Corinne; or, Italy

CHAPTER VII.

Oswald proceeded to Scotland. The effect of Lucy's presence, the sentiment he still felt for Corinne, alike gave place to the emotions that awakened at the sight of scenes where he had dwelt with his father. He upbraided himself with the dissipations in which he had spent the last year; fearing that he was no longer worthy to re-enter the abode he now wished he had never quitted. Alas! after the loss of life's dearest object, how can we be content with ourselves, unless in perfect retirement? We cannot mix in society, without in some way neglecting our worship of the dead. In vain their memory reigns in the heart's core; we lend ourselves to the activity of the living, which banishes the thought of death as painful and unavailing. If solitude prolongs not our regrets, life, as it is, calls back the most feeling minds, renews their interests, their passions. This imperious necessity is one of the sad conditions of human nature; and although decreed by Providence, that man may support the idea of death, both for himself and others, yet often, in the midst of our enjoyments, we feel remorse at being still capable of them, and seem to hear a resigned, affecting voice asking us: "Have you, whom I so loved, forgotten me?" Oswald felt not now the despair he had suffered on his first return home after his father's death, but a melancholy, deepened by his perceiving that time had accustomed every one else to the loss he still deplored. The servants no longer thought it their duty to speak of the late lord; his place in the rank of life was filled; children grow up as substitutes for their sires. Oswald shut himself in his father's room, for lonely meditation. "Oh, human destiny!" he sighed, "what wouldst thou have? so much life perish? so many thoughts expire? No, no, my only friend hears me, yet sees my tears, is present—our immortal spirits still commune. Oh, God! be thou my guide. Those iron souls, that seem immovable as nature's rocks, pity not the vacillations and repentance of the sensitive, the conscientious, who cannot take one step without the fear of straying from the right. They may bid duty lead them, but duty's self would vanish from their eyes, if Thou revealedst not the truth to their hearts."

In the evening Oswald roved through the favorite walks of his father. Who has not hoped, in the ardor of his prayers, that the one dear shade would reappear, and miracles be wrought by the force of love? Vain trust! beyond the tomb we can see nothing. These endless uncertainties occupy not the vulgar, but the nobler the mind the more incontrollably is it involved in speculations. While Oswald wandered thus absorbed, he did, indeed, behold a venerable man slowly advancing towards him. Such a sight at such a time and place, took a strong effect; but he soon recognized his father's friend, Mr. Dickson, and with an affection which he never felt for him before.

CHAPTER VIII.

This gentleman in no way equalled the parent of Oswald, but he was with him at his death; and having been born in the same year, he seemed to linger behind but to carry Lord Nevil some tidings of his son. Oswald offered him his arm as they went up stairs; and felt a pleasure in paying attention to age, however little resembling that of his father. Mr. Dickson remembered Oswald's birth, and hesitated not to speak his mind on all that concerned his young friend, strongly reprimanding his connection with Corinne; but his weak arguments would have gained less ascendency over Oswald's mind than those of Lady Edgarmond, had he not handed him the letter to which she alluded. With considerable tremor he read as follows:—

"Will you forgive me, my dear friend, if I propose a change of plan in the union of our families? My son is more than a year younger than your eldest daughter; will it not be better, therefore, that he should wait for the little Lucy? I might confine myself to the subject of age; but, as I knew Miss Edgarmond's when first I named my wishes, I should deem myself wanting in confidence, if I did not tell you my true reasons for desiring that this marriage may not take place. We have known each other for twenty years, and may speak frankly of our children, especially while they are young enough to be improved by our opinions. Your daughter is a charming girl, but I seem to be gazing on one of those Grecian beauties, who, of old, enchanted and subdued the world. Do not be offended by this comparison. She can have received from you none but the purest principles; yet she certainly loves to produce an effect, and create a sensation: she has more genius than self-love; such talents as hers necessarily engender a taste for display; and I know no theatre that could suffice the activity of a spirit, whose impetuous fancy, and ardent feelings, break through each word she utters. She would inevitably wean my son from England; for such a woman could not be happy here: only Italy can content her. She must have that free life which is guided but by fantasy: our domestic country habits must thwart her every taste. A man born in this happy land ought to be in all things English, and fulfil the duties to which he is so fortunately called. In countries whose political institutions give men such honorable opportunities for public action, the women should bloom in the shade: can you expect so distinguished a person as your daughter to be satisfied with such a lot? Take my advice. Marry her in Italy; her religion and manners suit that country. If my son should wed her, I am sure it would be from love, for no one can be more engaging: to please her, he would endeavor to introduce foreign customs into his establishment, and would soon lose his national character, those prejudices, if you please to call them so, which unite us with each other, and render us a body free but indissoluble, or which can only be broken up by the death of its last associate. My son could not be comfortable where his wife was unhappy: he is sensitive, even to weakness; and his expatriation, if I lived to see it, would render me most miserable; not merely as deprived of my son, but as knowing him lost to the glory of serving his native land. Is it worthy a mountaineer to drag on a useless life amid the pleasures of Italy? A Scot become the cicisbeo of his own wife, if not of some other man's? Neither the guide nor the prop of his family! I even rejoice that Oswald is now in France, and still unknown to a lady whose empire over him would be too great. I dare conjure you, my dear friend, should I die before his marriage, do not let him meet your eldest daughter until Lucy be of an age to fix his affections. Let him learn my wishes, if requisite. I know he will respect them—the more if I should then be removed from this life. Give all your attention, I entreat you, to his union with Lucy. Child as she is, her features, look, and voice, all express the most endearing modesty. She will be a true Englishwoman, and may constitute the happiness of my boy. If I do not live to witness their felicity, I shall exult over it in heaven; and when we reunite there, my dear friend, our prayers and benedictions will protect our children still.

"Ever yours,

"NEVIL."

After reading this, Oswald remained silent, and left Mr. Dickson time to continue his long discourse without interruption. He admired the judgment of his friend, who, nevertheless, he said, was far from anticipating the reprehensible life Miss Edgarmond had since led: a marriage between Oswald and herself now, he added, would be an eternal insult to Lord Nevil's memory; who, it appeared, during his son's fatal residence in France, had passed a whole summer at Lady Edgarmond's, solacing himself by superintending the education of his favorite Lucy. In fact without either artifice or forbearance, Mr. Dickson attacked the heart of Oswald through all the avenues of sensibility. Thus everything conspired against the absent Corinne, who had no means, save letters, for reviving from time to time, the tenderness of Oswald. She had to contend with his love of country, his filial remorse, the exhortation of his friends in favor of resolutions so easy to adopt, as they led him towards a budding, beauty, whose every charm seemed to harmonize with the calm, chaste hopes of a domestic lot.

BOOK XVII.

CORINNE IN SCOTLAND.

CHAPTER I.

Corinne, meanwhile, had settled in a villa on the Brenta: she could not quit the scenes in which she had last met Oswald—and also hoped that she should here receive her letters earlier than at Rome. Prince Castel Forte had written, begging leave to visit her; but she refused. The friendship existing between them commanded mutual confidence; and had he striven to detach her from her love—had he told her what she so often told herself—that absence must decrease Nevil's attachment, one inconsiderate word would have been a dagger to her heart. She wished to see no one; yet it is not easy to live alone, while the soul is ardent, and its situation unfortunate. The employments of solitude require peace of mind; if that be lost, forced gayety, however troublesome, is more serviceable than meditation. If we could trace madness to its source, we should surely find that it originated in the power of one single thought, which excluded all mental variety. Corinne's imagination consumed herself, unless diverted by external excitement. What a life now succeeded that which she had led for nearly a year, with the man of her heart's choice forever with her, as her most appreciating companion, her tenderest friend, and fondest lover! Now, all was barren around and gloomy within her. The only interesting event was the arrival of a letter from him; and the irregularity of the post, during winter, every day tormented her with expectations, often disappointed. Each morning she walked on the banks of the canal, now covered by large-leaved water-lilies, watching for the black gondola, which she had learned to distinguish afar off. How did her heart beat, as she perceived it! Sometimes the messenger would answer: "No letters for you, madame," and carelessly proceeded to other matters, as if nothing were so simple as to have no letters; another time he would say: "Yes, madame, here are some." She ran over them all with a trembling hand: if the well-known characters of Oswald met not her eye, the day was terrible, the night sleepless the morrow redoubled her anxiety and suspense. "Surely," she thought, "he might write more frequently;" and her next letter reproached his silence. He justified himself; but his style had already lost some of its tenderness: instead of expressing his own solicitude, it seemed but attempting to dissipate hers. This change did not escape her: day and night would she reperuse a particular phrase, seeking some new interpretation on which to build a few days' composure. This state shattered her nerves: she became superstitious. Constantly occupied by the same fear, we may draw presages from everything. One day in every week she she went to Venice, for the purpose of receiving her letters some hours earlier: this merely varied the tortures of waiting; and in a short time she conceived as great a horror for every object she encountered on her way, as if they had been the spectres of her own thoughts, reappearing clothed in the most dreadful aspects. Once, on entering the church of St. Mark, she remembered how, on her arrival in Venice, the idea had occurred to her that perhaps, ere she departed, Oswald would lead her thither to call her his in sight of Heaven. She gave way once more to this illusion; saw him approach the altar; heard him vow before his God to love her forever; they knelt together, and she received the nuptial crown. The organ, then playing, and the lights that shone through the aisle, gave life to her vision; and for a moment she felt not the cruel void of absence: but suddenly a dreary murmur succeeded—she turned, and beheld a bier brought into the church. She staggered; her sight almost failed; and from that moment she felt convinced that her love for Oswald would lead her but to the grave.

CHAPTER II.

Lord Nevil was now the most unhappy and irresolute of men. He must either break the heart of Corinne, or outrage the memory of his father. Cruel alternative! to escape which he called on death a thousand times a day. At last, he once more resorted to his habitual procrastination, telling himself that he would go to Venice, since he could not resolve to write Corinne the truth, and make her his judge; but then he daily expected that his regiment would embark. He was free from all engagement with Lucy. He believed it his duty not to marry Corinne; but in what other way could he pass his life with her? Could he desert his country? or bring her to it, and ruin her fair name forever? He resolved to hide from her the obstacles which he had encountered from her step-mother, because he still hoped ultimately to surmount them. Manifold causes rendered his letters brief, or filled them with subjects remote from his future prospects. Any one, save Corinne, would have guessed all; but passion rendered her at once quick-sighted and credulous. In such a state, we see nothing in a natural manner: but discover what is concealed, while blind to that which should seem clearest. We cannot brook the idea of suffering so much without some extraordinary cause; we will not confess to ourselves that such despair may be produced by the simplest circumstances in life. Though Oswald pitied her, and blamed himself, his correspondence betrayed an irritation which it did not explain; wildly reproaching her for what he endured, as if she had not been far the most unfortunate. This tone deprived her of all mastery over herself. Her mind was disordered by the most fatal images: she could not believe that the being capable of writing with such abrupt and heartless bitterness was the same Oswald she had known so generous, so tender. She felt a resistless desire to see and speak with him once more. "Let me hear him tell me," she raved, "that it is he who thus mercilessly stabs her whose least pain once so strongly afflicted him; let him say so, and I submit: but some infernal power seems to inspire this language; it is not Oswald who writes thus to me. They have slandered me to him: some treachery must be exerted, or I could not be used thus." She adopted the resolution of going to Scotland, if we may so call the impulse of an imperious grief, which would fain alter its present situation at all hazards. She dared not write nor speak to any one on this subject, still flattering herself that some fortunate change would prevent her acting on a plan, which, nevertheless, soothed her imagination, and forced her to look forward. To read was now impossible: music thrilled her to agony: and the charms of nature induced a reverie that redoubled her distress. This creature, once so animated, now passed whole days in motionless silence. Her internal pangs were but betrayed by a mortal paleness: her eyes were frequently fixed upon her watch, though she knew not why she should wish one hour to succeed another, since not one of them could bring her aught, save restless nights and despairing days.

One evening, she was informed that a female was earnestly requesting to see her: she consented; and the woman entered her presence dressed in black, and veiled, to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed by the most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor; demanding them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success. Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in return. The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was astonished to behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and celebrated, a prey to sorrow. "My God, madame," she cried, "I would you were as calm as I!" What an address from such an object to the most brilliant woman in Italy! Alas! the power of love is too vast in souls like hers. Happy are they who consecrate to Heaven the sentiments no earthly ties can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Corinne; she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed, indeed, but not submissively. Her peerless talents, the glory they had won, gave her too great an interest in herself. It is only by detaching our hearts from all the world that we can renounce the thing we love. Every other sacrifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere the fire that made it so is quenched. At last, in the midst of this sad indecision, Corinne received a letter from Oswald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six weeks, and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by this delay to visit Venice without injuring his reputation. There was but just time for Corinne to reach England, ere he must leave it, perhaps forever. This thought decided her; she was not ignorant of her own rashness; she judged herself more severely than any one else could. Pity her, then! What woman has a right to "cast the first stone" at the unfortunate sister, who justifies not her fault, hopes for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as if driven on by persecuting spirits? Her letter to Castel Forte thus concludes: "Adieu, my faithful protector! Adieu, my friends in Rome! with whom I passed such joyous, easy days. It is done—all is over. Fate has stricken me. I feel the wound is mortal. I struggle still, but soon shall fall. I must see him again. I am not answerable for myself. A storm is in my breast such as I cannot govern; but I draw near the term at which all will cease. This is the last act of my history: it will end in penitence and death. Oh, wild confusion of the human heart! Even now, while I am obeying the will of passion, I see the shades of evening in the distance, I hear a voice divine that whispers me: 'Still these fond agitations, hapless wretch! the abode of endless rest awaits thee.' O God! grant me the presence of mine Oswald once more, but one last moment! The very memory of his features now is darkened by despair; but is there not something heavenly in his look? Did not the air become more pure, more brilliant, as he approached? You, my friend, have seen him with me, have witnessed his kind cares, and the respect with which he inspired others for the woman of his choice. How can I live without him? Pardon my ingratitude: ought I thus to requite thy disinterested constancy? But I am no longer worthy any blessing; and might pass for insane, had I not still the miserable consciousness of mine own madness. Farewell, then—yes, farewell!"

CHAPTER III.

How pitiable is the feeling, delicate woman, who commits a great imprudence for a man whose love she knows inferior to her own! She has but herself to be her support. If she has risked repose and character to do some signal service for her idol, she may be envied. Sweet is the self-devotion that braves all danger to save a life that is dear to us, or solace the distress which rends a heart responsive to our own. But thus to travel unknown lands, to arrive without being expected, to blush before the one beloved, for the unasked proof thus given of his power—painful degradation! What would it be if we thus involved the happiness of others, and outraged our duty to more sacred bonds? Corinne was free. She sacrificed but her own peace and glory. Her conduct was irrational, indeed, but it could overcloud no destiny save hers.[1]

On landing in England, Corinne learned from the papers that Lord Nevil's departure was still delayed. She saw no society in London except the family of a banker, to whom she had been recommended under a false name. He was interested in her at first sight, and enjoined his wife and daughter to pay her all the attentions in their power. She fell dangerously ill, and, for a fortnight, her new friends watched over her with the most tender care. She heard that Lord Nevil was in Scotland, but must shortly rejoin his regiment in London. She knew not how to announce herself, as she had not written to him respecting her intentions—indeed, Oswald had not received a letter from her for three months. He mentally accused her of infidelity, as if he had any right to complain. On his return to town, he went first to his agents, where he hoped to find letters from Italy: there were none; and, as he was musing over this silence, he encountered Mr. Edgarmond, who asked him for news of Corinne. "I hear nothing of her," he replied, irritably.—"That I can easily understand," added Edgarmond: "these Italians always forget a foreigner, once out of sight; one ought never to heed it; they would be too delightful if they united constancy with genius: it is but fair that our own women should have some advantage!" He squeezed Oswald's hand as he said this, and took leave, as he was just starting for Wales; but his few words had pierced their hearer's heart.—"I am wrong," he said, "to wish she should regret me, since I cannot constitute her happiness; but so soon to forget! This blights the past as well as the future."

Despite his father's will, he had resolved not to see Lucy more; and even scorned himself for the impression she had made on him. Condemned as he was to defeat the hopes of Corinne, he felt that, at least, he ought to preserve his heart's faith inviolately hers: no duty urged him to forfeit that. He renewed his solicitations in her cause, by letters to Lady Edgarmond, who did not even deign to answer them: meanwhile, Mr. Dickson assured him that the only way of melting her to his wishes would be—marrying her daughter; whose establishment, she feared, Corinne might frustrate, if she resumed her name, and was received by her family. Fate had hitherto spared her the pang of suspecting Oswald's interest in her sister. Never was she herself more worthy of him than now. During her illness, the candid, simple beings by whom she was surrounded, had given her a sincere taste for English habits and manners. The few persons she saw were anything but distinguished, yet possessed an estimable strength, and justice of mind. Their affection for her was less professing than that to which she had been accustomed, but evinced with every opportunity by fresh good offices. The austerity of Lady Edgarmond, the tedium of a small country town, had cruelly misled her as to the kindness, the true nobility to be found in the country she had abandoned: unluckily, she now became attached to it under such circumstances, that it would have been better for her own peace had she never been untaught her dislike.

CHAPTER IV.

The banker's family, who were forever studying how to prove their friendship, pressed Corinne to see Mrs. Siddons perform Isabella, in the Fatal Marriage, one of the characters in which that great actress best displayed her admirable genius. Corinne refused for some time: at last, she remembered that Lord Nevil had often compared her manner of recitation with that of Mrs. Siddons: she was therefore anxious to see her, and thickly veiled, went to a small box, whence she could see all, herself unseen. She knew not if Oswald was in London, but feared to be recognized by any one who might have met her in Italy. The commanding beauty and deep sensibility of the heroine so riveted her attention, that, during the earliest acts, her eyes were never turned from the stage.

English declamation is better calculated than any other to touch the soul, especially when such fine talents give it all its power and originality. It is less artificial, less conventional than that of France. The impressions produced are more immediate—for thus would true despair express itself; the plots and versification of English dramas too are less remote from real life, and their effect more heart-rending. It requires far higher genius to become a great actor in France, so little liberty being left to individual manner, so much influence attached to general rules;[1] but in England you may risk anything, if inspired by nature. The long groans that appear ridiculous if described, make those shudder who hear them. Mrs. Siddons, the most nobly-mannered woman who ever adorned a theatre, lost none of her dignity by prostrating herself on the earth. There is no action but may become graceful, if prompted by an impulse which rises from the depths of the breast, and lords it over the mind which conceives it still more than over its witnesses. Various nations have their different styles of tragic acting, but the expression of grief is understood from one end of the world to the other; and, from the savage to the king, there is some similarity between all men while they are really suffering.

Between the fourth and fifth acts, Corinne observed that all eyes were turned towards a box, in which she beheld Lady Edgarmond and her daughter; she could not doubt that it was Lucy, much as the last seven years had embellish her form. The death of a rich relation had obliged Lady Edgarmond to visit London, and settle the succession of his fortune. Lucy was more dressed than usual;[2] and it was long since so beauteous a girl had been seen, even in England, where the women are so lovely. Corinne felt a melancholy surprise: she thought it impossible for Oswald to resist that countenance. On comparing herself with her sister, she was so conscious of her own inferiority, that she exaggerated (if such exaggeration be possible) the charm of that fair complexion, those golden curls, and innocent blue eyes—that image of life's spring! She felt almost degraded in setting her own mental acquirements in competition with gifts thus lavished by Heaven itself. Suddenly, in an opposite box, she perceived Lord Nevil, whose gaze was fixed on Lucy. What a moment for Corinne! She once more beheld that face, for which she had so long searched her memory every instant, as if the image could be effaced—she beheld it again—absorbed by the beauty of another. Oswald could not guess the presence of Corinne; but if his eye had even wandered towards her, she might, from such a chance, have drawn a happy omen.

Mrs. Siddons reappeared, and Lord Nevil looked but on her. Corinne breathed again, trusting that mere curiosity had drawn his glance towards Lucy. The tragedy became every moment more affecting; and the fair girl was bathed in tears, which she strove to conceal, by retiring to the back of her box. Nevil noticed this with increased interest. At last the dreadful instant came when Isabella, laughing at the fruitless efforts of those who would restrain her, stabs herself to the heart. That despairing laugh is the most difficult and powerful effect which tragic acting can produce; its bitter irony moves one to more than tears. How terrible must be the suffering that inspires so barbarous a joy, and in the sight of our own blood, feels the ferocious pleasure that one might experience when taking full revenge upon some savage foe. It was evident that Lucy's agitation had alarmed her mother, who turned anxiously towards her. Oswald rose, as if he would have flown to them; but he soon reseated himself, and Corinne felt some relief; yet she sighed; "My sister Lucy, once so dear to me, has a feeling heart; why should I then wish to deprive her of a blessing she may enjoy without impediment, without any sacrifice on Oswald's part?"

When the play concluded, Corinne stayed until the parties who were leaving the house had gone, that she might avoid recognition; she concealed herself near the door of her box, where she could see what passed near her. As soon as Lucy came out, a crowd assembled to look on her; and exclamations in praise of her beauty were heard from all sides, which greatly embarrassed her; the infirm Lady Edgarmond was ill able to brave the throng, despite the cares of her child, and the politeness shown them both; but they knew no one, therefore no gentleman dared accost them. Lord Nevil, seeing their situation, hastened to offer each an arm. Lucy, blushing and downcast, availed herself of this attention. They passed close by Corinne, whom Oswald little suspected of witnessing a sight so painful: he was proud of thus escorting one of the handsomest girls in England through the numerous admirers who followed her steps.[3]

CHAPTER V.

Corinne returned to her dwelling in cruel disquiet; not knowing what steps to take, how to apprise Nevil of her arrival, nor what to say in defence of her motives; for every instant lessened her confidence in his love: sometimes it seemed as if the man she sought to see again were some passionately beloved stranger, who could not even recognize her. She sent to his house the next evening, and was informed that he had gone to Lady Edgarmond's; the same answer was brought her on the following day, with tidings that her ladyship was ill, and would return to Northumberland on her recovery. Corinne waited for her removal ere she let Oswald know she was in England. Every evening she walked by her step-mother's residence, and saw his carriage at its door. An inexpressible oppression seized on her heart: yet she daily persevered, and daily received the same shock. She erred, however, in supposing that Oswald was there as the suitor of Lucy.

As he led Lady Edgarmond to her carriage, after the play, she told him that Corinne was concerned in the will of their late kinsman; and begged that he would write to Italy on the arrangements made in the affair. As Oswald promised to call, he fancied he felt the hand of Lucy tremble. Corinne's silence persuaded him that he was no longer dear to her; and the emotion of this young girl gave him the idea that she was interested in him. Yet he thought not of breaking his promise to Corinne: the ring she held was a pledge that he would never marry another without her consent. He sought her step-mother next day, merely on her account; but Lady Edgarmond was so ill, and her daughter so uneasy at finding herself in London without another relative near her, without even knowing to what physician she should apply, that, in duty to the friends of his father, Oswald felt he ought to devote his time to their service. The cold, proud Lady Edgarmond had never softened so much as she did now; letting him visit her every day without his having said a word that could be construed into a proposal for her daughter, whose beauty, rank, and fortune rendered her one of the first matches in England. Since her appearance in public, her address had been eagerly inquired, and her door besieged by the nobility; yet her mother went nowhere—received no one but Lord Nevil. Could he avoid feeling flattered by this silent and delicate generosity, which trusted him without conditions, without complaint? yet every time he went did he fear that his presence would be interpreted into an engagement. He would have ceased to go thither as soon as Corinne's business was settled, but that Lady Edgarmond underwent a relapse, more dangerous than her first attack; and had she died, Lucy would have had no friend beside her but himself. She had never breathed a word that could assure him of her preference; yet he fancied he detected it in the light but sudden changes of her cheek, the abrupt fall of her lashes, and the rapidity of her breathing. He studied her young heart with tender interest; and her reserve left him always uncertain as to the nature of her sentiments. The highest eloquence of passion cannot entirely satisfy the fancy; we desire something beyond it; and not finding that, must either cool or sate; while the faint light which we perceive through clouds, long keeps our curiosity in suspense, and seems to promise a whole future of new discoveries: this expectation is never gratified; for when we know what all this mystery hid, its charm is gone, and we awake to regret the candid impulses of a more animated character. How then can we prolong the heart's enchantment, since doubt and confidence, rapture and misery, alike destroy it in the end? These heavenly joys belong not to our fate; they never cross our path, save to remind us of our immortal origin and hopes.

Lady Edgarmond was better; and talked of departing, in two days, for her estate in Scotland, near that of Lord Nevil, whither he had purposed going before the embarkation of his regiment: she anticipated his proposing to accompany her, but he said nothing. Lucy gazed on him in silence for a moment, then hastily rose, and went to the window: on some pretext Nevil shortly followed her, and fancied that her lids were wet with tears: he sighed, and the forgetfulness of which he had accused Corinne returning to his memory, he asked himself whether this young creature might not prove more capable of constant love? He wished to atone for the pain he had inflicted. It is delightful to rekindle smiles on a countenance so nearly infantine. Grief is out of place, where even reflection has yet left no trace. There was to be a review in Hyde Park on the morrow; he therefore entreated Lady Edgarmond to drive there with her daughter, and afterwards permit his taking a ride with Lucy beside her carriage. Miss Edgarmond had once said that she greatly wished to mount a horse, and looked at her mother with appealing submission: after a little deliberation, the invalid held out her wasting hand to Oswald, saying: "If you request it, my Lord, I consent." These words so alarmed him, that he would have abandoned his own proposal; but that Lucy, with a vivacity she had never before betrayed, took her mother's hand, and kissed it gratefully. He had not the courage to deprive an innocent being, who led so lonely a life, of an amusement she so much desired.

CHAPTER VI.

For a fortnight, Corinne had endured the severest anxiety; every morning she hesitated whether she should write to Oswald; every evening she had the inexpressible grief of knowing that he was with Lucy. Her sufferings made her daily more timid: she blushed to think that he might not approve the step she had taken. "Perhaps," she often said, "all thought of Italy is banished from his breast: he no longer needs in woman a gifted mind or an impassioned heart; all that can please him now is the angelic beauty of sixteen, the fresh and diffident soul that consecrates to him its first emotions." Her imagination was so struck with the advantages of her young sister, that she was abashed, disarmed, depreciatingly disgusted with herself. Though not yet eight-and-twenty, she had already reached that era when women sadly distrust their power to please. Her pride and jealousy contending, made her defer from day to day the dreaded yet desired moment of her meeting with Oswald. She learned that his regiment would be reviewed, and resolved on being present. She thought it probable that Lucy would be there: if so, she would trust her own eyes to judge the state of Nevil's heart. At first, she thought of dressing herself with care, and suddenly appearing before him; but at her toilet, her black hair, her skin slightly embrowned by the Italian sun, her prominent features, all discouraged her. She remembered the ethereal aspect of her sister; and, throwing aside her rich array, assumed a black Venitian garb, covered her head and figure with the mantle worn in that country, and threw herself into a coach. In Hyde Park, she found groups of gentlemen, attired with simple elegance, escorting their fair and modest ladies. The virtues proper to each sex seemed thus to meet. Scarcely was she there ere she beheld Oswald at the head of his corps: its men looked up to him with confidence and devotion. The uniform lent him a more imposing air than usual, and he reined his charger with perfectly graceful dexterity. The band played pieces of music at once proud and sweet, which seemed nobly enjoying the sacrifice of life: among them, "God save the King," so dear to English hearts; and Corinne exclaimed: "Respected land! which ought to be my own! why did I ever leave thee? What matters more or less of personal fame, amid so much true merit? and what glory could equal that of being called Lord Nevil's worthy wife?"

The martial instruments recalled to her mind the perils he must brave so soon. Unseen by him she gazed through her tears, sighing: "Oh, may he live, though it be not for me! My God! it is Oswald only I implore thee to preserve!" At this moment Lady Edgarmond's carriage drove up. Nevil bowed respectfully, and lowered the point of his sword. No one who looked on Lucy but admired her: Oswald's glances pierced the heart of Corinne: she knew their meaning well, for such had once been bent on her. The horses he had lent to Lady Edgarmond passed to and fro with exquisite speed, while the equipage of Corinne was drawn after these flying coursers almost as slowly as a hearse. "It was not thus," she thought, "that I approached the Capitol: no; he has dashed me from my car of triumph into an abyss of misery. I love him, and the joys of life are lost. I love him, and the gifts of nature fade. Pardon him, O my God! when I am gone." Oswald was now close to her vehicle. The Italian dress caught his eye, and he rode round, in hopes of beholding the face of this unknown. Her heart beat violently; and all her fear was that she should faint and be discovered; but she restrained her feelings; and Lord Nevil relinquished the idea which beset him. When the review was over, to avoid again attracting his attention, she alighted, and retired behind the trees, so as not to be observed. Oswald then went up to Lady Edgarmond, and showed her a very gentle horse, which his servants had brought hither for Lucy: her mother bade him be very careful of her. He dismounted, and, hat in hand, conversed through the carriage door with so feeling an expression, that Corinne could attribute this regard for the mother to nothing less than an attachment for the daughter. Lucy left the carriage: a riding habit charmingly defined the elegant outline of her figure: she wore a black hat with white plumes—her fair silken locks floating airily about her smiling face. Oswald placed his hand as her step: she had expected this service from a domestic, and blushed at receiving it from him; but he insisted, and at last, she set her little foot in his hand, then sprung so lightly to her saddle, that she seemed one of those sylphid shapes which fancy paints in colors so delicate. She set off at a gallop. Oswald followed, never losing sight of her: once the horse made a false step: he instantly checked it, examining the bit and bridle with the most kind solicitude. Shortly afterwards the animal ran away. Oswald turned pale as death, spurring his own steed to an incredible fleetness; in a second he overtook that of Lucy, leaped from his seat, and threw himself before her. She shuddered in her turn lest she should harm him; but with one hand he seized her rein, supporting her with the other, as she gently leaned against him.

What more needed Corinne to convince her of Oswald's love for Lucy? Did she not see all the signs of interest which formerly he lavished on herself? Nay, to her eternal despair, did she not read in his eyes a more revering deference than he had ever shown to her? Twice she drew the ring from her finger, and was ready to break through the crowd, that she might throw it at his feet: the hope of dying in this effort encouraged her resolution; but where is the woman, even born beneath a southern sky, who does not tremble at attracting the attention of a crowd? She was returning to her coach; and as she crossed a somewhat deserted walk, Oswald again noticed the black figure he before had seen; and it now made a stronger impression on him than at first: he attributed his emotion to remorse, at having, for the first time, felt his heart faithless to the image of Corinne; yet he resolved on starting for Scotland, as his regiment was not to embark for some time.

CHAPTER VII.

From this moment Corinne's reason was affected, and her strength decayed. She began a letter to Lord Nevil, full of bitter upbraidings, and then tore it up. "What avail reproaches?" she thought: "could love be the most pure, most generous of our sentiments, if it were not involuntary? Another face, another voice, command the secret of his heart: all is said that can be said." She began a new letter, depicting the monotony he would find in a union with Lucy; essayed to prove that, without a perfect harmony of soul and mind, no happiness could last; but she destroyed this paper more hastily than the other. "If he already knows not my opinions, I cannot teach him now," she said; "besides, ought I to speak thus of my sister? is she so greatly my inferior as I think? and, if she be, is it for me, who, like a mother, pressed her in childhood to my heart, to point out her deficiencies? no, no! we must not thus value our own inclinations above all price. This life, full as it is of wishes, must have an end; and, even before death, meditation may wean us from its selfishness." Once more she resumed her pen, to tell but of her misery; yet, in expressing it, she felt such pity for herself, that her tears flowed over every word. "No," she said again, "I cannot send this: if he resisted it, I should hate him; if he yielded, how know I but it would be by a sacrifice? even after which he would be haunted by the memory of another. I had better see him, speak with him, and return his ring." She folded it in paper, on which she only wrote, "You are free;" and, putting it in her bosom, awaited the evening ere she could approach. In open day, she would have blushed before all she met; and yet she sought to anticipate the moment of his visit to Lady Edgarmond. At six o'clock, therefore, she set forth, trembling like a condemned criminal—we so much fear those we love, when once our confidence is lost. The object of a passionate affection is, in the eyes of woman, either her surest protector or most dreaded master. Corinne stopped her equipage at Lord Nevil's door, and in a hesitating voice asked the porter if he was at home; but the man replied: "My Lord set out for Scotland half an hour ago, madam." This intelligence pressed heavily on her heart: she had shrunk from the thought of meeting Oswald, but her soul had surmounted that inexpressible emotion. The effort was made: she believed herself about to hear his voice, and now must take some new resolution ere she could regain it; wait some days longer, and stoop to one step more. Yet, at all hazards, she must see him again; and the next day she departed for Scotland.

CHAPTER VIII.

Ere quitting London, Nevil again called on his agents; and, on finding no letter from Corinne, bitterly asked himself if he ought to give up the certainty of permanent domestic peace for one, who, perhaps, no longer remembered him. Yet he decided on writing once more to inquire the cause of this silence, and assure her that, till she sent back his ring, he would never be the husband of another. He completed his journey in a very gloomy mood, loving Lucy almost unconsciously; for he had, as yet, scarcely heard her speak twenty words—yet regretting Corinne, and the circumstances which separated him from her; by fits yielding to the innocent beauty of the one, and retracing the brilliant grace or sublime eloquence of the other. Had he but known that Corinne loved him better than ever, that she had quitted everything to follow him, he would never have seen Lucy more; but he believed himself forgotten, and told his heart that a cool manner might oft conceal deep feelings. He was deceived. Impassioned spirits must betray themselves a thousand ways: that which can always be controlled must needs be weak.

Another event added to his interest in Lucy. In returning to his estates, he passed so near her mother's, that curiosity urged him to visit it. He asked to be shown the room in which Miss Edgarmond usually studied: it was filled by remembrances of the time his father had passed there during his own absence in France. On the spot where, a few months before his death, the late Lord Nevil had given her lessons, Lucy had erected a marble pedestal, on which was graven, "To the memory of my second father." A book lay on the table. Oswald opened it, and found a collection of his father's thoughts, who in the first page had written: "To her who has solaced me in my sorrows; the maid whose angelic soul will constitute the glory and happiness of her husband." With what emotion Oswald read these lines! in which the opinion of the revered dead was so warmly expressed. He interpreted Lucy's silence on this subject into a delicacy which feared to extort his vows by an idea of duty. "It was she, then," he cried, "who softened the pangs I dealt him; and shall I desert her while her mother is dying, and she has no comforter but myself? Ah, Corinne! brilliant and admired as thou art, thou dost not, like Lucy, stand in need of one devoted friend!" Alas! she was no longer brilliant, no longer admired, wandering from town to town, without overtaking the being for whom she had lost all, and whom she could not forget. She was taken ill at an inn, half-way between London and Edinburgh, and, in spite of all her efforts, unable to continue her journey. She often thought, during her long nights of suffering, that if she died there, none but Thérésina would know the name to inscribe upon her tomb. What a changed fate for the woman who could not leave her house in Italy without being followed by a host of worshippers! Why should one single feeling thus despoil a whole life? After a week of intense agony, she resumed her route: so many painful fears mingled with the hope of seeing Oswald, that her expectation was but a sad anxiety. She designed to rest a few hours on her father's land, where his tomb had been erected, never having been there since; indeed, she only spent one month on this estate with Lord Edgarmond, the happiest portion of her stay in England. These recollections inspired her with a wish to revisit their scene. She knew not that her step-mother was there already. Some miles from the house, perceiving that a carriage had been overturned, she stopped her own, and saw an old gentleman extricated from that which had broken down, much alarmed by the shock. Corinne hurried to his assistance, and offered him a share of her conveyance to the neighboring town: he accepted it gratefully, announcing himself as Mr. Dickson: she remembered that Nevil had often mentioned that name, and directed the conversation to the only subject which interested her in life. Mr. Dickson was the most willing gossip in the world; and ignorant who his companion was, believed her an English lady, with no private interest in the questions she asked, therefore told her all he knew most minutely: her attentions had conciliated him; and, in return, he trusted that his confidence might entertain her. He described how he had informed Lord Nevil of his parent's wishes, and repeated an extract from the late Lord's letter, often exclaiming: "He expressly forbade Oswald's marriage with this Italian—and they cannot brave his will without insulting his memory." Mr. Dickson added, that Oswald loved Lucy, was beloved by her; that her mother strongly desired their union, but that this foreign engagement prevented it. "How!" said Corinne, striving to disguise her agitation: "do you think thatthe sole barrier to his happiness with Miss Edgarmond?"—"I am sure of it," he answered, delighted with her inquiries. "It is but three days since Lord Nevil said to me: 'If I were free, I would marry Lucy.'"—"If he were free!" sighed Corinne. At that moment, the carriage stopped at the hotel to which she had promised Mr. Dickson her escort. He thanked her, and begged to know where he might see her again. She wrung his hand, without power to speak, and left him. Late as it was, she resolved that evening to visit the grave of her father. The disorder of her mind rendered this sacred pilgrimage more necessary than ever.

CHAPTER IX.

Lady Edgarmond had been two days on her estate, where, that night, she had invited all her neighbors and tenants; and there was Oswald with Lucy, when Corinne arrived. She saw many carriages in the avenue; and alighted on the spot where her father had once treated her with such tenderness. What a contrast between those days, when she had thought herself so unfortunate, and her present situation! Thus are we punished for our fancied woes, by real calamities, which but too well teach us what true sorrow means. Corinne bade her servant ask the cause of all this light and bustle. A domestic replied: "Lady Edgarmond gives a ball to-night; which my master, Lord Nevil, has opened with the heiress." Corinne shuddered; but a painful curiosity prompted her to approach the place where so much misery threatened her: and motioning for her people to withdraw, she entered the open gates alone; the obscurity permitted her to walk the park unseen. It was ten o'clock. Oswald had been Lucy's partner in those English country dances, which they recommence five or six times in the evening—the same gentleman always dancing with the same lady, and the greatest gravity sometimes reigning over this party of pleasure. Lucy danced nobly, but without vivacity. The feeling which absorbed her added to her natural seriousness. As the whole country was inquisitive to know whether she loved Oswald, the unusually observant looks she met, prevented her ever raising her eyes to his; and her embarrassment was such, that she could scarcely hear or see anything. This deeply affected him at first; but as it never varied, he soon began to weary a little; and compared this long range of men and women, and their monotonous music, with the animated airs and graceful dances of Italy. These reflections plunged him into a reverie; and Corinne might yet have tasted some moments of happiness could she have guessed his thoughts; but, like a stranger on her paternal soil, alone, though so near the man she had hoped to call her husband, she roved at hazard through the dark walks of grounds she once might have deemed her own. The earth seemed failing beneath her feet; and the fever of despair alone supplied her with strength: perhaps she might meet Oswald in the garden, she thought, though scarce knowing what she now desired.

The mansion was built on an eminence; a river ran at its base; there were many trees on one bank; the other was formed of rocks, covered with briers. Corinne drew near the water, whose murmur blended with the distant music: the gay lamps were reflected on its surface; while the pale light of the moon alone irradiated the wilds on the opposite side. She thought of Hamlet, in which a spectre wanders round the festal palace. One step, and this forsaken woman might have found eternal oblivion. "To-morrow," she cried, "when he strays here with a band of joyous friends, if his triumphant steps encountered the remains of her who was once so dear to him, would he not suffer something like what I bear now? would not his grief avenge me? yet, no, no! it is not vengeance I would seek in death, only repose." Silently she contemplated this stream, flowing in rapid regularity; fair nature! better ordered than the human soul. She remembered the day on which Nevil had saved the drowning man. "How good he was then!" she wept forth, "and may be still: why blame him for my woes? he may not guess them—perhaps if he could see me——" She determined, in the midst of this fête, to demand a moment's interview with Lord Nevil; and walked towards the house, under the impulse of a newly adopted decision, which succeeds to long uncertainty; but as she approached it, such a tremor seized her, that she was obliged to sit down on a stone bench which faced the windows. The throng of rustics, assembled to look in upon the dancers, prevented her being seen. Oswald, at this moment, came to a balcony, to breathe the fresh evening air. Some roses that grew there reminded him of Corinne's favorite perfume, and he started. This long entertainment tired him, accustomed as he had been to her good taste and intelligence: and he felt that it was only in domestic life he could find pleasure with such a companion as Lucy. All that in the least degree belonged to the world of poetry and the fine arts bade him regret Corinne. While he was in this mood, a fellow-guest joined him, and his adorer once more heard him speak. What inexplicable sensations are awakened by the voice we love! What a confusion of softness and of dread! There are impressions of such force, that our poor feeble nature is terrified at itself, while we experience them.

"Don't you think this a charming ball?" asked the gentleman.—"Yes," returned Oswald, abstractedly, "yes, indeed!" and he sighed. That sigh, that melancholy tone, thrilled Corinne's heart with joy. She thought herself secure of regaining his, of again being understood by him, and rose, precipitately, to bid a servant call Lord Nevil; had she obeyed her inclination, how different had been the destiny of both! But at that instant Lucy came to the window; and seeing through the darkness of the garden a female simply drest in white, her curiosity was kindled. She leaned forward, and gazed attentively, believing that she recognized the features of her sister, who, she thought, had been for seven years dead. The terror this sight caused her was so great that she fainted. Every one hastened to her aid; Corinne could find no servant to bear her message, and withdrew into deeper shade, to avoid remark.

Lucy dared not disclose what had alarmed her; but as her mother had, from infancy, instilled into her mind the strongest sense of devotion, she was persuaded that the image of her sister had appeared, gliding before her to their father's tomb, as if to reproach her for holding a fête in that scene ere she had fulfilled her sacred duty to his honored dust: as soon as she was secure from observation, she left the ball. Corinne, astonished at seeing her alone in the garden, imagined that Oswald would soon follow her, and that perhaps he had besought a private meeting to obtain her leave for naming his suit to her mother. This thought kept her motionless; but she saw that Lucy bent her steps towards a small grove, which she well knew must lead to Lord Edgarmond's grave; and, accusing herself of not having earlier borne thither her own regrets, followed her sister at some distance, unseen. She soon perceived the black sarcophagus raised over the remains of their parent. Filial tenderness overpowered her; she supported herself against a tree. Lucy also paused, and bent her head respectfully. Corinne was ready to discover herself, and, in their father's name, demand her rank and her betrothed; but the fair girl made a few hurried steps towards the tomb, and the victim's courage failed.

There is such timidity, even in the most impetuous female heart, that a trifle will restrain as a trifle can excite it. Lucy knelt, removed the garland which had bound her hair, and raised her eyes to heaven with an angelic appeal: her face was softly illumined by the moonbeams, and Corinne's heart melted with the purest generosity. She contemplated the chaste and pious expression of that almost childish visage, and remembered how she had watched over it in infancy: her own youth was waning, while Lucy had before her a long futurity, that ought not to be troubled by any recollections which she might shame at confessing, either before the world or to her own conscience. "If I accost her," thought Corinne, "that soul, so peaceful now, will be disturbed, perhaps, forever. I have already borne so much, that I can suffer on; but the innocent Lucy would pass, in a moment from perfect calm to the most cruel agitation. Can I, who have lulled her to sleep on my bosom, hurl her into the ocean of grief?" Love still combated this disinterested elevation of mind, when Lucy said aloud: "Pray for me, oh my father!" Corinne sunk on her knees, and mutely besought a paternal benediction on them both, with tears more stainless than those of love. Lucy audibly continued: "Dear sister, intercede for me in heaven! Friend of my childhood, protect me now!" How Corinne's bosom yearned towards her, as Lucy, with added fervor, resumed; "Pardon me, father, a brief forgetfulness, caused by the sentiment yourself commanded! I am not, sure, to blame for loving him you chose to be my husband. Achieve your work! Inspire him to select me as the partner of his life! I shall never be happy, save with him; but my fluttering heart shall not betray its secret. Oh, my God! My father, console your child! render her worthy the esteem of Oswald!"—"Yes," whispered Corinne, "kind father, grant her prayer, and give your other child a peaceful grave!" Thus solemnly concluding the greatest effort of which her soul was capable, she took from her breast the paper which contained Oswald's ring, and rapidly withdrew. She felt that in sending this, without letting him know where she was, she should break all their ties, and yield him to her sister. In the presence of that tomb, she had been more conscious than ever of the obstacles which separated them: her own father, as well as Oswald's, seemed to condemn their love. Lucy appeared deserving of him; and Corinne, at least for the moment, was proud to sacrifice herself, that he might live at peace with his country, his family, and his own heart. The music which she heard from the house sustained her firmness: she saw an old blind man, seated at the foot of a tree to listen, and begged he would present her letter to one of the servants; thus she escaped the risk of Oswald's discovering who had brought it; for no one could have seen her give the paper, without being assured that it contained the fate of her whole life. Her looks, her shaking hand, her hollow voice, bespoke one of those awful moments, when destiny overrules us, and we act but as the slaves of that fatality which so long pursued us. Corinne watched the old man, led by his faithful dog, give her letter to a servant of Nevil's, who, by chance, was carrying others into the house. All things conspired to banish her last hope: she made a few steps towards the gate, turning her head to mark the servant's entrance. When she no longer saw him—when she was on the high road, the lights and music lost, a deathlike damp rose to her brow, a chill ran through her frame; she tottered on, but nature refused the task, and she fell senseless by the way.

BOOK XVIII.

THE SOJOURN AT FLORENCE.

CHAPTER I.

Count D'Erfeuil, having passed some time in Switzerland, wearied of nature 'mid the Alps, as he had tired of the arts at Rome, and suddenly resolved to visit England. He had heard that he should find much depth of thought there, and woke one morning to the conviction of that being the very thing he wished to meet. This third search after pleasure had succeeded no better than its predecessors, but his regard for Nevil spurred him on; and he assured himself, another morning, that friendship was the greatest bliss on earth; therefore he went to Scotland. Not seeing Oswald at his home, but learning that he was gone to Lady Edgarmond's, the Count leaped on his horse to follow; so much did he believe that he longed to meet him. As he rode quickly on, he saw a female extended motionless upon the road, and instantly dismounted to assist her. What was his horror at recognizing, through their mortal paleness, the features of Corinne! With the liveliest sympathy he helped his servant to arrange some branches as a litter, intending to convey her to Lady Edgarmond's, when Thérésina, who till now had remained in her mistress's carriage, alarmed at her absence, came to the spot, and, certain that no one but Lord Nevil could have reduced her lady to this stats, begged that she might be borne to the neighboring town. The Count followed her; and for eight days, during which she suffered all the delirium of fever, he never left her. Thus it was the frivolous man who proved faithful, while the man of sentiment was breaking her heart. This contrast struck Corinne, when she recovered her senses, and she thanked d'Erfeuil with great feeling: he replied by striving to console her, more capable of noble actions than of serious conversation. Corinne found him useful, but could not make him her friend. She strove to recall her reason, and think over what had passed; but it was long ere she could remember all she had done, and from what motive. Then, perhaps, she thought her sacrifice too great; and hoped, at least, to bid Lord Nevil a last adieu, ere she left England; but the day after she regained her faculties chance threw a newspaper in her way, which contained the following paragraph:——

"Lady Edgarmond has lately learned that her step-daughter, who she believed had died in Italy, is still enjoying great literary celebrity at Rome, under the name of Corinne. Her ladyship, much to her own honor, acknowledges the fair poet, and is desirous of sharing with her the fortune left by Lord Edgarmond's brother, who died in India. The marriage contract was yesterday signed, between his Lordship's youngest daughter (the only child of his widow) and Lord Nevil, who, on Sunday next, leads Miss Lucy Edgarmond to the altar."

Unfortunately, Corinne lost not her consciousness after reading this announcement; a sudden change took place within her; all the interests of life were lost; she felt like one condemned to death, who had not known, till now, when her sentence would be executed; and from this moment the resignation of despair was the only sensation of her breast. D'Erfeuil entered her room, and, finding her even paler than while in her swoon, anxiously asked her the news. She replied gravely: "I am no longer ill; to-morrow is the Sabbath: I will go to Plymouth, and embark for Italy."—"I shall accompany you," he ardently returned. "I've nothing to detain me here, and shall be charmed at travelling with you."—"How truly good you are!" she said: "we ought not to judge from appearances." Then, after checking herself, added: "I accept your guidance to the seaport, because I am not sure of my own; but, once on board, the ship will bear me on, no matter in what state I may be." She signed for him to leave her, and wept long before her God, begging him to support her beneath this sorrow. Nothing was left of the impetuous Corinne. The active powers of her life were all exhausted; and this annihilation, for which she could scarcely account, restored her composure. Grief had subdued her. Sooner or later all rebellious heads must bow to the same yoke.

"It is to-day!" sighed Corinne, as she woke: "it is to-day!" and entered her carriage with d'Erfeuil. He questioned her, but she could not reply. They passed a church: she asked his leave to enter for a moment; then, kneeling before the altar, prayed for Oswald and for Lucy: but when she would have risen she staggered, and could not take one step without the support of Thérésina and the Count, who had followed her. All present made way for her, with every demonstration of pity. "I look very miserable, then?" she said: "the young and lovely, at this hour, are leaving such a scene in triumph." The Count scarcely understood these words. Kind as he was, and much as he loved Corinne, he soon wearied of her sadness, and strove to draw her from it, as if we had only to say we will forget all woes of life, and do so. Sometimes he cried: "I told you how it would be." Strange mode of comforting; but such is the satisfaction which vanity tastes at the expense of misfortune. Corinne fruitlessly strove to conceal her sufferings; for we are ashamed of strong affections in the presence of the light-minded, and bashful in all feelings that must be explained ere comprehended—those secrets of the heart that can only be consoled by those who guess them, Corinne was displeased with herself, as not sufficiently grateful for the Count's devotion to her service; but in his looks, his words, his accents, there were so much which wandered in search of amusement, that she was often on the point of forgetting his generous actions, as he did himself. It is doubtless very magnanimous to set small price on our own good deeds, but that indifference, so admirable in itself, may be carried to an extreme which approaches an unfeeling levity.

Corinne, during her delirium, had betrayed nearly all her secrets—the papers had since apprised d'Erfeuil of the rest. He often wished to talk of what he called her affairs, but that word alone sufficed to freeze her confidence; and she entreated him to spare her the pain of breathing Lord Nevil's name. In parting with the Count, Corinne knew not how to express herself; for she was at once glad to anticipate being alone, and grieved to lose a man who had behaved so well towards her. She strove to thank him, but he begged her so naturally not to speak of it, that she obeyed: charging him to inform Lady Edgarmond that she refused the legacy of her uncle; and to do so, as if she had sent this message from Italy; for she did not wish her step-mother to know she had been in England. "Nor Nevil?" asked the Count. "You may tell him soon, yes, very soon; my friends in Rome will let you know when."—"Take care of your health, at least," he added: "don't you know that I am uneasy about you?"—"Really!" she exclaimed, smiling, "not without cause, I believe." He offered her his arm to the vessel: at that moment she turned towards England, the country she must never more behold, where dwelt the sole object of her love and grief, and her eyes filled with the first sad tears she had ever shed in d'Erfeuil's presence. "Lovely Corinne!" he said, "forget that ingrate! think of the friends so tenderly attached to you, and recollect your own advantages with pleasure." She withdrew her hand from him, and stepped back some paces; then blaming herself for this reproof, gently returned to bid him adieu: but he, having perceived nothing of what passed in her mind, got into the boat with her; recommended her earnestly to the captain's care; busied himself most endearingly on all the details that could render her passage agreeable: and, when rowed ashore, waved his handkerchief to the ship as long as he could be seen. Corinne returned his salute. Alas! was this the friend on whose attentions she ought to have been thrown? Light loves last long; they are not tied so tight that they can break. They are obscured or brought to light by circumstances, while deep affections fly, never to return; and in their places leave but cureless wounds.

CHAPTER II.

A favorable breeze bore Corinne to Leghorn in less than a month: she suffered from fever the whole time; and her debility was such that grief of mind was confused with the pain of illness; nothing seemed now distinct. She hesitated, on landing, whether she should proceed to Rome, or no; but though her best friends awaited her, she felt an insurmountable repugnance to living in the scenes where she had known Oswald. She thought of that door through which he came to her twice every day; and the prospect of being there without him was too dreary. She decided on going to Florence; and believing that her life could not long resist her sorrows, thus intended to detach herself by degrees from the world, by living alone, far from those who loved her, from the city that witnessed her success, whose inhabitants would strive to reanimate her mind, expect her to appear what she had been, while her discouraged heart found every effort odious. In crossing fertile Tuscany, approaching flower-breathed Florence, Corinne felt but an added sadness. How dreadful the despair which such skies fail to calm! One must feel either love or religion, in order to appreciate nature; and she had lost the first of earthly blessings, without having yet recovered the peace which piety alone can afford the unfortunate. Tuscany, a well-cultivated, smiling land, strikes not the imagination as do the environs of Rome and Naples. The primitive institutions of its early inhabitants have been so effaced, that there scarcely remains one vestige of them; but another species of historic beauty exists in their stead—cities that bear the impress of the Middle Ages. At Sienna, the public square wherein the people assembled, the balcony from which their magistrate harangued them, must catch the least reflecting eye, as proofs that there once flourished a democratic government. It is a real pleasure to hear the Tuscans, even of the lowest classes, speak; their fanciful phrases give one an idea of that Athenian Greek, which sounded like a perpetual melody. It is a strange sensation to believe one's self amid a people all equally educated, all elegant; such is the illusion which, for a moment, the purity of their language creates.

The sight of Florence recalls its history, previous to the Medicean sway. The palaces of its best families are built like fortresses: without, are still seen the iron rings, to which the standards of each party were attached. All things seem to have been more arranged for the support of individual powers, than for their union in a common cause. The city appears formed for civil war. There are towers attached to the Hall of Justice, whence the approach of the enemy could be discerned. Such were the feuds between certain houses, that you find dwellings inconveniently constructed, because their lords would not let them extend to the ground on which that of some foe had been pulled down. Here the Pazzi conspired against the De Medici; there the Guelfs assassinated the Ghibellines. The marks of struggling rivalry are everywhere visible, though but in senseless stones. Nothing is now left for any pretenders but an inglorious state, not worth disputing. The life led in Florence has become singularly monotonous: its natives walk every afternoon on the banks of the Arno, and every evening ask one another if they have been there. Corinne settled at a little distance from the town; and let Prince Castel Forte know this, in the only letter she had strength to write: such was her horror of all habitual actions, that even the fatigue of giving the slightest order redoubled her distress. She sometimes passed her day in complete inactivity, retired to her pillow, rose again, opened a book, without the power to comprehend a line of it. Oft did she remain whole hours at her window; then would walk rapidly in her garden, cull its flowers, and seek to deaden her senses in their perfume; but the consciousness of life pursued her, like an unrelenting host: she strove in vain to calm the devouring faculty of thought, which no longer presented her with varied images; but one lone idea, armed with a thousand stings, that pierced her heart.

CHAPTER III.

An hour passed in St. Peter's had been wont to compose her; and Corinne hoped to find the same effect from visiting the churches of fair Florence. She walked beneath the fine trees of the river's bank, in a lovely eve of June. Roses embalmed the air, and every face expressed the general felicity from which she felt herself excluded; yet she unenvyingly blessed her God for his kind care of man. "I am an exception to universal order," she said; "there is happiness for every one but me: this power of suffering, beneath which I die, is then peculiar to myself. My God! wherefore was I selected for such a doom? May I not say, like thy Divine Son, 'Father, let this cup be taken from me?'" The active air of the inhabitants astonished her: since she had lost all interest in life, she knew not why others seemed occupied; and, slowly pacing the large stoned pavement of Florence, she forgot where she had designed to go. At last, she found herself before the far-famed gate of brass, sculptured by Ghiberti, for the front of St. John's, which stands beside the cathedral. For some time she examined this stupendous work; where, wrought in bronze, the divers nations, though of minute proportions, are distinctly marked by their varied physiognomies; all of which express some thought of their artist. "What patience!" cried Corinne; "what respect for posterity! yet how few scrutinize these doors, through which so many daily pass, in heedlessness, ignorance, or disdain! How difficult it is to escape oblivion! how vast the power of death!"

In this cathedral was Julian de Medicis assassinated. Not far thence, in the church of St. Lorenzo, is shown the marble chapel, enriched with precious stones, where rise the tombs of that high family, and Michael Angelo's statues of Julian and Lorenzo: the latter, meditating vengeance on the murder of his brother, deserves the honor of having been called "la pensée de Michel Angelo!" At the feet of these figures are Aurora and Night. The awaking of the one is admirable; still more so is the other's sleep. A poet chose it for his theme, and concluded by saying: "Sound as is her slumber, she lives: if you believe not, wake her, she will speak." Angelo, who cultivated letters (without which imagination of all kinds must soon decay) replied:——

"Grato m'è il sono, e più l'esser di sasso.
Mentre che il danno e la vergogna dura,
Non veder, non sentir m'è gran ventura,
Perô non mi destar, deh parla basso!"

"It is well for me to sleep, still better to be stone; while shame and injustice last: not to see, not to hear, is a great blessing; therefore disturb me not! speak low!"

This great man was the only comparatively modern sculptor who neither gave the human figure the beauty of the antique nor the affected air of our own day. You see the grave energy of the Middle Ages—its perseverance, its passions, but no ideal beauty. He was the genius of his own school; and imitated no one, not even the ancients. This tomb is in the church of Santa Croce. At his desire, it faces a window whence may be seen the dome built by Filippo Brunelleschi: as if his ashes would stir, even beneath the marble, at the sight of a cupola copied from that of St. Peter's. Santa Croce contains some of the most illustrious dead in Europe. Galileo, persecuted by man, for having discovered the secrets of the sky—Machiavel, who revealed the arts of crime rather as an observer than an actor; yet whose lessons are more available to the oppressors than, the oppressed—Aretino, who consecrated his days to mirth, and found nothing serious in life except its end—Boccaccio, whose laughing fancy resisted the united scourges of civil war and plague—a picture in honor of Dante, showing that the Florentines, who permitted him to perish in exile, were not the less vain of his glory,[1] with many other worthy names, and some celebrated in their own day, but echoing less forcibly from age to age, so that their sound is now almost unheard.[2] This church, adorned with noble recollections, rekindled the enthusiasm of Corinne, which the living had repressed. The silent presence of the great revived, for a moment, that emulation which once she felt for fame. She stepped more steadfastly, and the high thoughts of other days arose within her breast. Some young priests came slowly down the aisle, chanting in subdued tones: she asked the meaning of this ceremony. "We are praying for our dead," said one of them. "Right," thought Corinne; "your dead! well may you boast them; they are the only noble relics left ye. Ah! why then, Oswald, have you stifled all the gifts Heaven granted me, with which I ought to excite the sympathy of kindred minds? O God!" she added, sinking on her knees, "it is not in vanity I dare entreat thee to give me back my talents: doubtless the lowly saints who lived and died for thee alone are greatest in thy sight; but there are different careers for mortals: genius, which illustrates our noblest virtues, devotes itself to generous humanity and truth, may trust to be received in some outer heaven." She cast her eyes to earth, and, on the stone where she had knelt, read this inscription:——