The crowd break their ranks as the horses pass.

CORINNE

OR

ITALY

BY

MME. DE STAËL

WITH INTRODUCTION BY

GEORGE SAINTSBURY

(In Two Volumes)

VOL. I.

Illustrated

by

H.S. Greig

LONDON: Published by J.M. Dent and Company at Aldine House in Great Eastern Street, E.C.

MDCCCXCIV

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.

INTRODUCTION.

In Lady Blennerhassett's enthusiastic and encyclopædic book on Madame de Stael she quotes approvingly Sainte-Beuve's phrase that "with Corinne Madame de Stael ascended the Capitol." I forget in which of his many dealings with an author who, as he remarks in the "Coppet-and-Weimar" causeries, was "an idol of his youth and one that he never renounced," this fancy occurs. It must probably have been in one of his early essays; for in his later and better, Sainte-Beuve was not wont to give way to the little flashes and crackles of conceit and epigram which many Frenchmen and some Englishmen think to be criticism. There was, however, some excuse for this. In the first place (as one of Charles Lamb's literal friends would have pointed out), Madame de Stael, like her heroine, did actually "ascend the Capitol," and received attentions there from an Academy. In the second, there can be no doubt that Corinne in a manner fixed and settled the high literary reputation which she had already attained. Even by her severest critics, and even now when whatever slight recrudescence of biographical interest may have taken place in her, her works are little read, Corinne is ranked next to De l'Allemagne as her greatest production; while as a work of form, not of matter, as literature of power, not of knowledge, it has at last a chance of enduring when its companion is but a historical document—the record of a moment that has long passed away.

The advocates of the milieu theory—the theory which will have it that you can explain almost the whole of any work of art by examining the circumstances, history, and so forth of the artist—have a better chance with Corinne than with many books, though those who disagree with them (as I own that I do) may retort that this was precisely because Madame de Stael in literature has little idiosyncracy, and is a receptive, not a creative, force. The moment at which this book was composed and appeared had really many of the characteristics of crisis and climax in the life of the author. She was bidding adieu to youth; and though her talents, her wealth, her great reputation, and her indomitable determination to surround herself with admirers still made her a sort of queen of society, some illusions at least must have been passing from her. The most serious of her many passions, that for Benjamin Constant, was coming, though it had not yet come, to an end. Her father, whom she unfeignedly idolised, was not long dead. The conviction must have been for some time forcing itself on her, though she did not even yet give up hope, that Napoleon's resolve not to allow her presence in her still more idolised Paris was unconquerable. Her husband, who indeed had long been nothing to her, was dead also, and the fancy for replacing him with the boy Rocca had not yet arisen. The influence of the actual chief of her usual herd of lovers, courtiers, teachers, friends (to use whichever term, or combination of terms, the charitable reader pleases), A.W. Schlegel, though it never could incline her innately unpoetical and unreligious mind to either poetry or religion, drove her towards æsthetics of one kind and another. Lastly, the immense intellectual excitement of her visits to Weimar, Berlin, and Italy, added its stimulus to produce a fresh intellectual ferment in her. On the purely intellectual side the result was De l'Allemagne, which does not concern us; on the side of feeling, tinged with æsthetic philosophy, of study of the archaic and the picturesque illuminated by emotion—the result was Corinne.

If there had been only one difference between this and its author's earlier attempt at novel-writing, that difference would have given Corinne a great advantage. Delphine had been irreverently described by Sydney Smith, when it appeared a few years earlier, as "this dismal trash which has nearly dislocated the jaws of every critic with gaping." The Whigs had not then taken up Madame de Stael, as they did afterwards, or it is quite certain that Mr Sydney would not have been allowed to exercise such Britannic frankness. Corinne met with gentler treatment from his friends, if not from himself. Sir James Mackintosh, in particular, was full of the wildest enthusiasm about it, though he admitted that it was "full of faults so obvious as not to be worth mentioning." It must be granted to be in more than one, or two important points a very great advance on Delphine. One is that the easy and illegitimate source of interest which is drawn upon in the earlier book is here quite neglected. Delphine presents the eternal French situation of the "triangle;" the line of Corinne is straight, and the only question is which pair of three points it is to unite in an honourable way. A French biographer of Madame de Stael, who is not only an excellent critic and an extremely clever writer, but a historian of great weight and acuteness, M. Albert Sorel, has indeed admitted that both Léonce, the hero of Delphine, who will not make himself and his beloved happy because he has an objection to divorcing his wife, and Lord Nelvil, who refuses either to seduce or to marry the woman who loves him and whom he loves, are equal donkeys with a national difference. Léonce is more of a "fool;" Lord Nelvil more of a "snob." It is something to find a Frenchman who will admit that any national characteristic is foolish: I could have better reciprocated M. Sorel's candour if he had used the word "prig" instead of "snob" of Lord Nelvil. But indeed I have often suspected that Frenchmen confuse these two engaging attributes of the Britannic nature.

A "higher moral tone" (as the phrase goes) is not the only advantage which Corinne possesses over its forerunner. Delphine is almost avowedly autobiographical; and though Madame de Stael had the wit and the prudence to mix and perplex her portraits and her reminiscences so that it was nearly impossible to fit definite caps on the personages, there could be no doubt that Delphine was herself—as she at least would have liked to be—drawn as close as she dared. These personalities have in the hands of the really great masters of fiction sometimes produced astonishing results; but no one probably would contend that Madame de Stael was a born novelist. Although Delphine has many more personages and much more action of the purely novel kind than Corinne, it is certainly not an interesting book; I think, though I have been reproached for, to say the least, lacking fervour as a Staelite, that Corinne is.

But it is by no means unimportant that intending readers should know the sort of interest that they are to expect from this novel; and for that purpose it is almost imperative that they should know what kind of person was this novelist. A good deal of biographical pains has been spent, as has been already more than once hinted, on Madame de Stael. She was most undoubtedly of European reputation in her day; and between her day and this, quite independently of the real and unquestionable value of her work, a high estimate of her has been kept current by the fact that her daughter was the wife of Duke Victor and the mother of Duke Albert of Broglie, and that so a proper respect for her has been a necessary passport to favour in one of the greatest political and academic houses of France; while another not much less potent in both ways, that of the Counts d'Haussonville, also represents her. Still people, and especially English people, have so many non-literary things to think of, that it may not be quite unpardonable to supply that conception of the life of Anne Louise Germaine Necker, Baroness of Stael-Holstein, which is so necessary to the understanding of Corinne, and which may, in possible cases, be wanting.

She was born on the 22nd of April 1766, and was, as probably everybody knows, the daughter of the Swiss financier, Necker, whom the French Revolution first exalted to almost supreme power in France, and then cast off—fortunately for him, in a less tragical fashion than that in which it usually cast off its favourites. Her mother was Suzanne Curchod, the first love of Gibbon, a woman of a delicate beauty, of very considerable mental and social faculties, a kind of puritanical coquette, but devoted to her (by all accounts not particularly interesting) husband. Indeed, mother and daughter are said to have been from a very early period jealous of each other in relation to Necker. Germaine, as she was generally called, had, unluckily for her, inherited nothing of her mother's delicacy of form and feature; indeed, her most rapturous admirers never dared to claim much physical beauty for her, except a pair of fine, though unfeminine, eyes. She was rather short than tall; her figure was square-set and heavy; her features, though not exactly ill-formed, matched her figure; her arms were massive, though not ill-shaped; and she was altogether distinctly what the French call hommasse. Nevertheless, her great wealth, and the high position of her father, attracted suitors, some of whom at least may not have overlooked the intellectual ability which she began very early to display. There was talk of her marrying William Pitt, but either Pitt's well-known "dislike of the fair," or some other reason, foiled the project. After one or two other negotiations she made a match which was not destined to good fortune, and which does not strike most observers as a very tempting one in any respect, though it carried with it some exceptional and rather eccentric guarantees for that position at court and in society on which Germaine was set. The King of Sweden, Gustavus, whose family oddity had taken, among less excusable forms, that of a platonic devotion to Marie Antoinette, gave a sort of perpetual brevet of his ministry at Paris to the Baron de Stael-Holstein, a nobleman of little fortune and fair family. This served, using clerical language, as his "title" to marriage with Germaine Necker. Such a marriage could not be expected to, and did not, turn out very well; but it did not turn out as ill as it might have done. Except that M. de Stael was rather extravagant (which he probably supposed he had bought the right to be) nothing serious is alleged against him; and though more than one thing serious might be alleged against his wife, it is doubtful whether either contracting party thought this out of the bargain. For business reasons, chiefly, a separation was effected between the pair in 1798, but they were nominally reconciled four years later, just before Stael's death.

Meanwhile the Revolution broke out, and Madame de Stael, who, as she was bound to do, had at first approved it, disapproved totally of the Terror, tried to save the Queen, and fled herself from France to England. Here she lived in Surrey with a questionable set of émigrés, made the acquaintance of Miss Burney, and in consequence of the unconventionalities of her relations, especially with M. de Narbonne, received, from English society generally, a cold shoulder, which she has partly avenged, or tried to avenge, in Corinne itself. She had already written, or was soon to write, a good deal, but nothing of the first importance. Then she went to Coppet, her father's place, on the Lake of Geneva, which she was later to render so famous; and under the Directory was enabled to resume residence in Paris, though she was more than once under suspicion. It was at this time that she met Benjamin Constant, the future brilliant orator, and author of Adolphe, the only man perhaps whom she ever really loved, but, unluckily, a man whom it was by no means good to love. For some years she oscillated contentedly enough between Coppet and Paris. But the return of Bonaparte from Egypt was unlucky for her. Her boundless ambition, which, with her love of society, was her strongest passion, made her conceive the idea of fascinating him, and through him ruling the world. Napoleon, to use familiar English, "did not see it." When he liked women he liked them pretty and feminine; he had not the faintest idea of admitting any kind of partner in his glory; he had no literary taste; and not only did Madame de Stael herself meddle with politics, but her friend, Constant, under the Consulate, chose to give himself airs of opposition in the English sense. Moreover, she still wrote, and Bonaparte disliked and dreaded everyone who wrote with any freedom. Her book, De la Littérature, in 1800, was taken as a covert attack on the Napoleonic régime; her father shortly after republished another on finance and politics, which was disliked; and the success of Delphine, in 1803, put the finishing touch to the petty hatred of any kind of rival superiority which distinguished the Corsican more than any other man of equal genius. Madame de Stael was ordered not to approach within forty leagues of Paris, and this exile, with little softening and some excesses of rigour, lasted till the return of the Bourbons.

Then it was that the German and Italian journeys already mentioned (the death of M. Necker happening between them and recalling his daughter from the first) led to the writing of Corinne.

A very few words before we turn to the consideration of the book, as a book and by itself, may appropriately finish all that need be said here about the author's life. After the publication of Corinne she returned to Germany, and completed the observation which she thought necessary for the companion book De l'Allemagne. Its publication in 1810, when she had foolishly kindled afresh the Emperor's jealousy by appearing with her usual "tail" of worshippers or parasites as near Paris as she was permitted, completed her disgrace. She was ordered back to Coppet: her book was seized and destroyed. Then Albert de Rocca, a youth of twenty-three, who had seen some service, made his appearance at Geneva. Early in 1811, Madame de Stael, now aged forty-five, married him secretly. She was, or thought herself, more and more persecuted by Napoleon; she feared that Rocca might be ordered off on active duty, and she fled first to Vienna, then to St Petersburg, then to Stockholm, and so to England. Here she was received with ostentatious welcome and praises by the Whigs; with politeness by everybody; with more or less concealed terror by the best people, who found her rhapsodies and her political dissertations equally boring. Here too she was unlucky enough to express the opinion that Miss Austen's books were vulgar. The fall of Napoleon brought her back to Paris; and after the vicissitudes of 1814-15, enabled her to establish herself there for the short remainder of her life, with the interruption only of visits to Coppet and to Italy. She died on the 13th July 1817: her two last works, Dix Années d'Exil and the posthumous Considérations sur La Révolution Française, being admittedly of considerable interest, and not despicable even by those who do not think highly of her political talents.

And now to Corinne, unhampered and perhaps a little helped by this survey of its author's character, career, and compositions. The heterogeneous nature of its plan can escape no reader long; and indeed is pretty frankly confessed by its title. It is a love story doubled with a guide-book: an eighteenth-century romance of "sensibility" blended with a transition or even nineteenth-century diatribe of æsthetics and "culture." If only the first of these two labels were applicable to it, its case would perhaps be something more gracious than it is; for there are more unfavourable situations for cultivating the affections, than in connection with the contemplation of the great works of art and nature, and it is possible to imagine many more disagreeable ciceroni than a lover of whichever sex. But Corinne and Nelvil (whom our contemporary translator[1] has endeavoured to acclimatise a little more by Anglicising his name further to Nelville), do not content themselves with making love in the congenial neighbourhoods of Tiber or Pœstum, or in the stimulating presence of the masterpieces of modern and ancient art. A purpose, and a double purpose, it might almost be said, animates the book. It aims at displaying "sensibility so charming"—the strange artificial eighteenth-century conception of love which is neither exactly flirtation nor exactly passion, which sets convention at defiance, but retains its own code of morality; at exhibiting the national differences, as Madame de Stael conceived them, of the English and French and Italian temperaments; and at preaching the new cult of æsthetics whereof Lessing and Winckelmann, Gœthe, and Schlegel, were in different ways and degrees the apostles. And it seems to have been generally admitted, even by the most fervent admirers of Madame de Stael and of Corinne itself, that the first purpose has not had quite fair play with the other two. "A little thin," they confess of the story. In truth it could hardly be thinner, though the author has laid under contribution an at least ample share of the improbabilities and coincidences of romance.

Nelvil, an English-Scottish peer who has lost his father, who accuses himself of disobedience and ingratitude to that father, and who has been grievously jilted by a Frenchwoman, arrives in Italy in a large black cloak, the deepest melancholy, and the company of a sprightly though penniless French émigré, the Count d'Erfeuil. After performing prodigies of valour in a fire at Ancona, he reaches Rome just when a beautiful and mysterious poetess, the delight of Roman society, is being crowned on the Capitol. The only name she is known by is Corinne. The pair are soon introduced by the mercurial Erfeuil, and promptly fall in love with each other, Corinne seeking partly to fix her hold on Nelvil, partly to remove his Britannic contempt for Italy and the Italians, by guiding him to all the great spectacles of Rome and indeed of the country generally, and by explaining to him at great length what she understands of the general theory of æsthetics, of Italian history, and of the contrasted character of the chief European nations. Nelvil on his side is distracted between the influence of the beauty, genius, and evident passion of Corinne, and his English prejudices; while the situation is further complicated by the regulation discovery that Corinne, though born in Italy of an Italian mother, is, strictly speaking, his own compatriot, being the elder and lawful daughter of a British peer, Lord Edgermond, his father's closest friend. Nay more, he had always been destined to wed this very girl; and it was only after her father's second marriage with an Englishwoman that the younger and wholly English daughter, Lucile, was substituted in the paternal schemes as his destined spouse. He hears, on the other hand, how Corinne had visited her fatherland and her step-mother, how she had found both intolerable, and how she had in a modified and decent degree "thrown her cap over the mill" by returning to Italy to live an independent life as a poetess, an improvisatrice, and, at least in private, an actress.

It is not necessary to supply fuller argument of the text which follows, and of which, when the reader has got this length, he is not likely to let the dénoûment escape him. But the action of Corinne gets rather slowly under weigh; and I have known those who complained that they found the book hard to read because they were so long in coming to any clear notion of "what it was all about." Therefore so much argument as has been given seems allowable.

But we ought by this time to have laid sufficient foundation to make it not rash to erect a small superstructure of critical comment on the book now once more submitted to English readers. Of that book I own that I was myself a good many years ago, and for a good many years, a harsh and even a rather unfair judge. I do not know whether years have brought me the philosophic mind, or whether the book—itself, as has been said, the offspring of middle-aged emotions—appeals more directly to a middle-aged than to a young judgment. To the young of its own time and the times immediately succeeding it appealed readily enough, and scarcely Byron himself (who was not a little influenced by it) had more to do with the Italomania of Europe in the second quarter of this century than Madame de Stael.

The faults of the novel indeed are those which impress themselves (as Mackintosh, we have seen, allowed) immediately and perhaps excessively. M. Sorel observes of its companion sententiously but truly, "Si le style de Delphine semble vieilli, c'est qu'il a été jeune." If not merely the style but the sentiment, the whole properties and the whole stage management of Corinne seem out of date now, it is only because they were up to date then. It is easy to laugh—not perhaps very easy to abstain from laughing—at the "schall" twisted in Corinne's hair, where even contemporaries mocked the hideous turban with which Madame de Stael chose to bedizen her not too beautiful head; at Nelvil's inky cloak; at the putting out of the fire; at the queer stilted half-Ossianic, half-German rants put in the poetess's mouth; at the endless mingling of gallantry and pedantry; at the hesitations of Nelvil; at the agonies of Corinne. When French critics tell us that as they allow the good-humoured satire on the Count d'Erfeuil to be just, we ought to do the same in reference to the "cant Britannique" of Nelvil and of the Edgermond circle, we can only respectfully answer that we should not presume to dispute their judgment in the first case, but that they really must leave us to ours in the second. As a matter of fact, Madame de Stael's goody English characters, are rather like Miss Edgeworth's naughty French ones in Leonora and elsewhere—clever generalisations from a little observation and a great deal of preconceived idea, not studies from the life.

But this (and a great deal more that might be said if it were not something like petty treason in an introduction-writer thus to play the devil's advocate against his author) matters comparatively little, and leaves enough in Corinne to furnish forth a book almost great, interesting without any "almost," and remarkable as a not very large shelf-ful in the infinite library of modern fiction deserves remark. For the passion of its two chief characters, however oddly, and to us unfashionably, presented, however lacking in the commanding and perennial qualities which make us indifferent to fashion in the work of the greatest masters, is real. And it is perhaps only after a pretty long study of literature that one perceives how very little real passion books, even pretty good books, contain, how much of what at times seems to us passionate in them owes its appeal to accident, mode, and the personal equation. Of the highest achievement of art—that which avails itself of, but subdues, personal thought and feeling in the elaboration of a perfectly live character—Madame de Stael was indeed incapable. But in the second order—that which, availing itself of, but not subduing, the personal element, keeps enough of its veracity and lively force to enliven a composite structure of character—she has here produced very noteworthy studies. Corinne is a very fair embodiment of the beauty which her author would so fain have had; of the youthful ardour which she had once actually possessed; of the ideas and cults to which she was sincerely enough devoted; of the instruction and talent which unquestionably distinguished her. And it is not, I think, fanciful to discover in this heroine, with all her "Empire" artifice and convention, all her smack of the theatre and the salon, a certain live quiver and throb, which, as has been already hinted, may be traced to the combined working in Madame de Stael's mind and heart of the excitements of foreign travel, the zest of new studies, new scenes, new company, with the chill regret for lost or passing youth and love, and the chillier anticipation of coming old age and death. It is a commonplace of psychology that in shocks and contrasts of this kind the liveliest workings of the imagination and the emotions are to be expected. If we once establish the contact and complete the circle, and feel something of the actual thrill that animated the author, we shall, I think, feel disposed to forgive Corinne many things—from the dress and attitude which recall that admirable frontispiece of Pickersgill's to Miss Austen's Emma, where Harriet Smith poses in rapt attitude with "schall" or scarf complete, to that more terrible portrait of Madame de Stael herself which editors with remorseless ferocity will persist in prefixing to her works, and especially to Corinne. We shall consent to sweep away all the fatras and paraphernalia of the work, and to see in the heroine a real woman enough—loving, not unworthy of being loved, unfortunate, and very undeserving of her ill fortune. We shall further see that besides other excuses for the mere guide-book detail, the enthusiasm for Italy which partly prompted it was genuine enough and very interesting as a sign of the times—of the approach of a period of what we may call popularised learning, culture, sentiment. In some respects Corinne is not merely a guide-book to Italy; it is a guide-book by prophecy to the nineteenth century.

The minor characters are a very great deal less interesting than Corinne herself, but they are not despicable, and they set off the heroine and carry out what story there is well enough. Nelvil of course is a thing shreddy and patchy enough. He reminds us by turns of Chateaubriand's René and Rousseau's Bomston, both of whom Madame de Stael of course knew; of Mackenzie's Man of Feeling, with whom she was very probably acquainted; but most of no special, even bookish, progenitor, but of a combination of theoretic deductions from supposed properties of man in general and Englishman in particular. Of Englishmen in particular Madame de Stael knew little more than a residence (chiefly in émigré society) for a short time in England, and occasional meetings elsewhere, could teach her. Of men in general her experience had been a little unfortunate. Her father had probity, financial skill, and, I suppose, a certain amount of talent in other directions; but while he must have had some domestic virtues he was a wooden pedant. Her husband hardly counted for more in her life than her maître d'hôtel, and though there seems to have been no particular harm in him, had no special talents and no special virtues. Her first regular lover, Narbonne, was a handsome, dignified, heartless roué of the old régime. Her second, Benjamin Constant, was a man of genius, and capable of passionate if inconstant attachment, but also what his own generation in England called a thorough "raff"—selfish, treacherous, fickle, incapable of considering either the happiness or the reputation of women, theatrical in his ways and language, venal, insolent, ungrateful. Schlegel, though he too had some touch of genius in him, was half pedant, half coxcomb, and full of intellectual and moral faultiness. The rest of her mighty herd of male friends and hangers-on ranged from Mathieu de Montmorency—of whom, in the words of Medora Trevilian it may be said, that he was "only an excellent person"—through respectable savants like Sismondi and Dumont, down to a very low level of toady and tuft-hunter. It is rather surprising that with such models and with no supreme creative faculty she should have been able to draw such creditable walking gentlemen as the Frenchman Erfeuil, the Englishman Edgermond, and the Italian Castel-Forte; and should not have produced a worse hero than Nelvil. For Nelvil, whatever faults he may have, and contemptible as his vacillating refusal to take the goods the gods provide him may be, is, after all, if not quite a live man, an excellent model of what a considerable number of the men of his time aimed at being, and would have liked to be. He is not a bit less life-like than Byron's usual hero for instance, who probably owes not a little to him.

And so we get to a fresh virtue of Corinne, or rather we reach its main virtue by a different side. It has an immense historical value as showing the temper, the aspirations, the ideas, and in a way the manners of a certain time and society. A book which does this can never wholly lose its interest; it must always retain that interest in a great measure, for those who are able to appreciate it. And it must interest them far more keenly, when, besides this secondary and, so to speak, historical merit, it exhibits such veracity in the portraiture of emotion, as, whatever be its drawbacks, whatever its little temptations to ridicule, distinguishes the hapless, and, when all is said, the noble and pathetic figure of Corinne.

George Saintsbury.

FOOTNOTE:

[1] I am creditor neither to praise nor to blame for this translation, which is the old English version brought out in the same year as the original, but corrected by another hand for the present edition in the pretty numerous points where it was lax or unintelligent in actual rendering. In the places which I have compared, it seems to me to present that original very fairly now; and I am by no means sure that an excessively artificial style like that of the French Empire is not best left to contemporaries to reproduce. At any rate, a really good new translation of Corinne would be a task unlikely to be achieved except by rather exceptional talents working in labour of love: and I cannot blame the publishers of this issue for not waiting till such a translator appeared.

Book i.

OSWALD.

CORINNE.

Chapter i.

Oswald, Lord Nelville, Peer of Scotland, quitted Edinburgh for Italy during the winter of 1794-5. He possessed a noble and handsome figure, an abundance of wit, an illustrious name, and an independent fortune, but his health was impaired by deeply-rooted sorrow, and his physicians, fearing that his lungs were attacked, had prescribed him the air of the South. Though indifferent as to the preservation of his life, he followed their advice. He expected, at least, to find in the diversity of objects he was about to see, something that might divert his mind from the melancholy that preyed upon it. The most exquisite of griefs—the loss of a father—was the cause of his malady; this was heightened by cruel circumstances, which, together with a remorse inspired by delicate scruples, increased his anguish, which was still further aggravated by the phantoms of the imagination. Those who suffer, easily persuade themselves that they are guilty, and violent grief will extend its painful influence even to the conscience.

At twenty-five years of age he was dissatisfied with life, his mind anticipated every thing that it could afford, and his wounded sensibility no longer enjoyed the illusions of the heart. Nobody appeared more complacent, more devoted to his friends when he was able to render them service; but not even the good he performed could afford him a pleasurable sensation.

He incessantly sacrificed his own taste to that of others; but it was impossible to explain, upon principles of generosity alone, this total abnegation of every selfish feeling, most frequently to be attributed to that species of sadness which no longer permitted him to take any interest in his own fate. Those indifferent to him enjoyed this disposition so full of benignity and charm; but those who loved him perceived that he sought the happiness of others like a man who no longer expected any himself; and they almost experienced a pain from his conferring a felicity for which it was impossible to make him a return in kind.

He was, notwithstanding, of a nature susceptible of emotion, sensibility and passion; he combined every thing that could evoke enthusiasm in others and in himself; but misfortune and repentance had taught him to tremble at that destiny whose anger he sought to disarm by forbearing to solicit any favour at her hands.

He expected to find in a strict attachment to all his duties, and in a renunciation of every lively enjoyment, a security against those pangs that tear the soul. What he had experienced struck fear into his heart; and nothing this world can afford, could, in his estimation, compensate the risk of those sufferings; but when one is capable of feeling them, what mode of life can shelter us from their power?

Lord Nelville flattered himself that he should be able to quit Scotland without regret, since he resided in it without pleasure; but the unhappy imagination of the children of sensibility is not so formed: he did not suspect what ties attached him to those scenes which were most painful to him,—to the home of his father. There were in this habitation, chambers, places, which he could not approach without shuddering, and, nevertheless, when he resolved to quit them, he felt himself still more solitary. His heart became dried up; he was no longer able to give vent to his sufferings in tears; he could no longer call up those little local circumstances which affected him deeply; his recollections no longer possessed anything of the vivid semblance of real existence; they were no longer in affinity with the objects that surrounded him; he did not think less on him whose loss he lamented, but he found it more difficult to recall his presence.

Sometimes also he reproached himself for abandoning those abodes where his father had dwelt. "Who knows," said he to himself, "whether the shades of the departed are allowed to pursue every where the objects of their affection? Perhaps it is only permitted them to wander about the spot where their ashes repose! Perhaps at this moment my father regrets me, while distance prevents my hearing his voice exerted to recall his son. Alas! while he was living must not a concourse of strange events have persuaded him that I had betrayed his tenderness, that I was a rebel to my country, to his paternal will, to everything that is sacred on earth?"—These recollections excited in Lord Nelville a grief so insupportable that not only was he unable to confide it to others, but even dreaded himself to sound it to the bottom. So easily do our own reflections become to us an irreparable evil.

It costs us more to quit our native country when to leave it we must traverse the sea; all is solemn in a journey of which ocean marks the first steps. An abyss seems to open behind you, and to render your return for ever impossible. Besides, the sublime spectacle which the sea presents must always make a deep impression on the imagination; it is the image of that Infinity which continually attracts our thoughts, that run incessantly to lose themselves in it. Oswald, supporting himself on the helm, his eyes fixed on the waves, was apparently calm, for his pride, united to his timidity, would scarcely ever permit him to discover, even to his friends, what he felt; but he was internally racked with the most painful emotions.

He brought to mind the time when the sight of the sea animated his youth with the desire of plunging into her waves, and measuring his force against her's.—"Why," said he to himself, with the most bitter regret, "why do I yield so unremittingly to reflection? How many pleasures are there in active life, in those exercises which make us feel the energy of existence? Death itself then appears but an event, perhaps glorious, at least sudden, and not preceded by decline. But that death which comes without having been sought by courage, that death of darkness which steals from you in the night all that you hold most dear, which despises your lamentations, repulses your embrace, and pitilessly, opposes to you the eternal laws of nature and of time! such a death inspires a sort of contempt for human destiny, for the impotence of grief, for all those vain efforts that dash and break themselves upon the rock of necessity."

Such were the sentiments that tormented Oswald; and what particularly characterised his unhappy situation, was the vivacity of youth united to thoughts of another age. He entered into those ideas which he conceived must have occupied his father's mind in the last moments of his life; and he carried the ardour of twenty-five into the melancholy reflections of old age. He was weary of every thing, and yet still regretted happiness, as if her illusions were still within his grasp. This contrast, quite in hostility with the ordinance of nature, which gives uniformity and graduation to the natural course of things, threw the soul of Oswald into disorder; but his manners always possessed considerable sweetness and harmony, and his sadness, far from souring his temper, only inspired him with more condescension and goodness towards others.

Two or three times during the passage from Harwich to Empden the sea put on the appearance of approaching storm; Lord Nelville counselled the sailors, restored confidence to the passengers, and when he himself assisted in working the ship, when he took for a moment the place of the steersman, there was in all he did, a skill and a power which could not be considered as merely the effect of the agility of the body,—there was soul in all that he did.

On his quitting the vessel all the crew crowded around Oswald to take leave of him; they all thanked him for a thousand little services which he had rendered them during the voyage, and which he no longer remembered. Upon one occasion, perhaps, it was a child which had occupied a large share of his attention; more often an old man, whose tottering steps he had supported when the wind agitated the ship. Such a general attention, without any regard to rank or quality, was perhaps never met with. During the whole day he would scarcely bestow a single moment upon himself: influenced alike by melancholy and benevolence, he gave his whole time to others. On leaving him the sailors said to him with one voice, "My dear Lord, may you be more happy!" Oswald had not once expressed the internal pain he felt; and the men of another rank, who had accompanied him in his passage, had not spoken a word to him on that subject. But the common people, in whom their superiors rarely confide, accustom themselves to discover sentiments and feelings by other means than speech: they pity you when you suffer, though they are ignorant of the cause of your grief, and their spontaneous pity is unmixed with either blame or advice.

Chapter ii.

Travelling, whatever may be said of it, is one of the saddest pleasures of life. When you find yourself comfortable in some foreign city it begins to feel, in some degree, like your own country; but to traverse unknown realms, to hear a language spoken which you hardly comprehend, to see human countenances which have no connection either with your past recollections or future prospects, is solitude and isolation, without dignity and without repose; for that eagerness, that haste to arrive where nobody expects us, that agitation, of which curiosity is the only cause, inspires us with very little esteem for ourselves, till the moment when new objects become a little old, and create around us some soft ties of sentiment and habit.

The grief of Oswald was, then, redoubled in traversing Germany in order to repair to Italy. On account of the war it was necessary to avoid France and its environs; it was also necessary to keep aloof from the armies who rendered the roads impracticable. This necessity of occupying his mind with particulars material to the journey, of adopting, every day, and almost every instant, some new resolution, was quite insupportable to Lord Nelville. His health, far from becoming better, often obliged him to stop, when he felt the strongest desire to hasten to his journey's end or at least to make a start. He spat blood, and took scarcely any care of himself; for he believed himself guilty, and became his own accuser with too great a degree of severity. He no longer wished for life but as it might become instrumental to the defence of his country. "Has not our country," said he, "some paternal claims upon us? But we should have the power to serve it usefully: we must not offer it such a debilitated existence as I drag along to ask of the sun some principle of life to enable me to struggle against my miseries. None but a father would receive me to his bosom, under such circumstances, with affection increased in proportion as I was abandoned by nature and by destiny."

Lord Nelville had flattered himself that the continual variety of external objects would distract his imagination a little from those ideas by which it was habitually occupied; but that circumstance was far from producing, at first, this happy effect. After any great misfortune we must become familiarised anew with everything that surrounds us; accustom ourselves to the faces that we behold again, to the house in which we dwell, to the daily habits that we resume; each of these efforts is a painful shock, and nothing multiplies them like a journey.

The only pleasure of Lord Nelville was to traverse the Tirolese Mountains upon a Scotch horse which he had brought with him, and which like the horses of that country ascended heights at a gallop: he quitted the high road in order to proceed by the most steep paths. The astonished peasants cried out at first with terror at beholding him thus upon the very brink of precipices, then clapped their hands in admiration of his address, his agility, and his courage. Oswald was fond of this sensation of danger; it supports the weight of affliction, it reconciles us, for a moment, with that life which we have reconquered, and which it so easy to lose.

Chapter iii.

In the town of Inspruck, before entering Italy, Oswald heard a merchant at whose house he had stopped some time, relate the story of a French emigré called the Count d'Erfeuil, which greatly interested him in his favour. This man had suffered the entire loss of a very large fortune with the most perfect serenity; he had, by his talent for music, supported himself and an old uncle, whom he had taken care of until his death; he had constantly refused to accept offers of pecuniary assistance pressingly made to him; he had manifested the most brilliant valour—a French valour—during the war, and the most invincible gaiety in the midst of reverses. He was desirous of going to Rome to see a relation, whose heir he was to be, and wished for a companion, or rather a friend, in order to render the journey more agreeable to both.

The most bitter recollections of Lord Nelville were connected with France; nevertheless he was exempt from those prejudices which divide the two nations; for a Frenchman had been his intimate friend, and he had found in this friend the most admirable union of all the qualities of the soul. He, therefore, offered to the merchant who related to him the story of the Count d'Erfeuil, to take this noble and unfortunate young man to Italy; and at the end of an hour the merchant came to inform Lord Nelville that his proposition was accepted with gratitude. Oswald was happy in being able to perform this service, but it cost him much to renounce his solitude; and his timidity was wounded at finding himself, all of a sudden, in an habitual relation with a man whom he did not know.

The Count d'Erfeuil came to pay a visit to Lord Nelville, in order to thank him. He possessed elegant manners, an easy politeness, good taste, and appeared, from the very first introduction, perfectly at his ease. In his company one would feel astonished at all that he had suffered, for he supported his fate with a courage approaching to oblivion; and there was in his conversation a facility truly admirable when he spoke of his own reverses; but less admirable, it must be confessed, when it extended to other subjects.

"I owe you infinite obligation, my lord," said the Count d'Erfeuil, "for rescuing me from this Germany, where I was perishing with ennui." "You are here, nevertheless," replied Lord Nelville, "generally beloved and esteemed." "I have friends here," replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "whom I sincerely regret; for we meet in this country the best people in the world; but I do not know a word of German, and you will agree with me that it would be too long and fatiguing a task for me to set about learning it now. Since I have had the misfortune to lose my uncle I do not know what to do with my time, when I had the care of him it filled up my day, at present the twenty-four hours weigh heavily upon my hands." "The delicacy of your conduct towards your uncle," said Lord Nelville, "inspires everybody with the most profound esteem for your character, Count." "I have only done my duty," replied the Count d'Erfeuil; "the poor man had overwhelmed me with kindnesses during my childhood; I should never have deserted him had he lived a hundred years! But it is happy for him, however, that he is dead; it would be a happy thing for me also were I to follow him," added he, laughing; "for I have not much hope in this world. I used my best endeavours, during the war, to get killed; but, since fate has spared me, I must only live as well as I can." "I shall congratulate myself on my arrival here," answered Lord Nelville, "if you find yourself comfortable at Rome, and if—" "Oh, mon Dieu," interrupted the Count d'Erfeuil, "I shall find myself comfortable every where: when we are young and gay every thing accommodates itself to us. It is not from books, nor from meditation, that I have derived the philosophy which I possess, but from knowledge of the world, and trials of misfortune; and you see, my lord, that I have reason to reckon upon chance, since it has procured me the honour of travelling with you." In finishing these words the Count d'Erfeuil saluted Lord Nelville with the best grace in the world, settled the hour of departure for the following day, and took his leave.

The Count d'Erfeuil and Lord Nelville set out on the morrow. Oswald, after some expressions of politeness had passed between them, was several hours without saying a word; but perceiving that this silence was disagreeable to his companion, he asked him if he anticipated pleasure from a residence in Italy: "Mon Dieu," replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "I know what I have to expect from that country. I have no hope of any amusement there: a friend of mine, who had passed six months at Rome, has assured me there is not a province of France where one may not find a better theatre and a more agreeable society than at Rome, but in that ancient capital of the world I shall surely find some Frenchmen to chat with, and that is all I desire." "You have not attempted to learn Italian?" interrupted Oswald. "Not at all," replied the Count d'Erfeuil; "that did not enter into my plan of study." And in saying this he assumed such a serious air that one would have believed it was a resolution founded upon grave motives.

"If I may speak my mind to you," continued the Count d'Erfeuil, "as a nation, I love only the English and the French, one must either be proud like them or brilliant like us; all the rest is only imitation." Oswald was silent; the Count d'Erfeuil some moments after resumed the conversation by the most lively sallies of wit and gaiety. He played with words and phrases in a very ingenious manner, but neither external objects nor intimate sentiments were the object of his discourse. His conversation proceeded, if it may be so expressed, neither from without nor within; it was neither reflective nor imaginative, and the bare relations of society were its subject.

He repeated twenty proper names to Lord Nelville, either in France, or in England, to know if he was acquainted with them, and related upon this occasion highly seasoned anecdotes with a most graceful turn; but one would have said, in hearing him, that the only discourse suitable to a man of taste was, to use the expression, the gossip of good company.

Lord Nelville reflected some time on the character of Count d'Erfeuil; that singular mixture of courage and frivolity, that contempt of misfortune, so great if it had cost more efforts, so heroic if it did not proceed from the same source that renders us incapable of deep affections. "An Englishman," said Oswald to himself, "would be weighed down with sadness under similar circumstances.—Whence proceeds the resolution of this Frenchman? Whence proceeds also his mobility? Does the Count d'Erfeuil then truly understand the art of living? Is it only my own disordered mind that whispers to me I am superior to him? Does his light existence accord better than mine with the rapidity of human life? And must we shun reflection as an enemy, instead of giving up our whole soul to it?" Vainly would Oswald have cleared up those doubts; no one can escape from the intellectual region allotted him; and qualities are still more difficult to subdue than defects.

The Count d'Erfeuil paid no attention to Italy, and rendered it almost impossible for Lord Nelville to bestow a thought upon it; for he incessantly distracted him from that disposition of mind which excites admiration of a fine country, and gives a relish for its picturesque charms. Oswald listened as much as he could to the noise of the wind and to the murmuring of the waves; for all the voices of nature conveyed more gratification to his soul than he could possibly receive from the social conversation indulged in at the foot of the Alps, among the ruins, and on the borders of the sea.

The sadness which consumed Oswald would have opposed fewer obstacles to the pleasure which he could have derived from Italy than the gaiety of Count d'Erfeuil, the sorrows of a sensitive mind will blend with the contemplation of nature and the enjoyment of the fine arts; but frivolity, in whatever form it presents itself, deprives attention of its force, thought of its originality, and sentiment of its profundity. One of the singular effects of this frivolity was to inspire Lord Nelville with a great deal of timidity in his intercourse with Count d'Erfeuil: embarrassment is nearly always on the side of him whose character is the more serious. Mental levity imposes upon the mind habitually disposed to meditation, and he who proclaims himself happy, appears wiser than he who suffers.

The Count d'Erfeuil was mild, obliging, and easy in every thing; serious only in self love, and worthy of being regarded as he regarded others; that is to say, as a good companion of pleasures and of perils; but he had no idea whatever of sharing sorrows: he was wearied to death with the melancholy of Oswald, and, as much from goodness of heart as from taste, was desirous of dissipating it.

"What is it you find wanting?" said he to him often; "are you not young, rich, and if you choose, in good health? for you are only ill because you are sad. For my part I have lost my fortune, my existence: I know not in fact what will become of me; nevertheless I enjoy life as if I possessed all the prosperity that earth can afford." "You are endowed with a courage as rare as it is honourable," replied Lord Nelville; "but the reverses which you have experienced are less injurious in their consequences than the grief which preys upon the heart." "The grief which preys upon the heart," cried the Count d'Erfeuil; "Oh! it is true, that is the most cruel of all;—but—but yet we should console ourselves under it; for a sensible man ought to drive away from his soul every thing that can neither be useful to others nor to himself. Are we not here below to be useful first and happy afterwards? My dear Nelville let us hold to that."

What the Count d'Erfeuil said was reasonable, according to the general import of the word, for it savoured a good deal of what is usually called common sense: passionate characters are much more capable of folly than cool and superficial ones; but so far was the Count d'Erfeuil's mode of feeling from exciting the confidence of Lord Nelville that he would gladly have convinced him he was the most happy of men in order to avoid the pain which his consolation gave him.

However the Count became greatly attached to Lord Nelville: his resignation and his simplicity, his modesty and his pride, inspired him with an involuntary respect for his character. He was concerned at the calm exterior of Oswald; he ransacked his head to bring to recollection all the most grave sayings which, in his childhood, he had heard from his aged parents, in order to try their effect upon Lord Nelville; and, quite astonished at not overcoming his apparent coldness, he said to himself: "Do I not possess courage, goodness, and openness of disposition? Am I not beloved in society? What is it then that I want to make an impression upon this man? There surely must be some misunderstanding between us which probably arises from his not understanding French sufficiently well."

Chapter iv.

An unforeseen circumstance greatly increased the sentiment of respect which the Count d'Erfeuil experienced already, almost without knowing it, for his travelling companion. The health of Lord Nelville had obliged him to stop some days at Ancona. The mountains and the sea render the situation of this city very fine, and the crowd of Greeks who work in front of their shops seated in the oriental manner, the diversity of costume of the inhabitants of the Levant, whom one meets in the streets, give it an original and interesting appearance. The art of civilization has a continual tendency to render all men alike in appearance and almost in reality; but the mind and the imagination take pleasure in the characteristic differences of nations: it is only by affectation and by calculation that men resemble each other; all that is natural is varied. The eyes then, at least, derive some little pleasure from diversity of costume; it seems to promise a new manner of feeling and of judging.

The Greek, the Catholic, and the Jewish worships exist simultaneously and peaceably in the city of Ancona. The ceremonies of these several religions differ widely from each other; but in those various forms of worship, the same sentiment lifts the soul to heaven—the same cry of grief, the same need of support.

The catholic church is on the top of a mountain, which dominates the sea: the roaring of the waves is often mingled with the song of the priests. The interior of the church is overladen with a crowd of rather tawdry ornaments; but if one stop beneath the portico of the temple, the soul is filled with the purest sentiments of religion, heightened by that sublime spectacle the sea, on whose bosom man has never been able to imprint the smallest trace. The earth is tilled by him, the mountains are cut through by his roads, and rivers shut up into canals to transport his merchandise; but if the waves are furrowed for a moment by his vessels the billows immediately efface this slight mark of servitude, and the sea appears again as it was the first day of the creation.

Lord Nelville had fixed his departure for Rome for the morrow, when he heard, during the night the most dreadful cries in the city. He hastily quitted the inn in order to learn the cause, when he beheld a terrible fire, which proceeded from the port, and climbed from house to house even to the very top of the city. The flames were mirrored at a distance in the sea; the wind, which increased their fierceness, also disturbed their image in the surging waves, which reflected in a thousand ways the lurid traits of the conflagration.

The inhabitants of Ancona[2], not having among them pumps in good condition, were obliged to carry water to extinguish the flames, which they did with great eagerness. Amidst the din of different cries was heard the clank of chains, from the galley slaves, who were employed in saving that city which served them for a prison. The different nations of the Levant, which commerce draws to Ancona, expressed their fear by the stupor which appeared in their looks. The merchants, on beholding their warehouses in flames, entirely lost their presence of mind. Alarm for the loss of fortune affects the common order of men as much as the fear of death, and does not inspire that energy of the soul, that enthusiasm which brings resources to our aid.

The cries of sailors have always something doleful and prolonged in them, and were now rendered still more so by terror. The mariners on the shores of the Adriatic are clad in a red and brown hooded cloak of most singular appearance, and from the midst of this vestment emerged the animated countenances of the Italians, painting fear in a thousand shapes. The inhabitants, throwing themselves down in the streets, covered their heads with their cloaks, as if nothing remained for them now to do but to avoid seeing their disaster; others precipitated themselves into those flames from which they entertained no hope of escaping. A thoughtless fury and a blind resignation appeared by turns; but nowhere was seen that cool deliberation which redoubles our resources and our strength.

Oswald recollected that there were two English vessels in the harbour which had on board pumps of the best construction: he ran to the captain, who accompanied him in a boat to bring away these pumps. The inhabitants, seeing them enter the boat, exclaimed, "Ah! strangers you do well to quit our unhappy city!" "We shall come back again," said Oswald. They did not believe him. He returned however, fixed one of the pumps opposite the first house on fire, near the port, and the other facing that which was burning in the middle of the street. The Count d'Erfeuil exposed his life with carelessness, courage, and gaiety; the English sailors, and the domestics of Lord Nelville, all came to his aid; for the inhabitants of Ancona remained motionless, hardly comprehending what these strangers were about, and not expecting the least success from them.

The bells rang in every quarter, the priests made processions, the women lamented and prostrated themselves before the images of the saints at the corners of the streets; but no one thought of those natural means which God has given to man for his defence. However, when the inhabitants perceived the happy effect of Oswald's activity; when they saw that the flames were being extinguished, and that their houses would be saved, they passed from astonishment to enthusiasm; they thronged about Lord Nelville, and kissed his hands with such lively eagerness that he was obliged to appear angry in order to drive away from him all who might obstruct the rapid succession of orders, and of efforts necessary to save the city. Every body was arranged under his command; for, in the least as well as in the greatest circumstances, when danger presents itself courage assumes its proper station; as soon as men are possessed with fear they cease to be jealous of one another.

Oswald, however, amid the general din, distinguished some cries more horrible than the rest, which resounded from the other extremity of the city. He demanded whence these cries proceeded, and was informed that they came from the quarter which was allotted for the Jews: the officer of the police was accustomed to shut the gates of this quarter in the evening, and, the fire having reached that part of the city, the Jews had no means of escape.

Oswald shuddered at this idea, and demanded that the gate should be immediately opened; but some women of the people who heard him threw themselves at his feet, entreating him to desist.—"You see very well," said they, "our good angel! that it is certainly on account of these Jews who reside here that we have suffered this fire, it is they who bring calamity upon us, and if you set them at liberty all the water in the sea will not extinguish the flames." And they besought Oswald to let the Jews be burnt with as much eloquence and tenderness as if they were soliciting an act of clemency. This was not the effect of natural cruelty, but of a superstitious imagination acutely impressed by a great misfortune; however, Oswald could hardly contain his indignation on hearing these strange entreaties.

He sent four English sailors with hatchets to break open the gates which inclosed these unfortunate people, who spread themselves in an instant through the city, running to their merchandise with that greed of possession which has something very melancholy in it, when it induces mortals to risk their lives for worldly wealth. One would say that in the present state of society the simple blessing of life is esteemed by man of little value.

There now remained but one house at the top of the city, which the flames surrounded in such a manner that it was impossible to extinguish them, and more impossible to enter it. The inhabitants of Ancona had manifested so little concern for this house, that the English sailors, not believing it to be inhabited, had dragged their pumps towards the harbour. Oswald himself, stunned by the cries of those who surrounded him and solicited his aid, had not paid attention to it. The fire had extended the latest to that quarter, but had made considerable progress there. Lord Nelville demanded so impatiently what house that was, that at length a man informed him it was the madhouse. At this idea his whole soul was agitated; he turned, but found none of the sailors around him; the Count d'Erfeuil was not there either, and he would vainly have addressed himself to the inhabitants of Ancona: they were almost all occupied in saving their merchandise, and considered it absurd to run any risk to rescue men, of whom there was not one who was not incurably mad: "It is a blessing from Heaven," said they, "for them, and for their relations, that they should die in this manner; without any one incurring a crime by their death."

Whilst they held such language as this around Oswald, he proceeded with the utmost speed towards the madhouse, and the crowd, by whom he was censured, followed him with a confused sentiment of involuntary enthusiasm. As Oswald approached the house, he saw, at the only window which was not surrounded with flames, a number of lunatics, who regarded the progress of the fire with that horrid kind of smile which either supposes ignorance of all the ills of life, or so much grief at the bottom of the soul that death in no shape can terrify it. An inexpressible shudder seized upon Oswald at this sight; he had felt in the most dreadful moment of his despair, that his reason was on the point of being affected, and since that epoch, the aspect of madness always inspired him with the most sorrowful emotions of pity. He seized a ladder which he found near the spot, fixed it against the wall, and entered by the window into an apartment where the unhappy people who remained in the madhouse were assembled together.

Their insanity was so harmless, that they were suffered to be at large in the interior of the house with the exception of one, who was chained in this very room, where the flames already began to appear through the door, but had not yet consumed the floor. These miserable creatures, quite degraded by disease and suffering, were so surprised and enchanted by the appearance of Oswald among them, that they obeyed him at first without resistance. He ordered them to descend before him, one after another, by means of the ladder, which the flames might devour in a moment. The first of these wretched people obeyed without uttering a word; the accent and the physiognomy of Lord Nelville had entirely subdued him. A third wished to resist, without suspecting the danger that he incurred by each moment of delay, and without thinking of the peril to which he exposed Oswald in detaining him. The people, who felt all the horrors of his situation, cried out to Lord Nelville to return, and to let those maniacs get away how they could. But the deliverer would listen to nothing till he had achieved his generous enterprise.

Of the six lunatics who were in the madhouse, five were already saved; there now only remained the sixth who was chained. Oswald loosened his irons, and endeavoured to make him take the same means of escaping as his companions had done; but it was a poor young man, whose reason was entirely destroyed, and, finding himself at liberty, after being chained for two years, he darted about the room with an extravagant joy. This joy rose to fury, when Oswald tried to make him go out at the window. Lord Nelville perceiving that it was impossible to prevail upon this maniac to save himself, though the flames increased around them, seized him in his arms, in spite of the efforts of the unhappy wretch, who struggled against his benefactor. He carried him off, without knowing where he placed his feet, so much was his sight obscured by the smoke; he leaped from nearly the middle of the ladder, and consigned the lunatic, who loaded him with curses, to some people whom he made promise to take care of him.

Oswald, animated by the danger he had just run, his hair dishevelled, his look so proud yet so mild, struck the crowd who beheld him with admiration, and almost with fanaticism; the women, above all, expressed themselves with that imagination which is an almost universal gift in Italy, and even gives a nobleness to the conversation of the common people. They threw themselves on their knees before him, and cried, "You are surely St Michael, the patron of our city; display thy wings most holy saint! but do not quit us: deign to ascend the steeple of the cathedral, that all the city may behold, and pray to thee." "My child is sick," said one, "heal him." "Tell me," said another, "where my husband is, who has been absent several years?" Oswald sought a means of escape. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, and said to him, pressing his hand, "My dear Nelville, we ought to share all things with our friends; it is unkind of you thus to monopolise all the danger." "Release me from these people," said Oswald to him, in a low voice. A moment of darkness favoured their flight, and both of them went in haste to get post horses.

Lord Nelville experienced, at first, some pleasure from the good action he had just performed, but with whom could he enjoy it now that his best friend was no more? How unhappy is the lot of orphans! The most fortunate events, as well as the most painful, make them feel alike the solitude of the heart. How is it possible, in effect, ever to replace that affection which is born with us, that intelligence, that sympathy of blood, that friendship prepared by heaven between the child and the father? We may still, it is true, find an object of love; but one in whom we can confide our whole soul is a happiness which can never be found again.

FOOTNOTE:

[2] Ancona is now pretty nearly in the same predicament that it was then.

Chapter v.

Oswald pursued his journey through the Marches of Ancona, and the Ecclesiastical States, without any thing attracting his observation, or exciting his interest: this was occasioned as well by the melancholy habit of his soul, as by a certain natural indolence, from which he was only to be aroused by strong passions. His taste for the arts had not yet unfolded itself; he had never dwelt but in France, where society is all in all, and in London, where political interests absorb almost every other: his imagination, concentrated in his sufferings, had not yet learnt to take pleasure in the wonders of nature and the masterpieces of art.

The Count d'Erfeuil traversed every town with the "Traveller's Guide" in his hand, and had at once the double pleasure of losing his time in seeing every thing, and of declaring, that he had seen nothing which could excite admiration in any person acquainted with France. The ennui of Count d'Erfeuil discouraged Oswald; he, besides, entertained prejudices against the Italians and against Italy: he did not yet penetrate the mystery of this nation or of this country;—a mystery which must be comprehended by the imagination, rather than by that faculty of judgment which is particularly developed by an English education.

The Italians are much more remarkable for what they have been, and for what they might be than for what they actually are. The deserts which surround the city of Rome, that land which, fatigued with glory, seems to hold in contempt the praise of being productive, presents but an uncultivated and neglected country to him who considers it with regard to utility. Oswald, accustomed from his infancy to the love of order and public prosperity, received, at first, unfavourable impressions in traversing those deserted plains which announce the approach to that city formerly the queen of the world: he blamed the indolence of the inhabitants and that of their rulers. Lord Nelville judged of Italy as an enlightened administrator, the Count d'Erfeuil as a man of the world: thus the one from reason, and the other from levity, were not sensible of that effect which the country about Rome produces upon the imagination, when it is impressed with the recollections, the sympathies, the natural beauties and the illustrious misfortunes which spread over these regions an undefinable charm.

The Count made ludicrous lamentations on the environs of Rome. "What," said he, "no country house, no carriage, nothing that announces the vicinity of a great city? Heavens! what a melancholy prospect!" In approaching Rome, the postillions cried, with transport, "See! See, there is the dome of St Peter's!" It is thus that the Neapolitans shew mount Vesuvius, and the sea excites the same emotions of pride in the inhabitants of the coast. "One would have thought they had seen the dome of Les Invalides;" cried the Count d'Erfeuil. This comparison, more patriotic than just, destroyed the impression which Oswald might have received on beholding this magnificent wonder of human creation. They entered Rome, not on a fine day—not on a fine night—but on a gloomy evening, which tarnished and confounded every object. They traversed the Tiber without remarking it; they arrived at Rome by the Porta del Popolo which conducts immediately to the Corso, to the largest street of the modern city, but to that part of Rome which possesses the least originality, because it resembles more the other cities of Europe.

Crowds were walking in the streets; the puppet shows and the charlatans were formed in groups in the square, where stands the column of Antoninus. All the attention of Oswald was captivated by the objects nearest to him. The name of Rome no longer vibrated through his soul; he felt nothing but that isolation which oppresses the heart when we enter a strange city, when we behold that multitude of people to whom our existence is unknown, and who have no interest in common with us. Those reflections, so sad for every man, are still more so for the English, who are accustomed to live among themselves, and who with difficulty enter into the manners of other nations. In the vast caravansary of Rome everything is foreign, even the Romans seem to inhabit there not as the possessors, but like pilgrims who repose beneath the ruins[3]. Oswald, oppressed with painful sensations, shut himself up at home, and went not out to see the city. He was very far from thinking that this country, which he entered under such sadness and dejection of spirits, would soon become for him a source of so many new ideas and enjoyments.

FOOTNOTE:

[3] This reflection is taken from a letter on Rome, by M. de Humboldt, brother of the celebrated Traveller, and Prussian Minister at Rome. It is difficult to find anywhere a man whose conversation and writings bespeak more knowledge and ideas.

Book ii.

CORINNE AT THE CAPITOL.

Chapter i.

Oswald awoke in Rome. His first looks were saluted by the brilliancy of an Italian sun, and his soul was penetrated with a sentiment of love and gratitude towards that Power which seemed manifested in its resplendent beams. He heard the bells of the different churches of the city; the firing of cannon at intervals announced some great solemnity. He demanded the cause of it, and was informed that that morning was to be crowned, at the Capitol, the most celebrated woman in Italy. Corinne, poetess, writer, improvisatrice, and one of the greatest beauties of Rome. He made some enquiries respecting this ceremony consecrated by the names of Petrarch and of Tasso, and all the answers that he received strongly excited his curiosity.

There is certainly nothing more contrary to the habits and opinions of an Englishman, than this great publicity given to the destiny of a woman; but even foreigners are affected, at least for a moment, with that enthusiasm which is inspired in the Italians by all those talents that belong to the imagination, and they forget the prejudices of their country amidst a nation so warm in the expression of its feelings. The common people of Rome reason with taste upon their statues, pictures, monuments and antiquities; and literary merit, carried to a certain pitch, excites in them a national interest.

Oswald quitted his lodgings to repair to the public square, where he heard everybody speaking of the genius and talents of Corinne. The streets through which she was to pass had been decorated; the people, who rarely assemble together except to pay their homage to fortune or power, were, upon this occasion, almost in a tumult to behold a female whose mind was her only claim to distinction. In the actual state of the Italians the field of glory is only open to them in the fine arts, and they possess a sensibility for genius in that department, which ought to give birth to great men, if applause alone were sufficient to produce them, if the stress of vigorous life, great interests and an independent existence were not necessary to nourish thought.

Oswald walked the streets of Rome, waiting the arrival of Corinne. At every instant he heard her name accompanied with some anecdote concerning her, which implied the possession of all those talents that captivate the imagination. One said that her voice was the most touching in Italy; another, that nobody played tragedy like her; somebody else, that she danced like a nymph, and designed with as much taste as invention: all said that nobody had ever written or improvised such fine verses, and that, in habitual conversation she possessed by turns, a grace and an eloquence which charmed every mind. Disputes were entered into as to what city of Rome had given her birth; but the Romans maintained, warmly, that she must have been born in Rome to speak Italian in such purity as she did. No one was acquainted with her family name. Her first work had appeared five years before, and only bore the name of Corinne; nobody knew where she had lived, nor what she had been before that time: she was, however, nearly twenty-six years of age. This mystery and publicity both at the same time, this woman of whom everybody spoke, but whose real name was known to nobody, appeared to Lord Nelville one of the wonders of the singular country he had just come to live in. He would have judged very severely of such a woman in England, but he did not apply the usual etiquette of society to Italy, and the coronation of Corinne inspired him beforehand with that interest to which an adventure of Ariosto would give birth.

Very fine and brilliant music preceded the arrival of the triumphal procession. Any event, whatever it may be, which is announced by music, always produces emotion. A great number of Roman Lords, and some foreigners, preceded the car of Corinne. "That is the train of her admirers!" said a Roman. "Yes," replied the other, "she receives the incense of everybody; but she grants nobody a decided preference: she is rich and independent; it is even believed, and certainly her appearance bespeaks it, that she is a woman of illustrious birth who desires to remain unknown." "Be it as it may," replied a third, "she is a goddess wrapt in a cloud." Oswald looked at the man who spoke thus, and every thing about him indicated that he belonged to the most obscure rank in society; but in the south people so naturally make use of poetical expressions, that one would say they were inhaled with the air and inspired by the sun.

At length way was made through the crowd for the four white horses that drew the car of Corinne. Corinne was seated in this car which was constructed upon an antique model, and young girls, dressed in white, walked on each side of her. Wherever she passed an abundance of perfumes was thrown into the air; the windows, decorated with flowers and scarlet tapestry, were crowded with spectators; every body cried, "Long live Corinne!" "Long live Genius and Beauty!" The emotion was general but Lord Nelville did not yet share it, and though he had observed in his own mind that in order to judge of such a ceremony we must lay aside the reserve of the English and the pleasantry of the French, he did not share heartily in the fête till at last he beheld Corinne.

Corinne at the Capitol.

She was dressed like the Sybil of Domenichino; an Indian shawl twisted about her head, and her hair of the finest jet black, entwined with this shawl; her dress was white, with blue drapery from her bosom downwards, and her costume was very picturesque, at the same time without departing so much from established modes as to savour of affectation. Her attitude on the car was noble and modest: it was easily perceived that she was pleased with being admired, but a sense of timidity was mingled with her joy, and seemed to ask pardon for her triumph. The expression of her physiognomy, of her eyes, of her smile, interested all in her favour, and the first look made Lord Nelville her friend, even before that sentiment was subdued by a warmer impression. Her arms were of dazzling beauty; her shape, tall, but rather full, after the manner of the Grecian statues, energetically characterised youth and happiness; and there was something inspired in her look. One might perceive in her manner of greeting and returning thanks for the applause which she received, a kind of disposition which heightened the lustre of the extraordinary situation in which she was placed. She gave at once the idea of a priestess of Apollo advancing towards the temple of the Sun, and of a woman of perfect simplicity in the common relations of life. To conclude, in her every motion there was a charm which excited interest, curiosity, astonishment and affection. The admiration of the people increased in proportion as she advanced towards the Capitol—that spot so fertile in memories. The beauty of the sky, the enthusiasm of these Romans, and above all Corinne, electrified the imagination of Oswald. He had often, in his own country, seen statesmen carried in triumph by the people, but this was the first time he had been a witness of the honours paid to a woman—a woman illustrious only by the gifts of genius. Her chariot of victory was not purchased at the cost of the tears of any human being, and no regret, no terror overshadowed that admiration which the highest endowments of nature, imagination, sentiment and mind, could not fail to excite.

Oswald was so absorbed in his reflections, so occupied by novel ideas, that he did not remark the antique and celebrated places through which the car of Corinne passed. It was at the foot of the flight of steps which leads to the Capitol, that the car stopped, and at that moment all the friends of Corinne rushed forward to offer her their hands. She chose that of the prince Castel-Forte, the most esteemed of the Roman nobility, for his intellect and for his disposition: every one approved the choice of Corinne, and she ascended the steps of the Capitol whose imposing majesty seemed to receive, with kind condescension, the light footsteps of a woman. A new flourish of music was heard at the moment of Corinne's arrival, the cannon resounded and the triumphant Sybil entered the palace prepared for her reception.

At the lower end of the hall in which she was received were placed the senator who was to crown her, and the conservators of the senate; on one side all the cardinals and the most distinguished women of the country; on the other the men of letters of the academy of Rome; and at the opposite extremity the hall was occupied by a part of the immense crowd who had followed Corinne. The chair destined for her was placed a step below that of the senator. Corinne, before she seated herself in it, made a genuflection on the first step, agreeably to the etiquette required in this august assembly. She did it with so much nobleness and modesty, so much gentleness and dignity, that Lord Nelville in that moment felt his eyes moist with tears: he was astonished at his own tenderness, but in the midst of all her pomp and triumph it seemed to him that Corinne had implored, by her looks, the protection of a friend—that protection which no woman, however superior, can dispense with; and how sweet, said he within himself, would it be to become the support of her to whom sensibility alone renders that support necessary.

As soon as Corinne was seated the Roman poets began to read the sonnets and odes which they had composed for the occasion. They all exalted her to the skies, but the praises which they lavishly bestowed upon her did not draw any characteristic features of distinction between her and other women of superior talents. They were only pleasing combinations of images, and allusions to mythology, which might, from the days of Sappho to those in which we live, have been addressed indiscriminately to any woman who had rendered herself illustrious by her literary talents.

Already Lord Nelville felt hurt at this manner of praising Corinne; he thought, in beholding her, that he could at that very instant draw a portrait of her, more true, more just, more characteristic—a portrait in fact that could only belong to Corinne.

Chapter ii.

The Prince Castel-Forte then rose to speak, and his observations upon the merits of Corinne excited the attention of the whole assembly. He was about fifty years of age, and there was in his speech and in his deportment much deliberate ease and dignity. The assurances which Lord Nelville received from those about him, that he was only the friend of Corinne, excited, in his lordship's mind, an interest for the portrait which he drew of her, unmixed with any other emotion. Without such a security a confused sentiment of jealousy would have already disturbed the soul of Oswald.

The Prince Castel-Forte read some unpretentious pages of prose which were particularly calculated to display the genius of Corinne. He first pointed out the peculiar merit of her work, and said that that merit partly consisted of her profound study of foreign literature: she united, in the highest degree, imagination, florid description and all the brilliancy of the south, with that knowledge, that observation of the human heart, which falls to the share of those countries where external objects excite less interest.

He extolled the elegant graces and the lively disposition of Corinne—a gaiety which partook of no improper levity, but proceeded solely from the vivacity of the mind and the freshness of the imagination. He attempted to praise her sensibility, but it was easily perceived that personal regret mingled itself with this part of his speech. He lamented the difficulty which a woman of her superior cast experienced of meeting with the object of which she has formed to herself an ideal portrait—a portrait clad with every endowment the heart and mind can wish for. He however took pleasure in painting the passionate sensibility which the poetry of Corinne inspired, and the art she possessed of seizing every striking relation between the beauties of nature and the most intimate impressions of the soul. He exalted the originality of Corinne's expressions, those expressions which were the offspring of her character and manner of feeling, without ever permitting any shade of affectation to disfigure a species of charm not only natural but involuntary.

He spoke of her eloquence as possessing an irresistible force and energy which must the more transport her hearers the more they possessed within themselves true intellectual sensibility. "Corinne," said he, "is indubitably the most celebrated woman of our country, and nevertheless it is only her friends who can properly delineate her; for we must always have recourse, in some degree, to conjecture, in order to discover the genuine qualities of the soul. They may be concealed from our knowledge by celebrity as well as obscurity, if some sort of sympathy does not assist us to penetrate them." He enlarged upon her talent for extemporisation, which did not resemble any thing of that description known in Italy. "It is not only to the fecundity of her mind that we ought to attribute it;" said he; "but to the deep emotion which every generous thought excites in her. She cannot pronounce a word that recalls such thoughts without enthusiasm, that inexhaustible source of sentiments and of ideas animating and inspiring her." The Prince Castel-Forte also made his audience sensible of the beauties of a style always pure and harmonious. "The poetry of Corinne," added he, "is an intellectual melody which can alone express the charm of the most fugitive and delicate impressions."

He praised the conversation of his heroine in a manner that easily made it perceived he had experienced its delight. "Imagination and simplicity, justness and elevation, strength and tenderness, are united," said he, "in the same person to give incessant variety to all the pleasures of the mind: we may apply to her, this charming verse of Petrarch:

Il parlar che nell' anima si sente.[4]

and, I believe, in her will be found that grace so much boasted of, that oriental charm which the ancients attributed to Cleopatra.

"The places I have visited with her, the music we have heard together, the pictures she has pointed out to me, the books she has made me comprehend, compose the universe of my imagination. There is in all these objects a spark of her life; and if I were to exist at a distance from her I would wish at least to be surrounded by those objects, certain as I am of finding nowhere else that trace of fire, that trace of herself in fact, which she has left in them. Yes," continued he (and at that moment his eyes fell by chance upon Oswald), "behold Corinne; if you can pass your life with her, if that double existence which it is in her power to give can be assured to you for a long time; but do not behold her if you are condemned to quit her; you will seek in vain as long as you live that creative soul which shares and multiplies your sentiments and your thoughts; you will never behold her like again."

Oswald started at these words, his eyes fixed themselves upon Corinne, who heard them with an emotion that was not inspired by self-love, but which was allied to the most amiable and delicate feelings. The Prince Castel-Forte was much affected for a moment, and then resumed his speech. He spoke of Corinne's talent for music, for painting, for declamation and for dancing: In all these talents, he said, she was entirely herself, not confined to any particular manner, or to any particular rule, but expressing in various languages the same powers of the imagination, and the same witchery of the fine arts under all their different forms.

"I do not flatter myself," said the Prince Castel-Forte in concluding, "that I have been able to paint a lady of whom it is impossible to form an idea without having heard her; but her presence is, for us at Rome, as one of the benefits of our brilliant sky and our inspired nature. Corinne is the tie that unites her friends together; she is the moving principle and the interest of our life. We reckon upon her goodness; we are proud of her genius; we say to strangers, 'Behold her! She is the image of our beautiful Italy; she is what we should be without the ignorance, the envy, the discord and the indolence to which our fate has condemned us.' We take pleasure in contemplating her as an admirable production of our climate and of our fine arts,—as a scion shooting out of the past, as a prophecy of the future. When foreigners insult this country, whence has issued that intelligence which has shed its light over Europe; when they are without pity for our defects, which arise out of our misfortunes, we will say to them: 'Behold Corinne! 'Tis our desire to follow her footsteps; we would endeavour to become, as men, what she is as woman, if man like woman could create a world in his own heart; and if our genius, necessarily dependent upon social relations and external circumstances, could be kindled by the torch of poetry alone.'"

The moment the Prince Castel-Forte left off speaking unanimous applause was heard on all sides, and though towards the conclusion of his speech he indirectly blamed the present state of the Italians, all the nobles of the state approved of it; so true it is that we find in Italy that sort of liberality which does not lead men to alter institutions, but which pardons in superior minds a tranquil opposition to existing prejudices. The reputation of Prince Castel-Forte was very great in Rome. He spoke with a rare sagacity, which is a remarkable gift in a nation who exhibit more intellect in their conduct than in their conversation. He did not in his worldly concerns shew that address which often distinguishes the Italians, but he took delight in thought, and did not dread the fatigue of meditation. The happy inhabitants of the south sometimes shrink from this fatigue, and flatter themselves that imagination will do everything for them, as their fertile soil produces fruit without cultivation assisted only by the bounty of the sky.

FOOTNOTE:

[4] The language which is felt in the depth of the soul.

Chapter iii.

Corinne arose when the Prince Castel-Forte had ceased speaking; she thanked him by an inclination of the head so dignified yet so gentle, that it expressed at once the modesty and joy so natural at having received praise according to her heart's desire. It was the custom that every poet crowned at the Capitol should recite or extemporise some piece of poetry, before the destined laurel was placed on his head. Corinne ordered her lyre to be brought to her—the instrument of her choice—which greatly resembled the harp, but was however more antique in form and more simple in its sounds. In tuning it she was seized with uncommon timidity, and it was with a trembling voice that she asked to know the subject imposed on her. "The glory and happiness of Italy!" cried all around her with a unanimous voice. "Very well," replied she already fired with enthusiasm, already supported by her genius, "the glory and happiness of Italy;" and feeling herself animated by the love of her country she commenced the most charming strains, of which prose can give but a very imperfect idea.

The Improvisation of Corinne, at the Capitol.

"Italy, empire of the sun! Italy, mistress of the world! Italy, the cradle of letters, I salute thee! How often has the human race been subjected to thee, tributary to thy arms, to thy art and to thy sky.

"A deity quitted Olympus to take refuge in Ausonia; the aspect of this country recalled the virtues of the golden age;—man appeared there too happy to be supposed guilty.

"Rome conquered the universe by her genius, and became sovereign by liberty. The Roman character was imprinted everywhere, and the invasion of the Barbarians, in destroying Italy obscured the whole world.

"Italy appeared again with the divine treasures which the fugitive Greeks brought back to her bosom; heaven revealed its laws to her; the daring of her children discovered a new hemisphere; she again became sovereign by the sceptre of thought, but this laurelled sceptre only produced ingratitude.

"Imagination restored to her the universe which she had lost. The painters and the poets created for her an earth, an Olympus, a hell, and a heaven; and her native fire, better guarded by her genius than by the Pagan deity, found not in Europe a Prometheus to ravish it from her.

"Why am I at the Capitol? Why is my humble forehead about to receive the crown which Petrarch, has worn, and which remained suspended on the gloomy cypress that weeps over the tomb of Tasso?—Why, if you were not so enamoured of glory, my fellow-countrymen, that you recompense its worship as much as its success?

"Well, if you so love this glory which too often chooses its victims among the conquerors which it has crowned, reflect with pride upon those ages which beheld the new birth of the arts. Dante, the modern Homer, the hero of thought, the sacred poet of our religious mysteries, plunged his genius into the Styx to land in the infernal regions, and his mind was profound as the abyss which he has described.

"Italy in the days of her power was wholly revived in Dante. Animated by a republican spirit, warrior as well as poet, he breathed the flame of action among the dead; and his shadows have a more vivid existence than the living here below.

"Terrestrial remembrances pursue them still; their aimless passions devour one another in the heart; they are moved at the past which seems to them less irrevocable than their eternal future.

"One would say that Dante, banished from his country, has transported into imaginary regions the pangs which devoured him. His shades incessantly demand news from the scene of mortal existence, as the poet himself eagerly enquires after his native country; and hell presents itself to him in the form of exile.

"All, in his eyes, are clothed in the costume of Florence. The ancient dead whom he invokes, seem to be born again as completely Tuscan as himself. It was not that his mind was limited—it was the energy of his soul, that embraced the whole universe within the circle of his thoughts.

"A mystical chain of circles and of spheres conducts him from hell to purgatory, from purgatory to paradise. Faithful historian of his vision, he pours a flood of light upon the most obscure regions, and the world which he creates in his triple poem is as complete, as animated and as brilliant as a planet newly-discovered in the firmament.

"At his voice the whole earth assumes a poetical form, its objects, ideas, laws and phenomena, seem a new Olympus of new deities; but this mythology of the imagination is annihilated, like paganism, at the aspect of paradise, of that ocean of light, sparkling with rays and with stars, with virtues and with love.

"The magic words of our great poet are the prism of the universe; all its wonders are there reflected, divided, and recomposed; sounds imitate colours, and colours are blended in harmony; rhyme, sonorous or bizarre, rapid or prolonged, is inspired by this poetical divination; supreme beauty of art! triumph of genius! which discovers in nature every secret in affinity with the heart of man.

"Dante hoped from his poem the termination of his exile; he reckoned on Fame as his mediator; but he died too soon to receive the palm of his country. Often is the fleeting life of man worn out in adversity! and if glory triumph, if at length he land upon a happier shore, he no sooner enters the port than the grave yawns before him, and destiny, in a thousand shapes, often announces the end of life by the return of happiness.

"Thus unfortunate Tasso, whom your homage, Romans, was to console for all the injustice he had suffered; Tasso, the handsome, the gentle, the heroic, dreaming of exploits, feeling the love which he sang, approached these walls as his heroes did those of Jerusalem—with respect and gratitude. But on the eve of the day chosen for his coronation, Death claimed him for its terrible festival: Heaven is jealous of earth, and recalls her favourites from the treacherous shores of Time!

"In an age more proud and more free than that of Tasso, Petrarch was, like Dante, the valorous poet of Italian independence. In other climes he is only known by his amours,—here, more severe recollections encircle his name with never-fading honour; for it is known that he was inspired by his country more than by Laura herself.

"He re-animated antiquity by his vigils; and, far from his imagination raising any obstacle to the most profound studies, its creative power, in submitting the future to his will, revealed to him the secrets of past ages. He discovered how greatly knowledge assists invention; and his genius was so much the more original, since, like the eternal forces, he could be present at all periods of time.

"Ariosto derived inspiration from our serene atmosphere, and our delicious climate. He is the rainbow which appeared after our long wars; brilliant and many-hued, like that herald of fine weather, he seems to sport familiarly with life; his light and gentle gaiety is the smile of nature and not the irony of man.

"Michael Angelo, Raphael, Pergolese, Galileo, and you, intrepid travellers, greedy of new countries, though nature could offer nothing finer than your own, join your glory also to that of the poets. Artists, scholars, philosophers! you are, like them, the children of that sun which by turns developes the imagination, animates thought, excites courage, lulls us into a happy slumber, and seems to promise everything, or cause it to be forgotten.

"Do you know that land where the Orange-trees bloom, which the rays of heaven make fertile with love? Have you heard those melodious sounds which celebrate the mildness of the nights? Have you breathed those perfumes which are the luxury of that air, already so pure and so mild? Answer, strangers; is nature in your countries so beautiful and so beneficent?

"In other regions, when social calamities afflict a country, the people must believe themselves abandoned by the Deity; but here we ever feel the protection of heaven; we see that he interests himself for man, that he has deigned to treat him as a noble being.

"It is not only with vine branches, and with ears of corn, that Nature is here adorned; she prodigally strews beneath the feet of man, as on the birthday of a sovereign, an abundance of useless plants and flowers, which, destined to please, will not stoop to serve.

"The most delicate pleasures nourished by nature are enjoyed by a nation worthy of them—a nation who are satisfied with the most simple dishes; who do not become intoxicated at the fountains of wine which plenty prepares for them;—a nation who love their sun, their arts, their monuments, their country, at once antique and in the spring of youth;—a nation that stand equally aloof from the refined pleasures of luxury, as from the gross and sordid pleasures of a mercenary people."

"Here sensations are confounded with ideas; life is drawn in all its fulness from the same spring, and the soul, like the air, inhabits the confines of earth, and of heaven. Genius is untrammelled because here reverie is sweet: its holy calm soothes the soul when perturbed, lavishes upon it a thousand illusions when it regrets a lost purpose, and when oppressed by man nature is ready to welcome it."

"Thus is our country ever beneficent, and her succouring hand heals every wound. Here, even the pangs of the heart receive consolation, in admiring a God of kindness, and penetrating the secrets of his love; the passing troubles of our ephemeral life are lost in the fertile and majestic bosom of the immortal universe."

Corinne was interrupted, for some moments, by a torrent of applause. Oswald alone took no share in the noisy transports that surrounded him. He had leaned his head upon his hand, when Corinne said: "Here, even the pangs of the heart receive consolation;" and had not raised it since. Corinne remarked it, and soon, from his features, the colour of his hair, his costume, his lofty figure, from his whole manner in short, she knew him for an Englishman: she was struck with his mourning habit, and the melancholy pictured in his countenance. His look, at that moment fixed upon her, seemed full of gentle reproaches; she guessed the thoughts that occupied his mind, and felt the necessity of satisfying him, by speaking of happiness with less confidence, by consecrating some verses to death in the midst of a festival. She then resumed her lyre, with this design, and having produced silence in the assembly, by the moving and prolonged sounds which she drew from her instrument, began thus:

"There are griefs however which our consoling sky cannot efface, but in what retreat can sorrow make a more sweet and more noble impression upon the soul than here?

"In other countries hardly do the living find space sufficient for their rapid motions and their ardent desires; here, ruins, deserts and uninhabited palaces, afford an asylum for the shades of the departed. Is not Rome now the land of tombs?

"The Coliseum, the obelisks, all the wonders which from Egypt and from Greece, from the extremity of ages, from Romulus to Leo X. are assembled here, as if grandeur attracted grandeur, and as if the same spot was to enclose all that man could secure from the ravages of time; all these wonders are consecrated to the monuments of the dead. Our indolent life is scarcely perceived, the silence of the living is homage paid to the dead; they endure and we pass away.

"They only are honoured, they are still celebrated: our obscure destinies serve only to heighten the lustre of our ancestors: our present existence leaves nothing standing but the past; it will exact no tribute from future recollections! All our masterpieces are the work of those who are no more, and genius itself is numbered among the illustrious dead.

"Perhaps one of the secret charms of Rome, is to reconcile the imagination with the sleep of death. Here we learn resignation, and suffer less pangs of regret for the objects of our love. The people of the south picture to themselves the end of life in colours less gloomy than the inhabitants of the north. The sun, like glory, warms even the tomb.

"The cold and isolation of the sepulchre beneath our lovely sky, by the side of so many funereal urns, have less terrors for the human mind. We believe a crowd of spirits is waiting for our company; and from our solitary city to the subterranean one the transition seems easy and gentle.

"Thus the edge of grief is taken off; not that the heart becomes indifferent, or the soul dried up; but a more perfect harmony, a more odoriferous air, mingles with existence. We abandon ourselves to nature with less fear—to nature, of whom the Creator has said: 'Consider the lilies of the field; they toil not neither do they spin: yet I say unto you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.'"

Oswald was so ravished with these last strains, that he gave the most lively testimonies of his admiration; and, upon this occasion, the transports of the Italians themselves did not equal his. In fact, it was to him more than to the Romans, that the second improvisation of Corinne was directed.

The greater part of the Italians have, in reading poetry, a kind of singing monotony, called cantilene, which destroys all emotion[5]. It is in vain that the words vary—the impression remains the same; since the accent, more essential than even the words, hardly varies at all. But Corinne recited with a variety of tone, which did not destroy the sustained charm of the harmony;—it was like several different airs played on some celestial instrument.

The tones of Corinne's voice, full of sensibility and emotion, giving, effect to the Italian language, so pompous and so sonorous, produced upon Oswald an impression entirely novel. The English prosody is uniform and veiled, its natural beauties are all of a sombre cast; its colouring has been formed by clouds, and its modulation by the roaring of the sea; but when Italian words, brilliant as an Italian festival, resonant like those instruments of victory, which have been compared to scarlet among colours; when these words, bearing the stamp of that joy which a fine climate spreads through every heart, are pronounced in a moving voice, their lustre softened, their strength concentrated, the soul is affected in a manner as acute as unforeseen. The intention of nature seems baffled, her benefits of no use, her offers rejected, and the expression of pain, in the midst of so many enjoyments, astonishes and affects us more deeply than the grief which is sung in those northern languages which it seems to inspire.

FOOTNOTE:

[5] We must expect from this censure upon the Italian mode of declamation, the celebrated Monti, who recites verses as well as he composes them. It is really one of the greatest dramatic pleasures that can be experienced, to hear him recite the Episode of Ugolin, of Francesca da Rimini, the Death of Clorinda, &c.

Chapter iv.

The Senator took the crown of myrtle and laurel which he was to place on the head of Corinne. She removed the shawl which graced her forehead, and all her ebon hair fell in ringlets about her shoulders. She advanced with her head bare, and her look animated by a sentiment of pleasure and gratitude which she sought not to conceal. She a second time bent her knee, to receive the crown; but she displayed less agitation and tremor than at first; she had just spoken; she had just filled her mind with the most noble thoughts, and enthusiasm conquered diffidence. She was no longer a timid woman, but an inspired priestess who joyfully consecrated herself to the worship of genius.

As soon as the crown was placed on the head of Corinne all the instruments were heard in those triumphant airs which fill the soul with the most sublime emotion. The sound of kettle-drums, and the flourish of trumpets, inspired Corinne with new feelings—her eyes were filled with tears—she sat down a moment, and covered her face with her handkerchief. Oswald, most sensibly affected, quitted the crowd, and advanced to speak to her, but was withheld by an invincible embarrassment. Corinne looked at him for some time, taking care nevertheless, that he should not observe the attention she paid him; but when the Prince Castel-Forte came to take her hand, in order to conduct her to the car, she yielded to his politeness with an absent mind; and, while she permitted him to hand her along, turned her head several times, under various pretexts, to take another view of Oswald.

He followed her, and at the moment when she descended the steps accompanied by her train, she made a retrograde movement, in order to behold him once more, when her crown fell off. Oswald hastened to pick it up; and in restoring it to her, said in Italian, that an humble mortal like himself might venture to place at the feet of a goddess that crown which he dared not presume to place on her head[6]. Corinne thanked Lord Nelville in English, with that pure national accent—that pure insular accent, which has scarcely ever been successfully imitated on the continent. What was the astonishment of Oswald in hearing her! He remained at first immovably fixed to the spot where he was, and feeling confused he leaned against one of the lions of basalt at the foot of the stairway descending from the Capitol. Corinne viewed him again, forcibly struck with the emotion he betrayed; but she was dragged away towards the car, and the whole crowd disappeared long before Oswald had recovered his strength and his presence of mind.

Corinne, till then, had enchanted him as the most charming of foreigners—as one of the wonders of that country he had come to visit; but her English accent recalled every recollection of his native country, and in a manner naturalised all the charms of Corinne. Was she English? Had she passed several years of her life in England? He was lost in conjecture; but it was impossible that study alone could have taught her to speak thus—Corinne and Lord Nelville must have lived in the same country. Who knows whether their families were not intimate? Perhaps even, he had seen her in his infancy! We often have in our hearts, we know not what kind of innate image of that which we love, which may persuade us that we recognise it in an object we behold for the first time.

Oswald had cherished many prejudices against the Italians; he believed them passionate, but changeable, and incapable of any deep and lasting affection. Already the language of Corinne at the Capitol had inspired him with a different idea. What would be his fortune, then, if he could at once revive the recollections of his native country, and receive by imagination a new existence,—live again for the future without forgetting the past!

In the midst of his reveries, Oswald found himself upon the bridge of St Angelo, which leads to the castle of the same name, or rather to the tomb of Adrian, which has been converted into a fortress. The silence of the place, the pale waves of the Tiber, the moon-beams which shed their mild radiance upon the statues placed on the bridge, and gave to those statues the appearance of white spectres steadfastly regarding the current of the waters, and the flight of time which no longer concerned them; all these objects led him back to his habitual ideas. He put his hand upon his breast, and felt the portrait of his father which he always carried there; he untied it, contemplated the features, and the momentary happiness which he had just experienced, as well as the cause of that happiness, only recalled, with too severe a remembrance, the sentiment which had already rendered him so guilty towards his father: This reflection renewed his remorse.

"Eternal recollection of my life!" cried he: "Friend so offended, yet so generous! Could I have believed that any pleasurable sensation would so soon have found access to my heart? It is not thou, best and most indulgent of men,—it is not thou who reproachest me with them—it was thy wish that I should be happy, and, in spite of my errors, that is still thy desire: but at least, may I not misconceive thy voice, if thou speak to me from heaven, as I have misconceived it upon earth!"

FOOTNOTE:

[6] Lord Nelville seems to have alluded to this beautiful distich of Propertius:

"Ut caput in Magnis ubi non est ponere signis,

Ponitur hîc imos ante corona pedes.

Book iii.

CORINNE

Chapter i.

The Count d'Erfeuil was present at the ceremony of the Capitol: He came the next day to Lord Nelville, and said to him, "My dear Oswald, shall I take you this evening to see Corinne?" "How!" interrupted Oswald; "are you acquainted with her, then?" "No," replied the Count d'Erfeuil; "but so celebrated a lady is always flattered when people express a desire to see her; and I have written to her this morning to request permission to visit her in the evening accompanied by you." "I could have wished," replied Oswald blushing, "that you had not named me in this manner without my consent." "Do not be angry with me," replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "for having spared you some tiresome formalities: Instead of going to an ambassador, who would have taken you to a cardinal, who would have conducted you to a lady, who would have introduced you to Corinne, I present you—you present me, and we shall both of us be very well received I have no doubt."

"I am less confident on that subject than you," replied Lord Nelville, "and certainly not without reason. I am afraid that this forward request may have displeased Corinne." "Not at all, I assure you," said the Count d'Erfeuil; "she has too much good sense for that; and her answer is extremely polite." "How! she has answered you," replied Lord Nelville; "and what has she said to you, my dear Count?" "Ah, my dear Count?" said M. d'Erfeuil, laughing, "you change your note then, since you know that Corinne has answered me; however, I love you, and all is pardoned. I will confess to you then, modestly, that in my note I had spoken of myself more than of you, and that, in her answer she seems to have named you first, but I am never jealous of my friends." "Indeed," replied Lord Nelville, "I do not think that either you or I have any reason to flatter ourselves with being agreeable to Corinne; and as to me, all that I desire is sometimes to enjoy the society of so extraordinary a lady: so adieu till this evening, since you have arranged it so." "You will accompany me then?" said the Count d'Erfeuil. "Well, yes, I will," answered Lord Nelville with visible embarrassment. "Why then," continued the Count, "find fault with what I have done? You finish as I have begun, but however, I must allow you the honour of being more reserved than I, provided you lose nothing by it. Corinne is certainly a charming lady, she is graceful and witty; I could not comprehend what she said very well, because she spoke Italian; but I would venture to lay a wager, from only seeing her, that she knows French very well: however, we shall judge of that in the evening. She leads a very singular life; she is rich, young, and independent; yet no one can tell, to a certainty, whether she has lovers or not. It appears certain, notwithstanding, that, at present she gives a preference to no one; indeed," added he, "it may be the case that she has not been able to find in this country a man worthy of her: that would not astonish me at all."

The Count held this kind of discourse some time longer without being interrupted by Lord Nelville. He said nothing that was discourteous; but he always wounded the delicate feelings of Oswald by speaking with too much boldness or too much levity upon what interested him. There is a certain tact that even wit and knowledge of the world will not teach; so that, without being wanting in the most perfect politeness, we may often wound the heart.

Lord Nelville was very much agitated the whole day in thinking of the visit he was to make in the evening; but he drove away from him as much as he could the reflections which disturbed him, and endeavoured to persuade himself that he might find pleasure in a sentiment, without permitting it to decide the fate of his life. False security! for the soul receives no pleasure from anything which it deems transient.

Oswald and the Count arrived at Corinne's house, which was situated in the Quartiere di Trastevere, a little beyond the castle of St Angelo.

The view of the Tiber gave an additional embellishment to this house, which was ornamented, internally, with the most perfect elegance. The saloon was decorated with copies, in plaster, of the best statues in Italy—Niobe, Laocoon, Venus de Medicis, and the Dying Gladiator. In the apartment where Corinne received company were instruments of music, books, and furniture not more remarkable for its simplicity than for its convenience, being merely arranged so as to render the conversation easy, and to draw the circle more closely together. Corinne had not yet made her appearance when Oswald arrived; while waiting for her he walked about the apartment with much eager curiosity, remarking in every particular a happy medley of all that is most agreeable in the English, French and Italian nations; the love of literature, the taste for society, and a passion for the fine arts.

Corinne at length appeared; her costume was still picturesque without being over-studied. Her hair was ornamented with antique cameos and she wore a necklace of coral: her politeness was noble and easy: in beholding her in the familiar circle of her friends, you might discover in her the goddess of the Capitol, notwithstanding she was perfectly simple and natural in everything. She first saluted the Count d'Erfeuil, her eyes fixed upon Oswald; and then, as if she repented this piece of falsehood, she advanced towards the latter—and it might be remarked that in addressing him by the title of Lord Nelville, that name seemed to produce a singular effect upon her, and twice she repeated it with a faltering voice, as if it recalled some affecting remembrances.

At length, in the most graceful manner, she thanked Lord Nelville, in Italian, for his obliging behaviour on the preceding day in picking up her crown. Oswald answered by expressing the admiration with which she inspired him, and gently complained of her not speaking to him upon this occasion in English: "Am I more an alien to you to-day," added he, "than I was yesterday?" "No certainly," replied Corinne; "but when people have, like me, for several years, been in the habit of speaking two or three different languages, they are apt to employ that which will best convey the sentiments they wish to express." "Surely," said Oswald, "English is your natural language, that which you speak to your friends, that—" "I am an Italian," interrupted Corinne—"pardon me, my lord, but I think I discover in you that national pride which often characterises your countrymen. In this country we are more modest; we are neither pleased with ourselves like the French, nor proud of ourselves like the English: we only ask a little indulgence of foreigners, and as we have long ceased to be considered a nation, we are guilty of sometimes being wanting, as individuals, in that dignity which is not allowed us as a people. But when you are acquainted with the Italians, you will see that they possess in their character, some traces of ancient greatness, some rare traces which, though now effaced, may appear again in happier times. I will speak English to you sometimes, but not always: Italian is dear to me; for I have endured much," added she, "to reside in Italy."

The Count d'Erfeuil politely reproached Corinne with having entirely forgotten him, by expressing herself in languages he did not understand. "Lovely Corinne," said he to her, "pray talk French; indeed you are worthy of such an accomplishment." Corinne smiled at this compliment, and began to speak French, with great purity and much facility, but with an English accent. Lord Nelville and the Count d'Erfeuil were equally astonished, but the Count, who believed he might say anything, provided it was done with grace, and who imagined that impoliteness consisted in the form, and not the substance, asked directly of Corinne, the reason of this singularity. She was at first a little discomposed at this sudden interrogation; but recovering her presence of mind, she said to the Count—"Apparently, Sir, I have learnt French of an Englishman?" He renewed his questions smilingly, but with much earnestness. Corinne more and more embarrassed, said to him at last, "For these four years past, Sir, since I have settled at Rome, none of my friends, none of those who, I am sure, are most interested on my account have questioned me concerning my destiny; they easily perceived that it was painful to me to speak on the subject."

Those words put an end to the questions of the Count; but Corinne was afraid she had offended him, and as he appeared to be very intimately connected with Lord Nelville, she feared still more, without asking herself the reason of such fear, that he might speak disadvantageously of her to his friend; and therefore she set about taking much pains to please him.

The Prince Castel-Forte arrived at this moment, with several Romans, friends of his and of Corinne. They were men of an amiable mind and lively disposition, very prepossessing in their appearance, and so easily animated by the conversation of others that it was a great pleasure to converse with them, so exquisitely did they appear to feel every thing that was worthy of being felt. The indolence of the Italians prevents them from displaying in company, or often in any way whatever, all the wit they possess. The greater part of them do not even cultivate in retirement, the intellectual faculties that nature has given them; but they enjoy with transport, that which comes to them without trouble.

Corinne possessed a very gay turn of wit; she perceived the ridiculous with the keen sense of a French woman, and coloured it with the imagination of an Italian; but in every instance it was mingled with goodness of heart; nothing was ever seen in her, either premeditated or hostile; for, in every thing, it is coldness that offends—and imagination on the contrary, is always accompanied with good-nature.

Oswald discovered a grace in Corinne which was entirely new to him. One great and terrible circumstance of his life was connected with the remembrance of a very amiable and intelligent French woman; but Corinne resembled her in nothing—her conversation was a mixture of every kind of intellectual endowment, enthusiasm for the fine arts, and knowledge of the world; refinement of ideas, and depth of sentiment; in short, all the charms of a vivacious and rapid mind were observable in her, without her thoughts ever being on that account incomplete, or her reflections superficial. Oswald was at once surprised and charmed, uneasy and transported; he was unable to comprehend how one person alone could combine all the qualifications of Corinne. He asked himself whether the union of all these qualities was the effect of an inconsistent or a superior character; whether it was by the force of universal feeling, or because she forgot every thing successively, that she passed thus, almost in the same instant, from melancholy to gaiety, from profundity to grace—from conversation the most astonishing, by the knowledge and the ideas it displayed, to the coquetry of a woman who seeks to please, and desires to captivate; but there was, even in that coquetry, such perfect nobleness that it imposed as much respect as the most severe reserve.

The Prince Castel-Forte was very much taken up with Corinne, and the sentiments of all his party were manifested towards her by attention and the most delicate and assiduous respect; and the habitual worship with which they surrounded her, made every day of her life a sort of festival. Corinne felt herself happy in being thus beloved; but it was that sort of happiness which we feel in living in a mild climate, hearing nothing but harmonious sounds, and receiving, in short, nothing but agreeable impressions. The serious and profound passion of love was not painted on her countenance, where every emotion of her soul was expressed by a most bright and mobile physiognomy. Oswald beheld her in silence; his presence animated Corinne, and inspired her with the desire of pleasing. However, she sometimes checked herself in those moments when her conversation was the most brilliant, astonished at the calm exterior of Oswald, not knowing whether he approved her or blamed her secretly, or whether his English ideas would permit him to applaud this display of talents in a woman.

Oswald was too much captivated by the charms of Corinne, to call to mind his old opinions upon that obscurity which became women; but he was inquiring of himself, whether it were possible to be beloved by her; whether any man could expect to concentrate in himself so many rays of light. In fact, he was at the same time dazzled and disturbed; and although, at his departure, she invited him, very politely, to come and see her again, he suffered a whole day to pass without availing himself of the invitation, experiencing a sort of terror from the sentiment by which he felt himself impelled.

Sometimes he compared this sentiment with the fatal error of the first moments of his youth, but immediately banished such a comparison from his mind—for then it was a perfidious art that had overcome him; but who could doubt the truth of Corinne? Was that peculiar charm she possessed the effect of magic, or of poetical inspiration? Was she an Armida, or a Sappho? Was there any hope of captivating so lofty and brilliant a genius! It was impossible to decide; but at least it was easily seen, that not society, but heaven itself, could have formed this extraordinary being, and that her mind could no more be imitated, than her character feigned. "Oh, my father!" said Oswald, "if you had known Corinne what would you have thought of her?"

Chapter ii.

The Count d'Erfeuil came in the morning, according to custom, to see Lord Nelville, and reproaching him for not having been to see Corinne the day before, said, "Had you come, you would have been very happy." "Why so?" replied Oswald. "Because yesterday I discovered, to a certainty, that you have greatly interested her." "Still this levity," interrupted Lord Nelville; "know that I neither can nor will endure it." "Do you call levity," said the Count, "the promptitude of my observation? Am I less in the right, because more quickly so? You were made to live in the happy time of the Patriarchs, when the age of man was five centuries; but mind, I give you notice that four of them at least are lopped off in our days." "Be it so," answered Oswald, "and what discovery have you made by these rapid observations?"—"That Corinne loves you. Yesterday, when I arrived at her house, she received me very kindly, to be sure; but her eyes were fixed on the door, to see whether you followed me. She tried for a moment to talk of something else; but as she is a lady of a very ingenuous and natural disposition, she asked me, quite frankly, why you had not come with me? I blamed you very much; I said that you were a very odd, gloomy sort of creature; but you will excuse my relating all that I said over and above in your praise."

"'He is very sad,' said Corinne; 'he must certainly have lost some one very dear to him. Whom is he in mourning for?' 'His father, Madam,' said I; 'though it is more than a year since he lost him; and as the law of nature obliges us all to survive our parents, I imagine there is some other secret cause for so long and deep a melancholy.' 'Oh!' replied Corinne, 'I am very far from thinking that griefs, similar in appearance, are felt alike by all men. I am very much tempted to believe that the father of your friend, and your friend himself, are exceptions from the general rule.' Her voice was very tender, my dear Oswald, when she said these words." "Are these," replied Oswald, "your proofs of that interest you spoke of?" "In truth," replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "these are quite enough, according to my way of thinking, to convince a man that he is beloved by a lady; but since you wish for better, you shall have them; I have reserved the strongest for the last. Prince Castel-Forte arrived, and related your adventure at Ancona, without knowing that he was speaking of you: he related it with much fire and imagination, as well as I could judge from the two lessons of Italian I have taken; but there are so many French words in the foreign languages, that we comprehend them, almost all, without even knowing them. Besides, the countenance of Corinne would have explained to me what I did not understand. One might read in it so visibly the agitation of her heart! She did not breathe, for fear of losing a single word; and when she asked if he knew the name of this generous and intrepid Englishman, such was her anxiety, that it was easy to judge how much she dreaded to hear pronounced any other name than yours.

"Prince Castel-Forte said he did not know the gentleman's name; and Corinne, turning quickly towards me, cried, 'Is it not true, Sir, that it was Lord Nelville?' 'Yes, Madam,' answered I, 'it was he, himself;' and Corinne then melted in tears. She had not wept during the story; what was there then more affecting in the name of the hero than in the recital itself?" "She wept!" cried Nelville, "Ah!—why was I not there?" Then, checking himself all of a sudden, he cast down his eyes, and his manly countenance was expressive of the most delicate timidity: he hastened to resume the conversation, for fear that the Count might disturb his secret joy by observing it. "If the adventure of Ancona deserves to be related," said Oswald, "'tis to you, also, my dear Count, that the honour of it belongs." "It is true," answered d'Erfeuil, laughing, "that they mentioned an amiable Frenchman, who was along with you, my lord; but no one save myself paid attention to this parenthesis in the narration. The lovely Corinne prefers you; she believes you, without doubt, the more faithful of the two: perhaps she may be mistaken; you may even cause her more grief than I should; but women are fond of pain, provided it is a little romantic; so you will suit her."

Lord Nelville suffered from every word of the Count, but what could he say to him? He never argued; he never listened attentively enough to change his opinion; his words, once uttered, gave him no farther concern, and the best way was to forget them, if possible, as soon as he himself did.

Chapter iii.

Oswald arrived in the evening at Corinne's, with a sentiment entirely new; he thought that he was expected. What enchantment there is in that first gleam of intercourse with the object of our love!—before remembrance enters into partnership with hope—before words have expressed our sentiments,—before eloquence has painted what we feel, there is in these first moments, something so indefinite, a mystery of the imagination, more fleeting than happiness, it must be owned, but also more celestial.

Oswald, on entering the apartment of Corinne, felt more timid than ever. He saw that she was alone, and that circumstance almost gave him pain: he could have wished to see her longer in the midst of society; he could have wished to be convinced, in some manner, of her preference, instead of finding himself all of a sudden engaged in a conversation which might make Corinne cool towards him, if, as was certain, he should appear embarrassed, and cold in consequence of that embarrassment.

Whether Corinne perceived this disposition of Oswald, or whether it was that a similar disposition produced in her a desire to animate the conversation in order to remove restraint, she asked his Lordship whether he had seen any of the monuments of Rome. "No," answered Oswald. "What did you do with yourself yesterday, then?" replied Corinne smiling. "I passed the whole day at home," said Oswald. "Since I have been at Rome, Madam, my time has been divided between solitude and you." Corinne wished to introduce the subject of his behaviour at Ancona; she began by these words: "Yesterday I learnt—" then she stopped and said, "I will speak to you of that when the company comes." There was a dignity in the manners of Lord Nelville that intimidated Corinne; and, besides, she feared, lest in reminding him of his noble conduct, she should betray too much emotion; conceiving that emotion would be less when they were no longer alone. Oswald was deeply touched with the reserve of Corinne, and the frankness with which she testified, without thinking, the motives of that reserve; but the more he was affected the less was he able to express what he felt.

He arose all of a sudden, and advanced towards the window; then he felt that Corinne would be unable to explain the meaning of this movement, and more disconcerted than ever, he returned to his place without saying anything. There was in the conversation of Corinne more confidence than in that of Oswald; nevertheless, she partook of the embarrassment which he exhibited; and in her absence of mind, seeking to recover her countenance, she placed her fingers upon the harp which was standing by her side, and struck some chords, without connection or design. These harmonious sounds, by increasing the emotion of Oswald, seemed to inspire him with more boldness. He could now look at Corinne, and who but must have been struck, in beholding her, with that divine inspiration which was painted in her eyes! Encouraged at the same moment by that mild expression which veiled the majesty of her looks, he would then perhaps have spoken, but was prevented by the entrance of Prince Castel-Forte.

It was not without pain that he beheld Nelville tête-à-tête with Corinne, but he was accustomed to dissimulate his feelings. This habit, which is often found in the Italians united with great vehemence of sensation, was in him rather the result of indolence and of natural gentleness. He was content not to be the first object of Corinne's affections; he was no longer young; he possessed great intelligence, considerable taste for the arts, an imagination sufficiently animated to diversify life without disturbing it, and such a desire to pass all his evenings with Corinne, that if she were to be married he would conjure her husband to let him come every day, to see her as usual, and upon this condition he would not have been very unhappy at seeing her united to another. The grief of the heart is not found in Italy complicated with the sufferings of vanity, so that we find there, men either passionate enough to stab their rival through jealousy, or men modest enough to take willingly the second rank in the favour of a lady whose conversation is agreeable to them; but rarely will be found any who for fear of being thought despised, would refuse to preserve any sort of connection which they found pleasing. The empire of society over self-esteem is almost null in this country.

The Count d'Erfeuil and the company that met every evening at Corinne's house being assembled, the conversation turned upon the talent for improvisation which their heroine had so gloriously displayed at the Capitol, and they went so far as to ask her own opinion of it. "It is something so rare," said Prince Castel-Forte, "to find any one at once susceptible of enthusiasm and of analysis, gifted as an artist and capable of observing herself, that we must intreat her to reveal to us the secrets of her genius." "The talent for improvisation," replied Corinne, "is not more extraordinary in the languages of the south, than the eloquence of the tribune, or the brilliant vivacity of conversation in other tongues. I will even say that, unfortunately it is with us more easy to make verses impromptu than to speak well in prose. The language of poetry is so different from that of prose, that from the first verses the attention is commanded by the expressions themselves, which, if I may so express it, place the poet at a distance from his auditors. It is not only to the softness of the Italian language, but much more to its strong and pronounced vibration of sonorous syllables, that we must attribute the empire of poetry amongst us. There is a kind of musical charm in Italian, by which the bare sound of words, almost independently of the ideas, produces pleasure; besides, these words have almost all something picturesque in them; they paint what they express. You feel that it is in the midst of the arts, and under an auspicious sky that this melodious, and highly-coloured language has been formed. It is therefore more easy in Italy than any where else, to seduce with words, without profundity of thought or novelty of imagery. Poetry, like all the fine arts, captivates the senses, as much as the intellect. I dare venture to say, however, that I have never improvised without feeling myself animated by some real emotion, some idea which I believed new, therefore I hope that I have trusted less than others to our bewitching language. It is possible, if I may say so, to prelude at random, and convey a lively pleasure by the charm of rhythm and of harmony alone."

"You believe then," interrupted one of the friends of Corinne, "that the talent for improvisation injures our literature; I thought so once myself, but hearing you, madam, has made me entirely alter that opinion." "I have said," replied Corinne, "that there resulted from this facility, this literary abundance, a quantity of inferior poetry; but I am as pleased with this fecundity, which exists in Italy, as I am with seeing our fields covered with a thousand superfluous products. This liberality of nature makes me proud. I am particularly pleased with the improvisations of the lower classes of the people; it discovers their imagination to us, which is concealed everywhere else, and is only developed amongst us. They give a poetical character to the lowest orders of society, and spare us the contempt which we cannot help feeling for every thing that is vulgar. When our Sicilians, conveying travellers in their vessels, so delicately and politely felicitate them in their pleasing dialect, and wish them in verse a sweet and long adieu, one would say the pure breeze of heaven and of the sea produces the same effect upon the imagination of men as the wind on the Æolian harp, and that poetry, like the chords of that instrument, is the echo of nature. One thing makes me attach an additional value to our talent for improvisation, and that is, that it would be almost impossible in a society disposed to mockery. It requires the good humour of the south, or rather of those countries where people love to amuse themselves without taking pleasure in criticising that which affords them amusement, to encourage poets to venture on so perilous an enterprise. One jeering smile would be sufficient to destroy that presence of mind necessary for a sudden and uninterrupted composition: your audience must become animated with you, and inspire you with their applause."

"But madam," said Oswald at last, who till then had kept silence without having for a moment ceased to behold Corinne, "to which of your poetical talents do you yourself give the preference? To the work of inflection, or of momentary inspiration?" "My lord," answered Corinne, with a look that expressed the highest interest and the most delicate sentiment of respectful consideration, "it is you that I would wish to make the judge of that; but if you ask me to examine my own thoughts upon this subject, I would say that improvisation is to me as an animated conversation. I do not confine myself to any particular subject, I yield entirely to the impression produced on me by the attention of my hearers, and it is to my friends, in this instance, that I owe the greatest part of my talent. Sometimes the impassioned interest with which I am inspired by a conversation in which we have spoken of some great and noble question that relates to the moral existence of man, his destiny, his end, his duties and his affections; sometimes this interest elevates me above my strength, makes me discover in nature, in my own heart, bold truths, expressions full of life, that solitary reflection would not have given birth to. I then believe myself acted upon by a supernatural enthusiasm, and feel that what is speaking within me is greater than myself. Often I quit the rhythm of poetry to express my thoughts in prose; sometimes I quote the finest verses of the different languages I am acquainted with. These divine verses, with which my soul is penetrated, have become my own. Sometimes also I finish upon my lyre by chords, by simple and national airs, the sentiments and thoughts which have escaped me in speaking. In a word, I feel myself a poet, not only when a happy choice of rhymes and harmonious syllables, or a happy combination of images dazzles my auditors, but when my soul is elevated to the highest degree and looks down with contempt upon every thing that is selfish and base: in short, when a noble action appears most easy to me, it is then that my poetry is in its greatest perfection. I am a poet when I admire, when I despise, when I hate, not from personal feeling, not on my own account, but for the dignity of human nature and the glory of the world."

Corinne then perceiving how the conversation had carried her away, blushed a little, and turning towards Lord Nelville said to him, "you see, my lord, I cannot touch upon any of those subjects that affect me without experiencing that sort of shock which is the source of ideal beauty in the arts, of religion in solitary minds, of generosity in heroes, and of disinterestedness among men. Pardon me, my lord, although such a woman resemble but little those whom your nation approves." "Who could resemble you?" replied Lord Nelville; "can we make laws for one who is without her like?"

The Count d'Erfeuil was absolutely enchanted, notwithstanding he had not understood all that Corinne had said; but her gestures, the sound of her voice, and her pronunciation, charmed him.—It was the first time that any grace which was not French had produced an effect upon him. But indeed the great celebrity of Corinne at Rome put him a little in the way of what he should think of her, and in his admiration of this extraordinary lady he did not drop the good custom of letting himself be guided by the opinion of others.

He quitted Corinne's house along with Lord Nelville, and said to him on their way home, "allow, my dear Oswald, that I may lay claim to some merit for not having paid my court to so charming a lady." "But," observed Nelville, "it seems, according to general opinion, that she is not easy to please in that respect." "It is said so," replied the Count, "but I can hardly believe it. A single woman of independent means who leads nearly the life of an artist ought not to be so difficult to captivate." Lord Nelville was wounded by this reflection. The Count, whether he did not perceive it, or whether he wished to pursue the train of his own ideas, continued thus:

"I do not mean to say, however, that if I entertained much faith in a lady's virtue, I might not as readily believe in that of Corinne as in that of any other. She has certainly a thousand times more expression in her look, and vivacity in her arguments than would be necessary in your country, or even in ours, to excite suspicion of the rigidness of a lady's virtue; but she is a person of so superior a mind, such profound knowledge, and such fine tact, that the ordinary rules by which we judge a woman cannot apply to her. In fact, would you believe it, notwithstanding the openness of her disposition, and the freedom of her conversation, she really imposes reserve upon me. It was my wish, yesterday, with all due respect to her predilection for you, to say a few words, at random, upon my own account: they were words that take their chance; if they are heard, well and good; if not, well and good still; and do you know Corinne gave me such cold looks that I was quite disconcerted. It is, however, singular that one should feel any timidity in the company of an Italian, a poet, an artist, every thing, in short, that ought to produce quite a contrary effect." "Her name is unknown," observed Nelville, "but her manners would make one believe that her birth is illustrious." "Ah! it is in romances," said the Count, "that we see the finest part of a character concealed, but in real life people are more disposed to exhibit all that is most honourable in their life, and even a little more than all." "Yes," interrupted Oswald, "in some societies where people think of nothing but the effect they can produce upon one another; but in one whose existence is internal there may be mysteries in circumstances, as there are secrets in thought, and he only who would espouse Corinne might be able to know them." "Espouse Corinne!" interrupted the Count, bursting out laughing, "truly that idea never occurred to me! Take my advice, my dear Nelville, if you wish to do foolish things let them be such as will admit of reparation; but as for marriage, you must always consider propriety. I appear frivolous in your eyes, nevertheless I wager that in the conduct of life I shall be more reasonable than you." "I believe so too," answered Lord Nelville, and said not another word.

In effect, he might have told the Count d'Erfeuil that there is often a great deal of egotism in frivolity, and that such egotism can never betray people into those errors of sentiment in which we always sacrifice our own personal considerations to those of others! Frivolous characters are very likely to acquire address in the pursuit of their own interests; for in all that is called the political science of private, as well as of public life, people succeed oftener by those qualities which they have not than by those which they possess. Absence of enthusiasm, absence of opinion, absence of sensibility, a little understanding, combined with this negative treasure, and social life, that is to say, fortune and rank, may be acquired or supported well enough. The pleasantries of the Count however pained Lord Nelville; he blamed them, but nevertheless they continually occupied his thoughts.

Book iv.

ROME.

Chapter i.

A fortnight passed away, during which Lord Nelville dedicated himself entirely to the society of Corinne. He quitted his lodgings but to go and visit her—he saw nothing—he sought nothing but her; and, without ever mentioning his passion, he made her sensible of it at every moment of the day. She was accustomed to the lively and flattering homage of the Italians; but Oswald's dignity of manners, his apparent coldness, and the sensibility which he betrayed in spite of himself, produced a more powerful effect upon her imagination.—Never did he relate a generous action, never did he speak of a misfortune, without his eyes being filled with tears; but he always endeavoured to conceal his emotion. He inspired Corinne with a sentiment of respect such as she had not felt for a long time before. No wit, however sparkling, could dazzle her; but she was deeply interested by elevation and dignity of character. Lord Nelville joined to these qualities, a nobleness in his expressions, an elegance in the least actions of his life, which formed a striking contrast to the negligence and familiarity of the greater part of the Roman nobility.

Though the tastes of Oswald were in some respects different from those of Corinne, they mutually understood each other in a most wonderful manner. Nelville conjectured the impressions of Corinne with perfect sagacity, and Corinne discovered, in the slightest alteration of Nelville's countenance, what passed in his mind. Accustomed to the stormy demonstrations of passion that characterise the Italians, this timid but proud attachment, this passion, incessantly proved, but never avowed, spread a new charm over her existence: she felt as if encircled with a calmer and purer atmosphere, and every instant of the day inspired her with a sentiment of happiness which she loved to enjoy without accounting for it.

One morning Prince Castel-Forte visited her—he appeared sorrowful—she asked him the cause of his sorrow. "This Scotsman," said he to her, "is about to deprive us of your affections; and who knows even, whether he will not rob us of you entirely?" Corinne was silent for some moments, and then answered, "I assure you he has not even once told me that he loved me." "You are, notwithstanding, convinced of it," answered Prince Castel-Forte; "his conduct is sufficiently eloquent, and even his silence is a powerful means of interesting you.—What can language express that you have not heard? What kind of praise is there that has not been offered you? What species of homage is there that you are not accustomed to receive? But there is something concealed in the character of Lord Nelville which will never allow you to know him entirely as you know us. There is no person in the world whose character is more easy than yours to become acquainted with; but it is precisely because you shew yourself without disguise that mystery and reserve have a pleasing ascendancy over you. That which is unknown, be it what it may, influences you more strongly than all the sentiments which are manifested to you." Corinne smiled; "You believe then, my dear Prince," said she, "that my heart is ungrateful, and my imagination capricious. Methinks however that Lord Nelville possesses and displays qualities sufficiently remarkable to render it impossible that I can flatter myself with having discovered them." "He is, I agree," answered Prince Castel-Forte, "proud, generous and intelligent; with much sensibility too, and particularly melancholy; but I am very much deceived, or there is not the least sympathy of taste between you. You do not perceive it while he is under the charm of your presence, but your empire over him would not hold if he were absent from you. Obstacles would fatigue him; his soul has contracted by the grief which he has experienced, a kind of discouragement, which must destroy the energy of his resolutions; and you know, besides, how much the English in general are enslaved to the manners and habits of their country."

At these words Corinne was silent and sighed. Painful reflections on the first events of her life were retraced in her mind; but in the evening she saw Oswald again, more her slave than ever; and all that remained in her mind of the conversation of Prince Castel-Forte was the desire of fixing Lord Nelville in Italy by making him enamoured of the beauties of every kind with which that country abounds. It was with this intention that she wrote to him the following letter. The freedom of the life which is led in Rome excused this proceeding, and Corinne in particular, though she might be reproached with too much openness and enthusiasm, knew how to preserve dignity with independence, and modesty with vivacity.

Corinne to Lord Nelville.

Dec. 15th, 1794.

"I do not know, my lord, whether you will think me too confident in myself, or whether you will do justice to the motives which may excuse that confidence. Yesterday I heard you say that you had not yet seen Rome, that you were neither acquainted with the masterpieces of our fine arts, nor those ancient ruins which teach us history by imagination and sentiment, and I have conceived the idea of presuming to offer myself as your guide in this journey through a course of centuries.

"Without doubt, Rome could easily present a great number of scholars whose profound erudition might be much more useful to you, but if I can succeed in inspiring you with a love for this retreat, towards which I have always felt myself so imperiously attracted, your own studies will finish the rude draft which I shall have begun.

"Many foreigners come to Rome as they would go to London or to Paris, to seek the dissipation of a great city; and if they dared confess they were bored at Rome, I believe the greater part would confess it; but it is equally true that here may be found a charm that never tires. Will you pardon me, my lord, a wish that this charm were known to you.

"It is true that here you must forget all the political interests in the world, but when these interests are not united to sacred sentiments and duties they chill the heart. Here too you must renounce what would be called the pleasures of society, but these pleasures almost invariably wither up the imagination. In Rome you may enjoy an existence at once solitary and animated, which freely develops all that Heaven has implanted in us. I repeat it, my lord; pardon this love of my country, which begets a desire to make it beloved by such a man as you; and do not judge, with the severity of an Englishman, those testimonies of good-will which an Italian hopes she may give you without sinking either in her own estimation or in yours.

Corrine."

In vain would Oswald have endeavoured to conceal the exquisite pleasure he received from this letter; he caught a glimpse of a confused future of enjoyment and happiness: imagination, love, enthusiasm, all that is divine in the soul of man, appeared to him united with the project of seeing Rome with Corinne. For, this time he did not reflect; this time he set out the very instant to visit Corinne, and by the way he contemplated the sky, he enjoyed the charm of the weather, life sat lightly on him. His griefs and his fears were lost in the clouds of hope; his heart, so long oppressed by sadness, palpitated and leaped with joy; he feared, it is true, that so happy a disposition of mind might not last; but the very idea that it was fleeting gave to this fever of enjoyment more force and activity.

"What, are you come already?" said Corinne, seeing Lord Nelville enter; "Ah, thanks!" and she stretched forth her hand. Oswald seized it, and imprinted his lips on it with the warmest tenderness; nor did he suffer now that timidity which often mingled itself with his most agreeable impressions, and caused him sometimes to endure, in the company of those he loved best, the most bitter and painful feelings. The intimacy had commenced between Oswald and Corinne since they had parted; it was the letter of Corinne which had established it: they were satisfied with each other, and mutually felt the most tender gratitude.

"This morning then," said Corinne, "I will shew you the Pantheon and St Peter's: I had, indeed, some hope," added she smiling, "that you would accept my offer to make the tour of Rome with you, so my horses are ready. I have expected you; you have arrived; 'tis very well, let us set out." "Astonishing woman!" said Oswald; "Who then, art thou? Whence hast thou derived so many opposite charms, which it would seem ought to exclude each other;—sensibility, gaiety, profound reflection, external grace, freedom, and modesty? Art thou an illusion? art thou some supernatural blessing, destined to make happy the life of him who is fortunate enough to meet with thee?" "Ah!" replied Corinne, "if I have it in my power to do you any service you must not think I will ever give up the merit of it." "Take care," said Oswald, seizing Corinne's hand with emotion; "take care what service it is you are about to render me. For these two years the iron hand of affliction has closed up my heart; if your sweet presence has afforded me relief; if, while with you, I breathe again, what will become of me when once more abandoned to my destiny?—What will become of me?" "Let us leave to time and to chance," interrupted Corinne, "to decide whether this impression of a day, which I have produced upon you, will be longer than a day in its duration. If there be a mutual sympathy between our souls, our mutual affection will not be transient. Be that as it may, let us go and admire together all that can elevate our mind and our sentiments; we shall thus taste some moments of happiness."

In finishing these words Corinne went down stairs, and Nelville followed her, astonished at her answer. It seemed to him that she admitted the possibility of a half sentiment,—a momentary attraction. In short, he thought he perceived something like levity in the manner in which she had expressed herself, and he was hurt at it.

He placed himself, without saying a word, in Corinne's carriage; who, guessing his thoughts, said to him, "I do not believe that the heart of man is so formed that he must always feel either no love at all or the most invincible passion. There are beginnings of sentiment which a more profound examination may dissipate. We flatter and then undeceive ourselves, and even the enthusiasm of which we are susceptible, if it renders the enchantment more rapid, may also cause coldness to succeed the more quickly." "You have, then, reflected deeply on the tender passion," said Oswald with bitterness. Corinne blushed at this word, and was silent for some moments; then resuming the conversation, with a striking mixture of frankness and dignity, "I do not believe," said she, "that a woman of sensibility has ever arrived at the age of twenty-six years, without having known the illusion of love; but if never having been happy, if never having met the object who could merit all the affections of my heart, be any claim to interest in the bosom of man, I have a claim to yours." These words, and the accent with which Corinne pronounced them, dissipated a little, the cloud which had spread over the soul of Lord Nelville; nevertheless he said to himself: "She is the most fascinating of women, but an Italian; and hers is not that timid, innocent heart, to herself unknown, which the young English lady that my father destined for me must possess."

The name of this young English lady was Lucilia Edgermond, daughter to the best friend of Lord Nelville's father; but she was too young when Oswald quitted England for him to marry her, or even foresee, with certainty, what she would one day become.

Chapter ii.

Oswald and Corinne went first to the Pantheon, which is now called St Mary of the Rotunda. In every part of Italy Catholicism has inherited something of Paganism, but the Pantheon is the only ancient Temple of Rome which is preserved entire, the only one where may be remarked in its ensemble the beauty of the architecture of the ancients, and the particular character of their worship. Oswald and Corinne stopped in the square of the Pantheon to admire the portico of this Temple and the pillars that support it.

Corinne made Nelville observe that the Pantheon was constructed in such a manner as to appear greater than it was. "The church of St Peter," said she, "will produce quite a different effect upon you; you will believe it at first less stupendous than it is in reality. This illusion, so favourable to the Pantheon, comes, as I am assured, from there being more space between the pillars, and the air playing freely around it; but principally from your not perceiving any of that detailed ornament with which St Peter's is overladen. It is thus that the ancient poets only designed large masses, and left the imagination of the hearer to fill up the intervals, and supply the developments; but we moderns in all things say too much."

"This Temple," continued Corinne, "was consecrated by Agrippa, the favourite of Augustus, to his friend, or rather to his master. However, the master had the modesty to refuse the dedication of the Temple, and Agrippa was obliged to dedicate it to all the gods in Olympus, in order to take the place of Power, the god of the earth. There was a car of bronze on the top of the Pantheon, on which were placed the statues of Augustus and of Agrippa. On each side of the portico these same statues were placed in another form, and on the pediment of the Temple is still to be read: 'Consecrated by Agrippa.' Augustus gave his name to the age in which he lived because he made that age an epoch of the human mind. The masterpieces of every kind produced by his contemporaries form the rays of glory that encircle his head. He knew how to honour the men of genius who cultivated letters, and he has found his recompense in posterity."

"Let us enter the temple," said Corinne. "You see it remains uncovered, almost the same as it was formerly. They say that this light, proceeding from the top, was the emblem of that God who was superior to all the other deities. The Pagans have always been fond of symbolic images. It seems, in effect, that this language is more fitting than speech to religion. The rain often falls upon this marble court, but the rays of the sun also enter to enlighten devotion. What serenity! What an air of festivity is remarkable in this edifice! The Pagans have deified life, and the Christians have deified death. Such is the spirit of the two worships, but the Roman Catholic religion here, however, is less sombre than in the northern countries. You will observe it when we visit St Peter's. Inside the sanctuary of the Pantheon are the busts of our most celebrated artists, they adorn the niches where were placed the gods of the ancients.—As, since the destruction of the empire of the Cæsars, we have hardly ever had political independence in Italy, you do not find here either statesmen or great commanders. It is the genius of imagination which constitutes our own glory; but do you not think, my lord, that a people who honour talents in this manner ought to merit a nobler fate?" "I am very severe towards nations," answered Oswald; "I always believe that they deserve their fate let it be what it may." "That is hard," replied Corinne; "perhaps after a longer residence in Italy you will experience a sentiment of compassion towards this unhappy country, which nature seems to have decorated as a victim; but, at least, you will remember that the dearest hope of us artists, of us lovers of glory, is to obtain a place here. I have already fixed upon mine," said she pointing to a niche still vacant. "Oswald! who knows whether you will not come again to this same enclosure when my bust shall be placed there? Then—"

Oswald interrupted her quickly and said, "In the shining splendour of youth and beauty can you talk thus to one whom misfortune and suffering have already bent towards the grave?" "Ah!" replied Corinne, "the storm may in a moment snap asunder those flowers that now have their heads upreared in life and bloom. Oswald, dear Oswald!" added she; "why should you not be happy? Why—" "Never interrogate me," replied Lord Nelville, "you have your secrets—I have mine, let us mutually respect each other's silence. No—you know not what emotion I should feel were I obliged to relate my misfortunes." Corinne was silent, and her steps in leaving the temple were slower, and her looks more thoughtful.

She stopped beneath the portico:—"There," said she to Lord Nelville, "was a most beautiful urn of porphyry, now transferred to St John of Lateran; it contained the ashes of Agrippa, which were placed at the foot of the statue that he had raised to himself. The ancients took so much care to soften the idea of dissolution that they knew how to strip it of every thing that was doleful and repulsive. There was, besides, so much magnificence in their tombs that the contrast was less felt between the blank of death and the splendours of life. It is true that the hope of another world being less vivid among the Pagans than amongst Christians, they endeavoured to dispute with death the future remembrance which we place, without fear, in the bosom of the Eternal."

Oswald sighed and was silent. Melancholy ideas have many charms when we have not been ourselves deeply wretched, but when grief in all its asperity has seized upon the soul, we no longer hear without shuddering certain words which formerly only excited in us reveries more or less pleasing.

Chapter iii.

On the way to St Peter's the bridge of St Angelo is passed, and Corinne and Lord Nelville crossed it on foot. "It was on this bridge," said Oswald, "that, in returning from the Capitol, I for the first time thought deeply of you." "I did not flatter myself," replied Corinne, "that the coronation at the Capitol would have procured me a friend, but however, in the pursuit of fame it was always my endeavour to make myself beloved.—What would fame be to woman without such a hope?" "Let us stop here a few minutes," said Oswald. "What remembrance of past ages can produce such welcome recollections as this spot, which brings to mind the day when first I saw you." "I know not whether I deceive myself," replied Corinne; "but it seems to me that we become more dear to one another in admiring together those monuments which speak to the soul by true grandeur. The edifices of Rome are neither cold nor dumb, they have been conceived by genius, and consecrated by memorable events. Perhaps, Oswald, it is even necessary that we should be enamoured of such a character as yours, in order to derive such pleasure from feeling with you all that is noble and fine in the universe." "Yes," replied Lord Nelville; "but in beholding you, and listening to your observations, I feel no want of other wonders." Corinne thanked him in a bewitching smile.

On their way to St Peter's they stopped before the castle of St Angelo. "There," said Corinne, "is one of those edifices whose exterior is most original; this is the tomb of Adrian, which, changed into a fortress by the Goths, bears the double character of its first and second destination. Built for the dead, an impenetrable enclosure surrounds it; and, nevertheless, the living have added something hostile to it by the external fortifications, which form a contrast with the silence and noble inutility of a funereal monument. On the top is seen an angel of bronze with a naked sword[7], and in the interior the most cruel prisons are contrived. Every event of Roman history, from Adrian to our time, is connected with this monument. It was here that Belisarius defended himself against the Goths, and, almost as barbarous as they who attacked him, threw at his enemy the beautiful statues that adorned the interior of the edifice[8]. Crescentius, Arnault de Brescia, Nicolas Rienzi, those friends of Roman liberty who so often mistook memories for hopes, defended themselves for a long time in this imperial tomb. I love these stones which are connected with so many illustrious facts. I love this luxury of the master of the world—a magnificent tomb. There is something great in the man who, possessing every enjoyment, every terrestrial pomp, is not dismayed from making preparations for his death a long time before hand. Moral ideas and disinterested sentiments fill the soul when it in a manner breaks through the boundaries of mortality.

"It is from here that we ought to perceive St Peter's. The pillars before it were to extend as far as here:—such was the superb plan of Michael Angelo; he expected, at least, that it would be so finished after his death; but the men of our days no longer think of posterity. When once enthusiasm has been turned into ridicule every thing except money and power is destroyed." "It is you who will revive that sentiment," cried Lord Nelville. "Who ever experienced the happiness I enjoy? Rome shewn by you, Rome interpreted by imagination and genius, Rome, that is a world animated by sentiment, without which the world itself is a desert[9]. Ah, Corinne! what will succeed to these days, more happy than my heart and my fate permit!" Corinne answered him with sweetness: "All sincere affections proceed from heaven, Oswald! Why should it not protect what it inspires? To that Power belongs our fate."

At that moment St Peter's appeared to them, the greatest building that man has ever raised; for the pyramids of Egypt themselves are inferior to it in height. "Perhaps," said Corinne, "I ought to have shewn you the finest of our buildings last, but that is not my system. It is my opinion that to beget a sensibility for the fine arts, we must begin by beholding objects that inspire a deep and lively admiration. This sentiment once felt, reveals, if I may so express myself, a new sphere of ideas, and renders us afterwards more capable of loving, and of judging, what even in an inferior order recalls the first impression we have received. All those gradations, those prudent methods, one tint after another, to prepare for great effects, are not to my taste; we cannot arrive at the sublime by degrees; infinite distances separate it even from that which is only beautiful." Oswald felt an altogether extraordinary emotion on arriving opposite St Peter's. It was the first time that the work of man had produced upon him the same effect as one of the wonders of nature. This is the only work of art, now on our earth, possessing that kind of grandeur which characterises the immediate works of the creation. Corinne enjoyed the astonishment of Oswald. "I have chosen," said she, "a day when the sun is in all its lustre, to shew you this edifice. I have in reserve for you a still more exquisite, more religious pleasure, when you shall contemplate it by moonlight: but you must first witness the most brilliant intellectual feast—the genius of man adorned with the magnificence of nature."

The square of St Peter is surrounded by pillars—those at a distance of a light, and those near of a massive structure. The ground, which is upon a gentle ascent up to the portico of the church, still adds to the effect which it produces. An obelisk, 80 feet high, stands in the middle of the square, but its height appears as nothing in presence of the cupola of St Peter's. The form of an obelisk alone has something in it that pleases the imagination; its summit is lost in the air, and seems to lift the mind of man to heaven. This monument, which was constructed in Egypt to adorn the baths of Caligula, and which Sixtus Quintus caused to be transported to the foot of the temple of St Peter, this cotemporary of so many centuries, which have spent their fury upon it in vain, inspires us with a sentiment of respect; man, sensible of his own fleeting existence, cannot contemplate without emotion that which appears to be immutable. At some distance on each side of the obelisk are two fountains, whose waters form a perpetual and abundant cascade. This murmuring of waters, which we are accustomed to hear in the open country, produces, in this enclosure, an entirely new sensation; but this sensation is quite in harmony with that to which the aspect of a majestic temple gives birth.

Painting and sculpture, imitating generally the human figure or some object existing in nature, awaken in our soul perfectly clear and positive ideas; but a beautiful architectural monument has not any determinate meaning, if it may be so expressed, so that we are seized, in contemplating it, with that kind of aimless reverie, which leads us into a boundless ocean of thought. The sound of fountains harmonises with all these vague and deep impressions; it is uniform as the edifice is regular.

"Eternal motion, and eternal rest,"

are thus blended with each other. It is particularly in a spot like this that Time seems stript of his power, for he appears no more able to dry up the fountains than to shake these immovable stones. The waters, which spout in sheaves from these fountains, are so light and cloudlike that on a fine day the rays of the sun produce on them little rainbows, formed of the most beautiful colours.

"Stop here a moment," said Corinne to Lord Nelville, when they had already reached the portico of the church; "stop a little before you lift up the curtain which covers the door of the temple. Does not your heart beat as you approach this sanctuary? And do not you feel at the moment of entrance all that excites expectation of a solemn event?" Corinne herself lifted up the curtain and held it to let Nelville pass; she displayed so much grace in this attitude that the first look of Oswald was to admire her as she stood, and for some moments she engrossed his whole observation. However, he proceeded into the temple, and the impression which he received beneath these immense arches was so deep, and so solemn, that love itself was no longer able to fill his soul entirely. He walked slowly by the side of Corinne, both preserving silence. Indeed here every thing seemed to command silence; the least noise re-echoes to such a distance that no language seems worthy of being repeated in an abode which may almost be called eternal! Prayer alone, the voice of calamity, produces a powerful emotion in these vast regions; and when beneath these immense domes you hear some old man dragging his feeble steps along the polished marble, watered with so many tears, you feel that man is imposing even by the infirmity of his nature which subjects his divine soul to so many sufferings; and that Christianity, the worship of suffering, contains the true guide for the conduct of man upon earth.

Corinne interrupted the reverie of Oswald, and said to him, "You have seen Gothic churches in England and in Germany; you must have remarked that they have a much more gloomy effect than this church. There was something mysterious in the Catholicism of the northern nations; ours speaks to the imagination by external objects. Michael Angelo said on beholding the cupola of the Pantheon, 'I will place it in the air;' and, in effect, St Peter's is a temple built upon a church. There is some connection between the ancient religions and Christianity, in the effect which the interior of this edifice produces upon the imagination. I often come and walk here to restore to my soul that serenity which it sometimes loses: the sight of such a monument is like continual and sustained music, which waits to do you good when you approach; and certainly we must reckon among the claims of our nation to glory, the patience, the courage and the disinterestedness of the heads of the church, who have devoted one hundred and fifty years, so much money, and so much labour, to the completion of an edifice which they who built it could not expect to enjoy[10]. It is even a service rendered to the public morals to present a nation with a monument which is the emblem of so many noble and generous ideas." "Yes," answered Oswald; "here the arts possess grandeur, and imagination and invention are full of genius; but how is the dignity of man himself protected here! What institutions! what feebleness in the greater part of the governments of Italy! and, nevertheless, what subjugation in the mind!" "Other nations," interrupted Corinne, "have borne the yoke the same as we, and have lacked the imagination to dream of another fate.

'Servi siam sì, ma servi ognor frementi.'