, as if nothing remained for them to do but to 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.

Oswald remembered that there were two English vessels in the harbor; the pumps of both were in 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 pumps in front of the house nearest to the port, the other before that which blazed in the centre of the street. Count d'Erfeuil exposed his life with gay and careless daring. The English sailors and Lord Nevil's servants came to his aid, for the populace remained motionless, scarcely understanding what these strangers meant to do, and without the slightest faith in their success. The bells rung 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 astonishment; 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 saving the town. Every one ranked himself beneath Oswald's command; for, in trivial as in great events, where danger is, firmness will find its rightful station; and while men strongly fear, they cease to feel jealousy. Amid the general tumult, Nevil now distinguished shrieks more horrible than aught he had previously 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 accustomed 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 superstitious fancies were forcibly struck by a great disaster. Oswald with difficulty contained his indignation at hearing a prayer so revolting. He sent four English sailors, with hatchets, to cut down the gate which confined these helpless men, who instantly spread themselves about the town, rushing to their merchandise, through the flames, with that greediness 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 carried their pumps towards the port. Oswald himself, stunned by the calls for aid around him, had almost disregarded it. The conflagration 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 assistants, or Count d'Erfeuil; as vainly did he call on the inhabitants; they were employed 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 blessing to themselves and families," was the general opinion; but while they expressed it, Oswald strode rapidly towards the building, and even those who blamed involuntarily followed 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 indefinite 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 on 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 justify their freedom within doors; only one was chained. Fortunately the floor was not consumed, and Oswald's appearance in the midst of these degraded beings had all the effect of enchantment; at first, they obeyed him without resistance. He bade them descend before him, one after the other, by the ladder, which might in a few seconds be destroyed. The first of them complied in silence, so entirely had Oswald's looks and tones subdued him. Another, heedless of the danger in which the least delay must involve Oswald and himself, was inclined to rebel; the people, alive to all the horrors of the situation, called on Lord Nevil 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 already safe. The only one remaining was the youth who had been fettered to the wall. Oswald loosened his irons, and bade him take the same course as his companions; but, on feeling himself at liberty, after two years of bondage, he sprung about the room with frantic 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 extending 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 patron 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 Nevil!" he began, "could you share nothing with your friend? 'twas cruel to keep all the glory to yourself."—"Help me from this place!" returned Oswald, in a low voice. A moment's darkness favoured their flight, and both hastened in search of post-horses. Sweet as was the first sense of the good he had just effected, with whom could he partake it, now that his best friend was no more? So wretched is the orphan that felicity and care alike remind him of his heart's solitude. What substitute has life for the affection born with us? for that mental intercourse, 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.

[1] Lord Byron translated this paragraph in the fourth canto of Childe Harold, but without acknowledging whence the ideas were borrowed:—

"Roll on, thou deep and dark 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, thou rollest now."
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now."
See stanzas 179 and 182.—TR.

[2] Ancona is not much better supplied to this day.

[CHAPTER V.]

Oswald sped to Rome, over the marches of Ancona, and the Papal State, without remarking or interesting himself in anything. Besides its melancholy, his disposition had a natural indolence, from which it could only be roused by some strong passion. His taste was not yet developed; he had lived but in England and France;[1] in the latter, society is everything; in the former, 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 away with his time, and 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 of the people or their country—a mystery that must be solved rather by imagination 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. Oswald, accustomed from his childhood to a love of order and public prosperity, received, at first, an unfavorable impression in crossing such abandoned plains as approaches to the former queen of cities. Looking on it with the eye of an enlightened patriot, 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 indescribable charm. The Count uttered the most comic lamentations over the environs of Rome. "What!" 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 had pointed out the sea, and the Neapolitans showed their Vesuvius, now transported the postilions, 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 comparison, rather national than just, destroyed the sensation which Oswald might have received, in first beholding that magnificent 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 resembles those of other European towns.

The streets were crowded; puppet-shows and mountebanks formed groups round the base of Antoninus's 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 accustomed to live among themselves, and find it difficult to blend with the manners of other lands. In Rome, that vast caravansary, all is foreign, even the Romans, who seem to live there, not like its possessors, but like pilgrims who repose among its ruins.[2] 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.

[1] This alludes to a previous tour; in his present one, Oswald has not approached France. His longest stay was in Germany.—TR.

[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.

[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 was about that morning to be crowned at the capitol—Corinne, 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 curiosity.

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 forget prejudice itself among people so lively in the expression of their sentiments.

The common populace of Rome discuss their statues, pictures, monuments, and antiquities, with much taste; and literary merit, carried to a certain height, becomes with them a national interest.

On going forth into the public resorts, Oswald found that the streets, through which Corinne was to pass, had been adorned for her reception. The herd, 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 hardy life, strong interest, and an independent station were not the food required to nourish thought.

Oswald walked the streets of Rome, awaiting the arrival of Corinne; he heard her named every instant; every one related, some new trait, proving that she united all the talents most captivating to the fancy. One asserted that her voice was the most touching in Italy; another, that, in tragic acting, she had no peer; a third, that she danced like a nymph, and drew with equal grace and invention—all said that no one had ever written or extemporized 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 earnestly 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 tell 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 Nevil as among the wonders of the land he came to see. He would have judged such a woman very severely in England; but he applied not her social etiquettes 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 music! 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 humblest class; but the natives of the South converse 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, besides which walked a maiden band in snowy vestments. Wherever Corinne 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; Nevil 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 virgin white, and her whole costume was picturesque, without sufficiently varying from modern usage to appear tainted by affectation. Her attitude was noble and modest; it might, indeed, be perceived that she was content to be admired; yet a timid air blended with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon for her triumph. The expression of her features, her eyes, her smile, created a solicitude in her favor, and made Lord Nevil her friend even before any more ardent sentiment subdued him. Her arms were transcendently beautiful; her figure tall, and, as we frequently see among the Grecian statues, rather robust—energetically characteristic of youth and happiness. There was something inspired in her air; yet the very manner in which she bowed her thanks for the applause she received, betrayed a natural disposition sweetly contrasting the pomp of her 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 elicited not more wondering conjecture, than it conciliated sympathy and affection. The nearer she approached the Capitol, so fruitful in classic associations, the more these admiring tributes increased; the raptures of the Romans, the clearness of their sky, and, above all, Corinne herself, took 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 tender 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 and character. Every one approved her choice. She ascended to the capitol, whose imposing majesty seemed graciously to welcome the light footsteps of woman. The instruments sounded with fresh vigor, the cannon shook the air, and the all-conquering Sibyl entered the palace prepared for her reception.

In the centre of the hall stood the senator who was to crown Corinne, surrounded by his brothers in office; on one side, all the cardinals and most distinguished ladies of Rome; on the other, the members of the Academy; while the opposite extremity was filled by some portion of the multitude who had followed Corinne. The chair destined for her was placed a step lower than that of the senator. Ere seating herself in presence of that august assembly, she complied with the custom of bending one knee to the earth; the gentle dignity of this action filled Oswald's eyes with tears, to his own 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 sensitiveness 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 highest; but in styles that described her no more than they would have done any other woman of genius. The same mythological images and allusions must have been addressed to such beings from the days of Sappho to our own. Already Nevil disliked this kind of incense for her; he fancied that he could that moment have drawn a truer, a more finished portrait; such, indeed, as could have belonged to no one but Corinne.

[CHAPTER II.]

Prince Castel Forte now took up the discourse, in a manner which riveted the attention of his audience. He was a man of fifty, with a measured address and commanding carriage. The assurance which Nevil 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 descriptions of the South, with that observant knowledge of the human heart which appears the inheritance of those whose country offers fewer objects of external beauty. He lauded her graceful gayety, that, free from ironical satire, seemed to spring but from the freshness of her fancy. He strove to speak of her tenderness; but it was easily to be seen that personal regret mingled with this theme. He touched on the difficulty for a woman so endowed to meet, in real life, with any object resembling the ideal image clad in the hues of her own heart; then contented himself by depicting the impassioned feelings which kindled her poetry—her art of seizing on the most touching charms of nature, the deepest emotions of the soul. He complimented the originality of her expression, 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 of a resistless power, which must transport most those who possessed the best sense and the truest susceptibility. "Corinne," said he, "is doubtless more celebrated than any other of our countrywomen; and yet it is only her friends who can describe her. The qualities of the soul, if real, always require to be guessed; fame, as well as obscurity, might prevent their detection, if some congenial sympathy came not to our aid." 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 embody the fleeting and delicate reveries of the heart." He extolled the conversation of Corinne, as one who had tasted all its delights. "There," he said, "is united all that is natural, fanciful, just, sublime, powerful, and sweet, to vary the mental banquet every instant; it is what Petrarch termed—

Il parlar che nell' anima si sente'—

a language which is felt to the heart's core, and must possess much of the vaunted Oriental magic which has been given by the ancients to Cleopatra. The scenes I have visited with her, the lays we have heard together, the pictures she has shown me, the books she has taught me to enjoy, compose my universe. In all these is some spark of her life; and were I forced to dwell afar from her, I would, at least, surround myself with them, though certain to seek in vain for her radiant traces amongst them, when once she had departed."

"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 secured 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 your thoughts and feelings; you would never find it more!"

Oswald shuddered at these words; his eyes were fixed on Corinne, who listened with an agitation self-love cannot produce; it belongs only to humility and to gratitude. Castel Forte resumed the address, which a momentary weakness had suspended. He spoke of Corinne as a painter and a musician; of her declamation and her dancing. "In all these exertions," he said, "she is still herself—confined to no one mode, nor rule—but expressing, in various languages, the enchantments of Art and Imagination. I cannot flatter myself on having faithfully represented one of whom it is impossible to form an idea till she herself is known; but her presence is left to Rome, as among the chief blessings beneath its brilliant sky. Corinne is the link that binds her friends to each other. She is the motive, the interest of our lives; we rely on her worth, pride in her genius, and say to 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 misfortunes, insult the country whence have arisen the planets that illumed all Europe, still we but say to them, 'Look upon Corinne.' Yes; we will follow in her track, and be such men as she is a woman; if, indeed, men can, like women, make worlds in their own hearts; if our moral temperaments, necessarily dependent on social obligations and exterior circumstances, could, like hers, owe all their light to the glorious touch of poesy!"

The instant the Prince ceased to speak, was followed by an unanimous outbreak of admiration, even from the leaders of the State, although the discourse had ended by an indirect 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 were wont to do; trusting to arrive at all truths by intuition, even as their soil bears fruit, unaided, save by the favor of heaven.

[CHAPTER III.]

Corinne rose, as the Prince finished his oration. She thanked him by an inclination of the head, which diffidently betrayed her sense of having been praised in a strain after her own heart. It was the custom for a poet, crowned at the capitol, to extemporize or recite in verse, ere receiving the destined bays. Corinne sent for her chosen instrument, the lyre, more antique in form, and simpler in sound, than the harp; while tuning it, she was oppressed by so violent a tremor, that her voice trembled as she asked what theme she was to attempt. "The glory and welfare of Italy!" cried all near her. "Ah, yes!" she exclaimed, already sustained by her own talents; "the glory and welfare of Italy!" Then, animated by her love of country, she breathed forth thoughts to which prose or another language can do but imperfect justice.

CHANT OF CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.[1]
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 vessels of thine arms, thine arts, thy sky!
Olympus for Ausonia once was left,
And by a god. Of such a land are born
Dreams of the golden time, for there man looks
Too happy to suppose him criminal.
By genius Rome subdued the world, then reign'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 reappear'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 back 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? 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.
Your Dante! 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; and whose deep soul
Was like the abyss it fathom'd.
Italia! as she was in days of power
Revived in Dante: such a spirit stirr'd
In old republics: bard and warrior too,
He lit the fire 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 without aim
Gnaw'd at their heart, still fever'd by the past;
Yet less irrevocable seem'd that past,
Than their eternal future.
Methinks that Dante, banish'd his own soil,
Bore to imagined worlds his actual grief,
Ever his shades inquire the things of life,
And 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 into 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 with new gods—
Fancy's mythology—which disappears
Like Pagan creeds at sight of Paradise,
That sea of light, 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 recreate 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 it 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 your praise,
O Romans! 'mid his wrongs, could yet console—
The beautiful, the chivalric, the brave,
Dreaming the deeds, feeling the love he sung—
With awe and gratitude approached 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.
'T was 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 only by his love:
Here memories more severe, aye, consecrate
His sacred name; his 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 invention aid;
And more original 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 wars, he came
Like to a rainbow; varied and as bright
As that glad messenger of summer hours.
His light, sweet gayety is like nature's smile,
And not the irony of man.
Raffaële, 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,
Develops fancy, each one in its turn;
Which lulls content, 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!
Have you inhaled these perfumes, luxury!
In air already so fragrant and so soft?
Now, answer, strangers; Nature, in your home,
Is she as generous or as beautiful?
Not only with vine-leaves and ears of corn
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, born 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 springs;
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, if 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 thy brief days—
Mysterious heralds of eternity—
But in the fertile and majestic breast
Of the immortal universe!

Corinne was interrupted for some moments by impetuous applause. Oswald alone joined not in the noisy transport around him. He had bowed his head on his hand, when Corinne said——

"E'en for the sorrows of 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—recognised him as English. 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 with less reliance, 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 assemblage, while thus she continued:——

Yet there are griefs which our consoling sky
May not efface; but where will grief convey
Noble and soft 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 tomb?
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 trophies are the work of those no more:
Genius itself ranks 'mid th' illustrious dead.
It is Rome's secret charm to reconcile
Imagination with our long last sleep.
We are resign'd ourselves, and suffer 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, yon shadowy crowd:
And from our silent city's loneliness
Down to the subterranean one below
It 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—blending 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 arrayed like one of these."
Was not arrayed like one of these."

Oswald was so enchanted by these stanzas, that he testified his transport with a vehemence 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 monotonous chant, that destroys all effect.[2] 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, therefore, 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 expression of sorrow in the midst of enjoyment, surprises, touches us more deeply, than would despair itself, if sung in those northern languages, which it seems to have inspired.

[1] For the translation of this Ode, the proprietor of the Standard Novels is indebted to the pen of Miss L. E. Landon.

[2] An exception must be made in favor of Monti, who reads verse as well as he writes it. There can be few greater dramatic treats than to hear him recite the episode of Ugolino—of Francesca, or the death of Clorinda.

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 about her shoulders, and advanced with an air of pleased thankfulness, 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 surmounted 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 head, the musicians sent forth one of those triumphant airs which so powerfully exalt the soul. The clash of cymbals, and the flourish of trumpets, overwhelmed Corinne afresh; her eyes filled, she sunk on a seat, and covered her face. Oswald rushed from the crowd, and made a few steps towards her, but an uncontrollable embarrassment kept him silent. Corinne, taking care that he should not detect her, looked on him for some time; and when Prince Castel Forte took her hand to lead her from the capitol, she yielded in abstraction, frequently turning, on various pretexts, to gaze again on Oswald. He followed 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 brows.[1] 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 motionless, till, feeling himself almost faint, he leaned against one of the basaltic lions that stand at the foot of the staircase. Corinne gazed on him again, forcibly struck by his emotion; but they led her to her car, and the whole crowd had disappeared, long ere Oswald recovered his presence of mind. Till now, he had been enchanted as with a most attractive foreigner; but that English intonation had brought back all the recollections of his country, and, as it were, naturalized in his heart the charms of Corinne. Was she English? Had she not passed many years of her life in England? He 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 that lends to our first sight of them almost an air of recognition. Oswald had believed the Italians, though impassioned, too vacillating for deep or constant 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 remembrance of his home, and receive a new-born life, for future enjoyment, without being weaned from the past? In the midst of these reveries he found himself on the bridge of St. 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 haunting memory!" he cried, with revived remorse, "too wronged and too forgiving friend! could I have believed myself capable of feeling so much pleasure thus soon after thy loss? but it is not thine indulgent spirit which rebukes me; thou 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 wert yet on earth?"

[1] Lord Nevil must have alluded to the beautiful lines of Propertius,—

"Ut caput in magnis ubi non est ponere signis;
Ponitur hic imos antè corona pedes."

[BOOK III.]

CORINNE.

[CHAPTER I.]

The Count d'Erfeuil had been present at the capitol, and called the next day on Lord Nevil, saying, "My dear Oswald, would you like me to take you to Corinne's this evening?"—"How?" interrupted 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 permission 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 tedious formalities. Instead of going to an ambassador, who would have led you to a cardinal, who might have taken you to a lady, 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, doubtless, 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, my dear Count?"—"Ah! 'my dear Count,' is it?" laughed d'Erfeuil, "you melt apace, now 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 gives your lordship's name precedence; but then, you know, I'm never jealous of my friends."—"Nay," returned Nevil, "it is not in vanity to expect that either of us can render ourselves agreeable to her. All I seek is sometimes to enjoy the society of so wondrous a being. This evening, then, since you have so arranged it."—"You will go with me?"—"Why, yes," rejoined Nevil, in visible confusion.—"Why, then, all this regret at what I've done? though 'tis but just to leave you the honour 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; that she should never have met, in this country, with a man worthy of her, don't astonish me in the least." D'Erfeuil ran on some time, in this kind of chat, without any interruption from Oswald. He said nothing which could exactly be called coarse, yet his light matter-of-fact manner, on a topic so interesting, clashed with the delicacy of his companion. There is a refinement which even wit and knowledge of the world cannot teach their votaries, who often wound the heart, without violating perfect politeness. Lord Nevil was much disturbed during the day in thinking over the visit of the evening; but he did his utmost to banish his disquieting presentiments, and strove to persuade himself that he might indulge a pleasing idea, without permitting it to decide his fate. False hope! the heart can receive no bliss from that which it knows must prove evanescent. Accompanied by the Count, he arrived at the house of Corinne, which was situated a little beyond the castle of St. Angelo, commanding a view of the Tiber. Its interior was ornamented with the most perfect elegance. The hall embellished by casts of the Niobe, Laöcoon, 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 conversation of a domestic circle. Corinne was not there when he entered; and, while waiting for her, he anxiously explored the apartment, remarking in its every detail a happy combination of the best French, Italian, and English attributes; 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 recognised 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, and twice repeated "Lord Nevil!" as if that name 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?" 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, "English is your native tongue—that which you speak to your friends."—"I am an Italian," interrupted Corinne. "Forgive me, my Lord! but I think I perceive in you the national importance which so often characterizes your countrymen. Here we are more lowly, neither 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 individuals, 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 and then speak to you in English, but Italian is more dear to me. I have suffered much," she added, sighing, "that I might live in Italy." D'Erfeuil here gallantly upbraided her for conversing in languages of which he was entirely ignorant. "In mercy, fair Corinne," he said, "speak French; you are truly worthy to do so." She smiled at this compliment, and granted its request, with ease, with purity, but with an English accent. Nevil 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 question to Corinne, on the reason of this singularity. She seemed at first somewhat uneasy, beneath this sudden interrogation; then recovering herself, said, "It seems, monsieur, that I must have learned French of an English person." He renewed his attack with earnest gayety. Corinne became more confused, and at last said, gravely, "During the four years that I lived 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 Nevil, 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 Castel Forte now arrived, with many of their mutual acquaintance, men of lively and amiable minds, of kind and courteous manners, so easily animated by the conversation of others, so capable of appreciating all that deserved approval, that they made the best listeners possible. The Italians are usually too indolent to display in society, or often in any way, the wit they really possess. The generality of them cultivate not, even in seclusion, the intellectual faculties of their natures; 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 appeared preconcerted or hostile—for, in most things, it is coldness which offends; while vivacity, on the contrary, has almost invariably an air of good-nature. Oswald found in Corinne a grace which he had never before met.

A terrible event of his life was associated with recollections of a very lovely and gifted Frenchwoman; but Corinne in no way resembled her. Every creature's best seemed united in the conversation he now partook. Ingeniously and rapidly 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 forgetfulness of each mood, as a new one succeeded, that she fled, almost in the same instant, "from grave to gay, from lively to severe," from learning that might have instructed men, to the coquetry of a woman who amused herself with making conquests; 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 delicate attention. The habitual homage with which they surrounded her gave the air of a fête 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 agreeable 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 animated and inspired her with a wish to please. Nevertheless, she sometimes checked herself, in the midst of her most brilliant sallies, astonished at his external composure, and doubting whether he might not secretly blame her, or if his English notions could permit him to approve such success 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 become dear to her? What single object could ever concentrate so many rays, or take captive a spirit gifted with such glorious wings? In truth, he was alike dazzled and distressed: nay, though, as she 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 feeling which excited him. Sometimes he compared it with the fatal error of his early youth; but instantly rejected such comparison. 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? Was she a Sappho or an Armida? It was impossible to decide. 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 Nevil, as usual, next morning; and, censuring him for not having visited Corinne the preceding night, said gaily, "You would have been delighted if you had."—"And why?" asked his friend.—"Because yesterday gave me the most satisfactory assurance that you have extremely interested her."—"Still this levity? Do you not know that I neither can nor will endure it?"—"What you call levity is rather the readiness of my observation: have I the less reason, because my reason is active? You were formed to grace those blest patriarchal days when man had five centuries to live; 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 speak of something else; but, as she happens to be a mighty natural young person, she presently, in all simplicity, asked why you were not with me?—I said because you would not come, and that you were a gloomy, eccentric animal: I'll spare you whatever I might have further said in your praise. 'He is pensive,' remarked Corinne; doubtless he has lost some one who was dear to him: for whom is he mourning?'—'His father, madame, though it is more than a year 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 apparently 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 was so sweet, dear Oswald, as she uttered these words!"—"And are these all your proofs of her interest in me?"—"Why truly, with half of them T 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 adventure at Ancona, without knowing that it was of you he spoke. He told the story with much fire, 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. Besides, Corinne's face explained what I should not else have comprehended. 'Twas so easy to read the agitation of her heart: she would scarcely breathe, for fear of losing a single word; when she 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 not right, monsieur? was it not Lord Nevil?'—'Yes, madame,' said I, and then she melted into tears. She had not wept during the history: what was there in the name of its hero more affecting than the recital itself!"—"She wept?" repeated Oswald. "Ah, why was I not there?" then instantly checking himself, he cast down his eyes, and his manly face expressed the most delicate timidity. He hurriedly resumed the topic, lest d'Erfeuil should impair his sacred joy by one comment. "If the adventure at Ancona be worth the telling, its honor belongs to you, also, my dear Count."—"They certainly did speak of a most engaging Frenchman, who was with you, my Lord," rejoined d'Erfeuil, laughing; "but no one, save myself, paid any attention to that parenthesis. The lovely Corinne prefers you, doubtless believing that you would prove more faithful than I—this may not be the case—you may even cost her more pains than I should have done; but your very romantic women love trouble, therefore you will suit her exactly." Nevil smarted beneath each word; but what could he say? D'Erfeuil never argued; nay, he could not even listen with sufficient attention to alter his opinions: once uttered, he cared no more about them, and the best plan was to forget them, if possible, as quickly as he did himself.

[CHAPTER III.]

That evening Oswald reached the house of Corinne with entirely new sensations. He fancied that he might be expected. How entrancing that first beam of intelligence between one's self and the being we adore! ere memory contends the heart with hope, ere the eloquence of words has sought to depict our feelings. There is, in these first hours of love, some indefinite and mysterious charm, more fleeting, but more heavenly than even happiness itself.

Oswald found Corinne alone; this abashed him much. He could have gazed on her in the midst of her friends; but would fain have been in some way convinced of her preference, ere thus suddenly engaged in an interview which might chill her manner towards him; and, in that expectation, his own address became cold from very embarrassment. Whether she detected this, or that similar feelings made her desire to remove his restraint, she speedily inquired if he had yet seen any of the antiquities of Rome. "No."—"Then, how were you employed yesterday?" she asked, with a smile. "I passed the day at home. Since I came hither, I have seen but you, madame, or remained alone." She wished to speak of his conduct at Ancona, and began: "I learned last night—" here she paused, and then said, "but I will talk of that when our party has joined us." Lord Nevil had a dignity which intimidated Corinne; besides, she feared, in alluding to his noble behaviour, that she should betray too much emotion, and trusted to feel less before witnesses. Oswald was deeply touched by this reserve, and by the frankness with which she, unconsciously, disclosed its motive; but the more oppressed he became, the less 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 increased the emotion 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 inthroned in her eyes? Reassured by the mildness which veiled their splendor, he might have spoken, had not Prince Castel Forte that instant entered the room. It, was not without a pang that he beheld Nevil tête-à-tête with Corinne; but he was accustomed to conceal his sensations; 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 had 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 continue this routine; on which condition it would not have cost him much regret to see her united with another. The heart's disappointments are not, in Italy, aggravated by those of vanity. You meet some men jealous enough to stab their rivals, others sufficiently 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 Corinne's wonted guests having assembled, the conversation turned on the talent for improvisation, which she had so gloriously displayed at the capitol; and she was asked what she thought of it herself. "It is so rare a thing," said Castel Forte, "to find a person at once susceptible of enthusiasm, and capable of analysis; endowed as an artist, yet gifted with so much self-knowledge, that we ought to implore her revelation of her own secret."—"The faculty of extemporizing," 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 impromptu verse than to speak well in prose, from which poetry differs so widely, that the first stanza, by their mere expressions, remove the poet from the sphere of his auditors, and thus command attention. It is not only to the sweetness of Italian, but to the emphatic vibration of its syllables, that we should attribute the influence of poetry 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 they paint their own significations on the mind; you feel that but in the midst of the arts, and beneath a beauteous sky, could a language so melodious and highly colored, have had birth. It is, therefore, easier in Italy than anywhere else to mislead by speeches, unaided by depth or novelty of thought. Poetry, like all the fine arts, captivates the senses as much as the mind. Nevertheless, I venture to assert, that I never act the improvisatrice, 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, solely by the charm of rhythm and of harmony."—"You think, then," said one of her friends, "that this genius for spontaneous verse does injury to our literature? I thought so too, till I heard you, who have entirety reversed my decision."—"I have said," returned Corinne, "that from this facility and abundance must result a vast quantity of indifferent poems; but I rejoice that such fruitfulness should exist in Italy, as I do to see our plains covered with a thousand superfluous productions. I pride in this bounty of Heaven. Above all, I love to find improvisatores among the common people; it shows that imagination of theirs which is hidden in all other circumstances, and only develops itself amongst us. It gives a poetic air to the humblest ranks of society, and spares us from the disgust we cannot help feeling, against what is vulgar in all classes. When our Sicilians, while rowing the traveller in their barks, lend their graceful dialect to an endearing welcome, or sing him a kind and long farewell, one might dream that the pure sea-breeze acted on man as on an Eolian harp; and that the one, like the other, echoed but the voice of nature. Another reason why I set this value on our talent for improvisation is, that it appears one which could not possibly survive among a community disposed to ridicule. Poets, who risk this perilous enterprise, require all the good-humor of a country in which men love to amuse themselves, without criticizing what amuses them. A single sneer would suffice to banish the presence of mind necessary for rapid and uninterrupted composition. Your heroes must warm with you, and their plaudits must be your 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—those that are the works of reflection, or such as were instantaneously 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 improvisation is, to me, like animated converse. I do not confine myself to such or such subjects, but yield to whatever produces that degree of interest in my hearers which most infects myself; and it is to my friends that I owe the greater portion of my talent in this line. Sometimes, while they speak on the noble questions that involve the moral condition of man—the aim and end of his duties here—mine impassioned excitement carries me beyond myself; teaches me to find in nature, and mine own heart, such daring truths, and forcible expressions, as solitary meditation could never have engendered. Mine enthusiasm, then, seems supernatural: a spirit speaks 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 import. Sometimes my lyre, by a simple national 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 disdainful of all selfish baseness; when godlike deeds appear most easy to me, 'tis then my verse is at its best. I am, indeed, a poet while I admire or hate, not by my personal feelings, nor in mine own cause, 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 Nevil, said: "You see I cannot touch on any of the themes that affect me, without that kind of thrill which is the source of ideal beauty in the arts, of religion in the recluse, generosity in heroes, and disinterestedness among men. Pardon me, my Lord; such a woman little resembles those of your country."—"Who can resemble you?" replied Oswald; "and who shall make laws for a being so peculiar?"

The Count d'Erfeuil was actually spell-bound; without understanding all she said, her gestures, 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 rave of her without relinquishing his convenient habit of being guided by the opinion of others. As they left the house together, he said to his friend: "Confess, now, dear Oswald, that I have some merit in not paying my court to so delightful a person."—"But," replied Nevil, "they say that she is difficult to please."—"They say, but I don't believe it. A single woman, who leads the life of an artist, can't be difficult to please." Nevil's feelings were wounded by this remark; but whether d'Erfeuil saw it not, or was resolved to follow the bent of his own inclinations, he continued, "Not but, if I could believe in any woman's virtue, I should trust hers above all. She has certainly a thousand times more ardor than were required 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 information, that the ordinary rules for judging her sex cannot be applied to her. Would you believe it? I find her manners imposing; they overawe me in spite of her careless affability. I wished yesterday, merely out of gratitude for her interest in you, to hazard a few words on my own account; such as make what way they can; if they are listened to, so much the better; if not, why that 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, an—everything that ought to put a man at his ease?"—"Her name is unknown," replied Nevil, "but her behavior assures us that she is highly born."—"Nay, 'tis only the fashion of romance to conceal one's nobility;—in real life, people tell everything 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 life is more domestic, here there may be secrets, which only he who marries Corinne should seek to fathom."—"Marry Corinne!" replied d'Erfeuil, laughing vehemently, "such a notion never entered my head. My dear Nevil, if 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; nevertheless, I'll bet you that my conduct shall be more rational than your own."—"I don't doubt it," returned Nevil, without another word; for how could he tell the Count that there is often 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 possess.

A deficiency of enthusiasm, opinions, and sensibility, is a negative treasure, on which, with but slight abilities, rank and fortune may easily be acquired or maintained. The jests of d'Erfeuil had pained Lord Nevil much; he condemned them, but still they haunted him most importunately.

[BOOK IV]

ROME.

[CHAPTER I.]

The next fortnight Oswald devoted exclusively to the society of Corinne. He never left his house but to visit her. He saw, he sought no more; and, without speaking of his love, he made her sensible of it every hour in the day. She was accustomed to the lively and flattering tributes of the Italians; but the lordly deportment and apparent coldness of Oswald, through which his tenderness of heart so often broke, in spite of himself, exercised a far greater power o'er her imagination. He never related a generous deed or a tale of misfortune, but his eyes filled, though he always strove to hide this weakness. It was long since she had felt such respect as that which he awakened. No genius, however distinguished, could have astonished 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 understanding was wonderful. They read each other's hearts in the lightest alteration of countenance. Habituated 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 surrounded by a purer, sweeter atmosphere; and every moment brought with it a sense of happiness in which she revelled, without seeking to define.

One morning Prince Castel Forte came to her, evidently dispirited. She asked the cause. "This Scot," sighed he, "is weaning your affection from us, and who knows but he may even carry you far hence?" Corinne was mute for some moments, and then replied, "I protest to you he has never said he loves me."—"You know it, nevertheless; he speaks to you by his life, and his very silence is 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? But there is something veiled and reined in about the character of Lord Nevil, 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 yourself 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 think then, dear Prince," she said, "that my heart is ungrateful, and my fancy capricious? I believe, however, that Lord Nevil evinces qualities too remarkable for me to flatter myself as their discoverer."—"I allow," rejoined Castel Forte, "that he is high-minded, intelligent, even sensitive, and melancholy above all; but I am much deceived if his pursuits have the least affinity with yours. You cannot perceive this, so thoroughly is he influenced 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 beheld her lover, and all that remained as the effect of the Prince's counsel was a desire so to enamour Nevil 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 candor, she well knew how to preserve a modest dignity, even in her most independent proceedings.

"TO LORD NEVIL.

"Dec. 15, 1794.

"I know not, my Lord, if you will think me too self-confident, or if you can do justice to my motives. I heard you say that you had not yet explored Rome, that you knew nothing either of the chefs-d'œuvres of our fine arts, or the antique ruins that teach us history by imagination and sentiment. I conceive 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 imperiously drawn, your own studies will complete what 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 be 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 forget all the political relations of the world; but when they are not linked with our sacred duties, they do but freeze the heart. It is necessary also to renounce what is elsewhere called the pleasures 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 bestow, 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, basking in its rays, for life was no longer a burden. Regret and fear were lost behind the golden clouds of hope; his heart so long oppressed with sadness, throbbed and bounded with delight; he knew that such a state could not last; but even his sense of its fleetness lent this fever of felicity but a more active force.

"You are come!" cried Corinne, as he entered. "Ah, thank you!" She offered 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 between them since they had last parted, established 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? Whence do you derive charms so contrasted, that each might well exclude the others?—feeling gayety, depth, wildness, modesty! Art thou an illusion? an unearthly blessing for those who meet thee?"—"Ah! if I have but power to do you any service," she answered, "believe not that I will ever renounce it."—"Take heed," replied he, seizing her hand with emotion; "be careful of what benefit you confer on me. For two years an iron grasp has pressed upon my heart. If I feel some relief while breathing your sweet air, what will become of me when thrown back on mine own fate? What shall I be then?"—"Let us leave that to time and chance," interrupted Corinne: "They will decide whether the impression of an hour shall 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. Nevil followed her, astonished at her reply: it seemed that she admitted the possibility of a momentary liking for him, yet he fancied that he perceived a fickleness in her manner, which piqued him even to pain; and Corinne, as if she guessed this, said, when they were seated in her carriage, "I do not think the heart is so constituted 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 enchantment more rapid, may also bring the reaction promptly."—"You have reflected much upon this sentiment, madame," observed Oswald, with bitterness. Corinne blushed, and was silent for some moments, then said, with a striking union of frankness and dignity, "I suppose no woman of heart ever reached the age of twenty-six without having known the illusions of love; but if never to have been happy, never to have met an object worthy of her full affection, is a claim on sympathy, I have a right to yours." The words, the accent of Corinne, somewhat dispersed the clouds that gathered over Nevil's thoughts; yet he said to himself: "She is a most seducing creature, but—an Italian. This is not a shrinking, 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 what she might one day become.[1]

[CHAPTER II.]

Oswald and Corinne went first to the Pantheon, now called Santa Maria of the Rotunda. Throughout Italy the Catholic hath been the Pagan's heir; but this is the only antique temple in Rome which has been preserved entire; the only one wherein we may behold, 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 to observe that this building was constructed 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 did antique poetry design but the massive features of a theme, leaving the reader's fancy to supply the detail: in all affairs we moderns say and do too much. This fane was consecrated by Agrippa, the favourite of Augustus, to his friend, or rather, his master, 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: "Consecrated 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'œuvres of his cotemporaries 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 light which streams in from above was considered the emblem of a divinity superior to the highest divinities. The heathens ever loved symbolical images; our language, indeed, seems to accord better with religion, than with common parlance. The rain often falls on the marbles of this court, but the sunshine succeeds to efface it. 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 less gloomy than in the north, as you will observe when we visit St. Peter's. In the sanctuary of the Pantheon the busts of our most celebrated artists decorate the niches once filled by ideal gods. Since the empire of the Cæsars, we have scarce ever boasted any political independence; consequently, you will find no statesmen, no heroes here. Genius constitutes our only fame; but do you not think, my Lord, that a people, who thus revere the talents still left amongst them, must deserve a nobler destiny?"—"I believe," replied Oswald, "that nations generally deserve their own fates, be they what they will."—"That is severe! but, perhaps, 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 yet shall raise their heads again. Oswald, dear Oswald! why are you not happy?"—"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 principal which we fearlessly confide to the bosom of our eternal Father."

Oswald sighed, and spoke not; melancholy ideas have many charms, when we are not deeply miserable; but while grief, in all its cruelty, reigns over the breast, we cannot hear, without a shudder, words which, of old, excited but reveries not more sad than soothing.

[1] In the original, Lucile Edgermond: but as neither of these names are English, and the latter capable of a very ignoble pronunciation, I have taken the liberty to alter both.—TR.

[CHAPTER III.]

In going to St. Peter's, they crossed the bridge of St. Angelo on foot. "It was here," said Oswald, "that, on my way from the Capitol, I, for the first time, mused long on Corinne."—"I do not flatter myself," she rejoined, "that I owe a friend to my coronation; yet, in toiling for celebrity, I have ever wished that it might make me beloved; were it not useless, at least to a woman, without such expectation?"—"Let us stay here awhile," said Oswald. "Can bygone centuries afford me one remembrance equal to that of the day on which I beheld you first?"—"I may err," answered Corinne, "but I think persons become most endeared to each other while participating in the admiration of works which speak to the soul by their true grandeur. Those of Rome are neither cold nor mute; conceived as they were by genius, and hallowed by memorable events. Nay, perhaps, Oswald, one could not better learn to love a man like yourself 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 original exteriors among all our edifices: the tomb of Adrian, fortified by the Goths, bearing a double character from its successive uses. Built for the dead, an impenetrable circle inclosed it; yet the living have added more hostile defences, which contrast strongly with the silent and noble inutility of a funeral monument. You see, at the top, the bronze figure of an angel with a naked sword;[1] within are prisons, famed for ingenious torture. All the epochs of Roman history, from the days of Adrian to our own, are associated with this site. Belisarius defended it against the Goths; and, with a barbarism scarce inferior to their own, hurled on them the beauteous statues that adorned the interior. Crescentius, Arnault de Brescia, and Nicolas Rienzi,[2] those friends of Roman liberty, who so oft mistook her memories for her hopes, long defied their foes from this imperial tomb. I love each stone connected with so many glorious feats. I applaud the master of the world's luxurious taste—a magnificent tomb. There is something great in the man who, while possessing all the pomps and pleasures of the world, fears not to employ his mind so long in preparations for his death. Moral ideas and disinterested sentiments must fill the soul that, in any way, outsteps the boundaries of life. Thus far ought the pillars in front of St. Peter's to extend; such was the superb plan of Michael Angelo, which he trusted his survivors would complete; but the men of our days think not of posterity. When once enthusiasm has been turned into ridicule, all is defeated, except wealth and power."—"It is for you to regenerate it," cried Nevil. "Who ever experienced such happiness as I now taste? Rome shown me by you! interpreted by imagination and genius! What a world, when animated by sentiment, without which the world itself were but a desert![3] Ah, Corinne! what is to follow these the sweetest days that my fate and heart e'er granted me?"—"All sincere affections come direct from Heaven," she answered, meekly. "Why, Oswald, should it not protect what it inspires? It is for Heaven to dispose of us both."

At last they beheld St. Peter's; the greatest edifice ever erected by man; even the Egyptian Pyramids are its inferiors in height. "Perhaps," said Corinne, "I ought to have shown you the grandest of our temples last; 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 mystified 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 the beautiful."

Oswald felt the most extraordinary sensations when standing in front of St. Peter's. It was the first time the effort of man had affected him like a marvel of nature. It is the only work of art on the face of the globe that possesses the same species of majesty which characterizes those of creation. Corinne enjoyed his astonishment. "I have selected," she said, "a day when the sun is in all his splendor; 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 in the magnificence 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 air, as if guiding the thoughts of man towards heaven. This was brought from Egypt to adorn the baths of Caligula, and afterwards removed by Sextus V. to the foot of St. Peter's, beside which this contemporary of many ages creates not one sentiment of awe. Man feels himself 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 murmurs, 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 human form, or other natural objects, awaken clear and intelligible images; but a perfect piece of architecture kindles that aimless reverie, which bears the soul we know not whither. The ripple of water well accords with this vague deep sense; 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 of 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 Nevil, who was already beneath the portico; "pause, ere you unveil the sanctuary; does not your heart throb as you approach it, as if anticipating some solemn event?" She raised the curtain, and held it back for Nevil to pass, with such a grace that his first look was on 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 commands 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, reverberates deeply through its vastness; and when we hear, from far, the trembling steps of age on the fair marble, watered by so many tears, man becomes imposing from the very infirmities that subject his divine spirit to so much of woe; and we feel that Christianity, the creed of suffering, contains the true secret which should direct our pilgrimage on earth. Corinne broke on the meditations of Oswald, saying, "You must have remarked that the Gothic churches of England and Germany have a far more gloomy character than this. Northern Catholicism has in it something mystic; ours speaks to the imagination by external objects. Michael Angelo, on beholding this dome from the Pantheon, exclaimed, 'I have built it in the air!'—indeed, St. Peter's is as 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 such 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.[4] It is rendering a service to the moral public, bestowing on a nation a monument emblematic of such noble and generous desires."—"Yes," replied Oswald, "here art is grand, and genius inventive; but how is the real dignity of man sustained? How weak are the generality of Italian governments, yet how do they enslave."—"Other nations," interrupted Corinne, "have borne the yoke, like ourselves, and without like power to conceive a better fate,

'Servi siam si, ma servi ognor frementi.'

'We are slaves, indeed, but forever chafing beneath our bonds,' said Alfieri, the boldest of our modern writers. With such soul for the fine arts, may not our character one day equal our genius? But look at these statues on the tombs, these mosaics—laborious and faithful copies from the chefs-d'œuvres of our great masters. I never examine St. Peter's 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 refuge 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 beneath; the popes, and many foreign princes, are buried there—Christine, who abdicated her realm; the Stuarts, whose dynasty was overthrown. Rome, so long an asylum for the exile, is she not herself dethroned? Her aspect consoles sovereigns despoiled like her. Yes, cities fall, whole empires disappear, and man becomes unworthy of his name. Stand here, Nevil! near the altar, beneath 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 this arch; 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 antique 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 general expression of the place perfectly characterizes 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 enemy: 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 doubtless 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 funereal chants, such as here you would fain forget. I know not if I should wish that your fair sky may so far change my mood."

"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 neither sate nor wither up the heart; unfortunately we are often scared from this repose by passions more terrible than those of habitually active minds." They were now at the door. "One more glance!" said Nevil. "See how insignificant is man in the presence of devotion, while we shrink even before its material emblem: behold what duration man can give to his achievements, while his own date is so brief that he soon survives but in his fame. This temple is an image of infinitude; there are no bounds for the sentiments to which it gives birth; the hosts of past and future years it suggests for speculation. On leaving it we seem quitting a world of heavenly 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 explanation. "Believe me, my Lord," continued Corinne, "there is much sincerity among people of lively fancy. To-morrow, if 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 Oswald, "I cannot renounce this gleam of bliss, which my guardian angel seems to shower on me from above."

[1] A Frenchman commanded the castle of St. Angelo during the last war; and when summoned by the Neapolitans to surrender, replied, that he would do so when the bronze angel sheathed his sword.

[2] These facts are found in "A history of the Italian Republics, during the Middle Ages," by M. Simonde, of Geneva; an author of profound sagacity, equally conscientious and energetic.

[3] "Eine Weitz zwar bist du, o Rom! doch ohne die Liebe Ware die Welt nicht die Welt, ware denn Rom aucht nicht Rom," says Goethe, the poet and Philosopher, of all our modern men of letters the most remarkable for imagination.

[4] It is said that the building of St. Peter's was one of the principal causes of the Reformation; as it cost the popes so much, that they multiplied the sale of indulgences.

[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?" said Corinne.—"Yes, we will!" replied Oswald, and his voice told all in those simple words; so full of gentle tenderness was his accent. "From 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 historical recollections." They took what was formerly called the sacred or triumphant road.—"Your car passed this way," said Oswald. "It did," answered Corinne: such venerable dust might have wondered at my presumption; but since the Roman republic, so many a guilty track hath been imprinted on this road, that the respect it once demanded is decreased." She led him to the stairs of the present Capitol; the entrance to the original one was by the Forum. "I wish," she said, "that these steps were the same which Scipio ascended; when, repulsing calumny by glorious deeds, he went to offer thanks in the temple for the victories he had won; but the new staircase and Capitol were built on the ruins of the old, to receive the peaceful magistrate who now monopolizes 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." They stopped to observe the two basaltic lions at the foot of the stairs.[1] They came from Egypt, whose sculptors much more faithfully transmitted the forms of animals than that of man. The physiognomy of these lions has all the stern tranquillity, the strength in repose, which we find described by Dante.

"A Guisa di leon—quando si posa."

Not far from thence is a mutilated Roman 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 drapery that remain have still the beauty of antiquity. At the top of the stairs are two colossal statues, thought to represent Castor and Pollux; then come the trophies of Marius; 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 day 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 Capitolinus. 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 of 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 words he seems to invoke the spirit of history, and reanimate the dead.

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 if 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 Capitol 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, defying time, here met, 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 Palatinus, then by the walls of Servius Tullius, which inclose the hills, and by those of Aurelian, which still surround the greatest part of Rome. Corinne repeated verses of Tibullus and Propertius, that glorify the weak commencement of what became the mistress of the world.[2] Mount Palatinus once contained 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 domus fiet. Veios migrate, Quirites;
Si non et Veios occupat ista domus."

'Rome will soon be but one house. Go to Veios, citizens! if you can be sure that this house will not include even Veios itself.' The Seven Hills are far less lofty now than when they deserved the title of steep mountains; modern Rome being forty feet higher than its predecessor, and the valleys which separated them almost filled up by ruins; but what is still more strange, two heaps of shattered vases have formed new hills, Cestario and Testacio. Thus, in time, the very refuse of civilization 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, Vaticanus, and Mario, not comprised in the famous seven, give 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 to which Corinne had led him. The study of history can never act on us 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 fanning in his own breast, and reluming in those of others. The Forum, whose narrow inclosure has been the scene of so many wondrous events, 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 a circumscribed town, whose natives fought around it against the invaders of its territories—this Forum, by the recollections it retraces, has been the theme of genius in every age. Eternal honors to the brave and free, who thus vanquish even the hearts of posterity!

Corinne observed to Nevil that there were but few vestiges left of the republic, or of the regal day which preceded it. The aqueducts and subterranean canals are the only luxuries remaining, while of aught more useful we have but a few tombs and brick temples. 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 fallen near him there, without injury. There is, too, the triumphal arch erected by the Senate to requite the exploits of Septimus Severus. The names of his two sons, Caracalla and Geta, were inscribed on its front; but as Caracalla assassinated his brother, his name was erased; some marks of the letters are yet visible. Farther off is a temple to Faustina, a monument of the weakness of Marcus Aurelius. 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 and moon, by the emperor Adrian, who was so jealous of the Greek architect Apollodorus, that he put 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 the Romans ever to fly before their enemies—the last pillar of the temple to Jupiter Custos, placed, it is said, near the gulf into which Curtius threw himself—and some belonging either to the Temple of Concord or to that of Victory. Perhaps this resistless 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 at Jerusalem. It is asserted that no Jews will ever pass beneath it; and the little path they take to avoid it is pointed out. We will hope, for the credit of the Jews, that this anecdote is true; such enduring 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 thefts from the past deified new achievements.

The triumphal gates still seen in Rome perpetuated, as much as man 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 moment, all that can exalt the spirit.

In front of these arches are the ruins of the Temple to Peace built by Vespasian. It was so adorned by bronze and gold within, that when it was consumed by fire, streams of fused metal ran even to the Forum. Finally, the Coliseum, loveliest ruin of Rome! terminates the circle in which all the epochs of history seem collected for comparison. Those stones, now bereft, of marble and of gilding, once formed the arena in which the gladiators contended with ferocious beasts. Thus were the Romans amused and duped, by strong excitements, while their natural feelings were denied due power. There were two entrances to the Coliseum; the one devoted to the conquerors, the other that through which they carried the dead. "Sana vivaria, sandapilaria." Strange scorn of humanity! to decide beforehand the life or death of man, for mere pastime. Titus, the best of emperors, dedicated 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 the triumphs of art the praise which is due but to spectacles that tell of generous institutions. Oswald's enthusiasm equalled not that of Corinne, while beholding these four galleries, rising one above the other, in proud decay, inspiring at once respect and tenderness: he 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. Corinne attempted to combat this mood. "Do not," she said, "let your principles of justice interfere with a contemplation like this. I have told you that these objects would rather remind you of Italian taste and elegance than of Roman virtue; but do you not trace some moral grandeur in the gigantic splendor that succeeded it? The very degradation of the Roman is imposing; while mourning for liberty they strewed the 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 areas into lakes, where galleys raced in their turn, or crocodiles filled the space just occupied by lions. Such was the luxury of the Romans, when luxury was their pride. These obelisks, brought from Egypt, torn from the African's shade to decorate the sepulchres of Romans! Can all this be considered useless, as the pomp of Asiatic despots? No, you behold the genius of Rome, the victor of the world, attired by the arts! There is something superhuman and poetical in this magnificence, which makes one forget both its origin and its aim."

The eloquence of Corinne excited without convincing Oswald. He sought a moral sentiment in all things, and the magic of art could never satisfy 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 towards the cross which the penitents trod beneath the ruins of mundane greatness; she asked him if the dust of martyrs said nothing to his heart. "Yes," he cried, "deeply do I revere the power of soul and will over distress and death: a sacrifice, be it what it may, is more arduous, more commendable than all the efforts of genius. Exalted imagination may work miracles; but it is only when we immolate self to principle that we are truly virtuous. Then alone does a celestial power subdue the mortal in our breasts." These pure and noble words disturbed Corinne: she gazed on Nevil, then cast down her eyes; and though at the same time he took her hand, and pressed it to his heart, she trembled to think that such a man might devote himself or others to despair, in his adherence to the opinions or duties of which he might make choice.

[1] Mineralogists affirm that these lions are not basaltic, because the volcanic stone now so called was never found in Egypt; but as Pliny and Winckleman (the historian of the arts) both give them that name, I avail myself of its primitive acceptation.

[2] Carpite nunc, tauri, de septem collibus herbas
Dum licet, hic magnæ jam locus urbis erit.
TIBULLUS.

Hoc quodcumque vides, hospes quàm maxima Roma est
Ante Phrygem Ænean collis et herba fuit, &c.
PROPERTIUS.

[CHAPTER V.]

Corinne and Nevil employed two days in wandering over the Seven Hills. The Romans formerly held a fête in their honor: it is one of Rome's original beauties to be thus embraced, and patriotism naturally 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 Cæsars, 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 remains. Nature 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 extremely small and simple. Cicero, Hortensius, and the Grachii, 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, designated solely by the eras of its masters. The laurels of war and that of the arts cultivated by peace, which were planted at the gate of Augustus, have both disappeared. Some of Livia's baths are left. You are shown the places wherein were set the precious stones, then lavished on walls or ceilings, and paintings of which the colors are still fresh: their delicacy rendering this yet more surprising. If it be true that Livia caused the death of Augustus, it was in one of these chambers that the outrage must have been conceived. How often may his gaze have been arrested by these pictures, whose tasteful garlands still survive? The 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 feared a future world? Might not the last thought, which reveals all to man, stray back to these halls, the scenes of his past power?[1]

Mount Aventinus affords more traces of Rome's early day than any of its sister hills. Exactly facing the palace constructed by Tiberius is seen a wreck of the temple to Liberty, built by the father of the Grachii; and at the foot of this ascent stood that dedicated to the Fortune of Men, by Servius Tullius, 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 woman, commemorating the influence exerted by Venturia over Coriolanus.

Opposite to Mount Aventinus is Mount Janiculum, on which Porsenna marshalled his army. It was in front of this hill that Horatius Cocles cut away the bridge, which led to Rome: its foundations still exist. On the banks of the stream was built a brick arch, simple as the action it recalled was great. In the midst of the Tiber floated an island formed of the wheat sheaves gathered from the fields of Tarquin; the Romans forbearing to use them, in the belief that they were charged with evil fate. It would be 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 Vesta still remains, almost entire, though the inundations of the 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, Clœlia 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 beauteous as its memories are sweet. The banks at its foot were called the Lovely Strand (pulchrum littus). Thither the orators of Rome walked from the Forum: there Cæsar and Pompey met like simple citizens, and sought to conciliate Cicero, whose independent eloquence was of more weight than even the power of their armies. Poetry also has embellished 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 Rienzi, who vainly strove to restore the spirit of antiquity in modern days.

Mount Cœlius is remarkable for the remains of a pretorian encampment, and that of the foreign troops: on the ruins of the latter was found an inscription: "To the Holy Genius of the Foreign Camp." Holy, indeed, to those whose power it sustained! What is left of these barracks proves that they were built like cloisters; or, rather, that cloisters were formed after their model.

Esquilinus was called the "Poet's Hill;" Mæcenas, 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 Laöcoon discovered. The freshness of water is so acceptable in fervid climes, that their natives love to collect all that can pamper the senses in the chambers where they bathe. Thus, by the light of lamps, did the Romans gaze on the chefs-d'œuvres of painting 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. Yet the extreme 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?

The baths and circusses are the only places of public amusement that have left their vestige. Though the ruins of Marcellus's theatre still exist, Pliny relates that three hundred and sixty marble pillars, and three thousand statues, were placed in a theatre incapable of lasting many days. The Romans, however, soon built with a solidity that defied the earthquake's shock: too soon they wasted like pains on edifices which they destroyed themselves when the fêtes held in them were concluded; thus, in every sense sported they with time. They had not the Grecian's mania 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 imagination. The gigantic wonders thus produced bore a very dignified stamp, no longer of liberty, but that of power still. The districts devoted to the public baths were called provinces, and united all the varied establishments to be found in a whole country. The great circus so nearly touched the imperial palace, that Nero, from his window, could give a signal for the commencement of the games. This circus was large enough to contain three hundred thousand people. Almost the whole nation might be amused at the same moment; and these immense festivals might be considered 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 distinguish them apart. There stood the houses of Sallust and of Pompey. There, too, in the present day, does the pope reside. One cannot take a single step in Rome, without contrasting its present and its past. But one learns to view the events of one's own time the more calmly far noting the eternal fluctuations 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 predecessors. Around, and on the Seven Hills, are seen a multitude of spires and obelisks, the columns of Trajan and of Antoninus, the tower of Conti, whence, it is said, Nero overlooked the 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 inclosure around which now serves as an arena for animal combats.

"I have led you rapidly," said Corinne, "over a few footprints of ancient history; but you can appreciate the pleasure which may be found in researches at once sage and poetic, addressing the fancy as well as the reason. There are many distinguished men in Rome whose sole occupation is that of discovering new links between our ruins and our history." "I know no study which could interest me more," replied Nevil, "if I felt my mind sufficiently composed for it. Such erudition is far more animated than that we acquire from books: we seem to revive what we unveil; and the past appears to rise from the dust which concealed it." "Doubtless," said Corinne, "this passion for antiquity is no idle prejudice. We live in an age when self-interest seems the ruling principle of all men; what sympathy, what enthusiasm, can ever be its result? Is it not sweeter to dream over the days of self-devotion and heroic sacrifice, which might once have existed, nay, of which the earth still bears such honorable traces?"

[1] Augustus expired at Nola, on his way to the waters of Brunduoium, which were prescribed him. He left Rome in a dying state.

[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. Perhaps 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, saying 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 nervous attacks to which Nevil was so subject, and during which he would converse with nobody. "He won't even see me!" added the count. The words displeased Corinne; but she took care to hide her anger from its object, as he alone could bring her tidings of his friend. She therefore continued to question him, trusting that a person so giddy, at least in appearance, would tell her all he knew. But whether he wished to hide, beneath an air of mystery, the fact that Nevil had confided nothing, or whether he believed it more honourable to thwart her wishes than to grant them, he met her ardent curiosity by imperturbable silence. She, who had always gained such an ascendency over those with whom she spoke, could not understand why her persuasive powers should fail with him. She did not know that self-love is the most inflexible quality in the world. Where was then her resource for learning what passed in the heart of Oswald? Should she write to him? A letter requires such caution; and the loveliest attribute of her nature was its impulsive sincerity. Three days passed, and still he came not. She suffered the most cruel agitation. "What have I done," she thought, "to dissever him from me? I have not committed the error so formidable in England, so pardonable in Italy; 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 father's 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 a 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 purposed to leave Rome, and write Corinne an explanation of the motives which enforced such resolution; but not feeling strength for this, he limited his exertions to a forbearance from visiting her; and this sacrifice soon appeared the most painful of the two.

Corinne was struck by the idea that she should see him no more; that he would fly without bidding her adieu. She expected every instant to hear of his departure; and terror so aggravated her sensations, that the vulture talons of passion seized at once on her heart; and its peace, its liberty, crouched beneath them. Unable to rest in the house where Oswald came not, she wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet him; she had at least some chance of seeing him, and best supported the hours during which she trusted to this expectation.

Her ardent fancy, the source of her talents, was unhappily blended with such natural feeling, that it now constituted her wretchedness. The evening of the fourth day's absence the moon shone 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, oppressed with grief, seated herself beside the fount of Trevi, whose abundant cascade 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 indispensable accompaniment of the dreamy life led there. Its water is so pure, that it has for many ages been named the Virgin Spring. The form of Corinne was now reflected on its surface. Oswald, who had paused there at the same moment, beheld the enchanting countenance of his love thus mirrored in the wave: at first, it affected him so strangely that he believed himself gazing on her phantom, as his imagination had often conjured up that of his father: he leaned forward, in order to see it more plainly, and his own features appeared beside those of Corinne. She recognised them, shrieked, rushed towards him and seized his arm, as if she feared he would again escape; but scarcely had she yielded to this too impetuous impulse, ere, remembering the character of Lord Nevil, 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 I deserved to suffer thus for you?"—"No, no," he answered; "but if I cannot deem myself free—if my heart be filled by regret and fear, why should I involve you in its tortures? Why?"—"It is too late to ask," interrupted Corinne; "grief is already in my breast; bear with me!"—"Grief!" repeated Oswald; "in the midst of so brilliant a career, with so lively 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 but in appearance: within my soul is an abyss of despair, which I can only avoid by preserving myself from love." Corinne spoke with an expression which vividly affected Oswald. "I will come to you to-morrow, rely on it, Corinne," he said. "Swear it!" she exclaimed, with an eagerness which she strove in vain to disguise. "I do," he answered, and departed.

[BOOK V.]

THE TOMBS, CHURCHES, AND PALACES.

[CHAPTER I.]