Corinne; or, Italy

"Alone I rose, alone I sank, I am alone e'en here."

"Ah!" cried Corinne, "that is mine answer. What should embolden me to toil? what pride can I ever feel? who would participate in my success, or interest himself in my defeats? Oh, I should need his look for my reward." Another epitaph fixed her attention, that of a youth, who says:—

"Pity me not, if you can guess how many pangs the grave hath spared me."

How did those words wean her from life! amid the tumult of a city, this church opened to teach mankind the best of secrets, if they would learn: but no; they passed it by, and the miraculous forgetfulness of death kept all the world alive.

CHAPTER IV.

The spring of feeling which had consoled Corinne for a few moments, led her next morning to the Gallery: she hoped to recover her taste, and draw some pleasure from her former pursuits. Even the fine arts are republican in Florence. Pictures and statues are shown at all hours, with the greatest ease. Well-informed men, paid by the government, like public functionaries, explain all these chefs-d'œuvre. This lingering respect for talent has ever pervaded Italy; particularly Florence, where the Medicii extorted pardon for their power over human actions, by the free scope they left for human minds. The common people love the arts, and blend this taste with their devotion, which is more regular in Tuscany than in any other Italian state; but they frequently confound mythologic figures with Scripture history. One of the guides used to show a Minerva as Judith, and an Apollo as David; adding, when he explained a bas-relief, which represented the fall of Troy, that "Cassandra was a good Christian." Many days may be passed in the gallery ere half its beauties are known. Corinne went from one to the other, mortified at her own indifference and abstraction. The calm dignity which shines through the deep grief of Niobe, however, recalled her attention. In such a case, the countenance of a living mother would doubtless be more agitated; but the ideal arts preserve beauty even in despair; and what affects us most in works of genius, is not grief's self, but the soul's power o'er grief. Not far from this is a head of the dying Alexander. These two countenances afford rich material for thought. The conqueror looks astonished and indignant at not having achieved a victory even over nature. The anguish of maternal love is depicted on all the traits of Niobe: she presses her daughter to her heart with the most touching eagerness; her fine face bearing the stamp of that fatality which left the ancients no resource, even in religion. Niobe lifts her eyes to heaven, but without hope; for the gods themselves are her enemies.

On her return home, Corinne strove to reflect on what she had seen, and retrace her impressions, as she had formerly done; but her mental distraction was uncontrollable. How far was she now from the power of improvisation! In vain she sought for words, or wrote unmeaning ones, that dismayed her on perusal, as would the ravings of delirium. Incapable of turning her thoughts from her own situation, she then strove to describe it; but no longer could she command those universal sentiments that find echoes in all hearts. Hers were now but long unvaried wailings, like the cry of the night bird; her expressions were too impetuous, too unveiled—they were those of misery, not of talent. To write well, we require to feel truly, but not heart-breakingly. The best melancholy poetry is that inspired by a kind of rapture, which still tells of mental strength and enjoyment. Real grief is a foe to intellectual fertility: it produces a gloomy agitation, that incessantly returns to the same point, like the knight who, pursued by an evil genius, sought a thousand roads for escape, yet always found himself at the spot from whence he started.

The state of Corinne's health completed the confusion of her mind. The following are a few of the reflections she wrote, while making a fruitless effort to become capable of a connected work.

CHAPTER V.

My genius lives no longer: I regret
Its death: I own I should have loved that yet
My lays had waked his sympathy; my name
Might still have reach'd him, heralded by fame.

I err'd by hoping that in his own land
The thoughts, the feelings—that our fate united—
The influence of habit could withstand—
Amid such scenes love's flower must soon be blighted.

There is so much to say 'gainst maid like me!
How futile must the only answer be!
"Such was her heart—her mind;" a poor reply
For hosts who know not what I was, nor why.

Yet are they wrong to fear superior mind,
The more it towers, more morally refined:
The more we know, the better we forgive;
Whoe'er feels deeply, feels for all who live.

How can two beings who confided all,
Whose converse was the spirit's griefs, its dangers,
And immortality, bear this swift fall,
Thus to each other become once more strangers?

What a mysterious sentiment is love!
Nothing, if not all other ties above—
Vying in faith with all that martyrs feel—
Or—colder than the simplest friendship's zeal.

This most involuntary sense on earth,
Doth heaven or mortal passion give it birth?
What storms it raises deep within the breast!
Must we obey, or combat such wild guest?

Talent should be a refuge; as when one[1]
Imprison'd to a cloister, art's true son,
Bequeath'd its walls such traces of his doom,
That genius glorified monastic gloom!

But he, though captive, suffer'd from without;
His bosom was not torn by dread or doubt;
When grief is there, all efforts lose their force,
The spring of comfort's poison'd from its source.

Sometimes I view myself as one apart,
Impartially, and pity my own heart;
Was I not mental, kind to others' pain,
Generous, and frank? Then why all this in vain?
Is the world really so vile, that charms
Like these but rob us of our needful arms?

'Tis pitiful! Spite all my youth hath shown,
Despite my glory, I shall die unknown;
Nor leave one proof of what I might have been.
Had I learnt happiness, or could defy
This all-devouring fever—men had seen
Me contemplate them from a station high.
Tracking the hidden links between yon heaven
And human nature; but the clue is riven.
How, how think freely, while each painful breath
But bids me feel the woe that weighs me down to death?

Oh! why would he forbear to render blest
A heart whose secret he alone possess'd?
To him—him only spoke my inmost soul!
'Tis easy to leave those chance may control,
The common herd—but she who must admire,
Yet judge ere fancy kindles love's chaste fire,
Expansive as it is, to soul like hers,
There's but one object in the universe!

I learnt life from the poets; 'tis not thus;
Vainly they strive to change the truth, for us
Who live to wake from their soft dreams, and see
The barrenness of life's reality!

Remembering what I was but chafes my pride.
Why tell me I could charm, if not for love?
Why inspire confidence, to make me prove
But the more fearful anguish when it died?
Will he, in any other, meet more mind
Than was my own? a heart more true and kind?
No! but—congenial with heartlessness—
He will be more content in finding less.

In presence of the sun, or starry spheres,
To deserve love we need but to desire—
For love ennobles all that it endears;
Conscious of mutual worth, we look no higher.
But ah, society! where each must owe
His fate but to factitious joy or woe—
Where what is said of him becomes the test—
How soon it hardens e'en the trifler's breast.

Could men once meet, free from this false control,
How pure an air were breathed into the soul!
How would the mind, refresh'd by feelings true,
Teem with ideas natural and new!
E'en Nature's cruel; this praised face
Is fading: what avails it now
That still I pour affection's vow,
Without one look my prayer to grace?
These tear-dimm'd eyes no more express,
As once they might, my tenderness.

Within my bosom is a pain
No language ever can explain—
I have no strength for task like this;
Love, only love, could sound the abyss.

How happy men! in honor's strife
They burst the chains of hated life.
We hope no solace from the throng;
Our torture is to bear,
Stirless and mute, a lone life long,
The presence of Despair.
Sometimes, when listing music's tone,
It tells of powers so late mine own,
Song, dance, and poesie—I start,
As I could fly from this sad heart,
To joy again; a sudden chill
Reminds me that the world would say,
"Back, lingering ghost! it fits thee ill
To brave the living, and the day!"

I wish I now could find a spell
'Gainst misery in the crowd: 'twas well
To mix there once, lest solitude
Should bear my thoughts too far through fate,
My mind grew flexible, imbued
With gay impressions; 'tis too late;
Features and feelings fix for aye:
Smiles, fancies, graces! where are they?

Ah! if't were in a moment o'er,
Fain would I taste of hope once more!
But all is done: life can but be
A burning desert now to me;
The drop of water, like the river,
Sullied with bitterness forever,
A single day's enjoyment is
Impossible, as years of bliss.

Guilty towards me as I must deem
My love—compared with other men
What mindless things of art they seem!
How does he rise an angel then!—
E'en though his sword of flame consume
My life, and devastate my doom;
Heaven lends the one beloved his power
Thus to avenge each misspent hour.

'Tis not first love that must endure;
It springs but from the dreams of youth;
But if, with intellect mature,
We meet the mind long sought in vain,
Fancy is then subdued by truth,
And we have reason to complain.

"What maniacs!" the many cry,
"Are those for love who live or die!
As if, when such frail boon is reft,
A thousand blessings were not left!"

Enthusiasm, though the seed
Of every high heroic deed,
Each pious sacrifice—its lot
Is scorn, from those who feel it not.

All then is folly, if they will,
Save their own selfish care
Of mortal life; this nobler thrill
Is madness everywhere.

Alas! it is my worst distress
That he alone my thoughts could guess;
Too late and vainly may he find
That I alone could read his mind.

Mine own should thus be understood;
In friendship's varying degrees
Easy, yet difficult to please:
With cordial hours for all the good,
But with affection deep and true,
Which but for one, for him I knew.

Feeling and fancy, wit and reason,
Where now such union can I find,
Seek the world through—save his—whose treason
'Gainst love hath slain me? Oswald's mind
Blends all these charms; unless I dream'd
He was the wonder he but seem'd.
How, then, to others should I speak?
In whom confide? what subjects seek?
What end, aim, interest remains?
The sweetest joys, the bitterest pains,
Already known, what should I fear?
Or what expect? before me cast
A future changeless, wan, and drear,
As but the spectre of my past!

Why, why is happiness so brief?
Life's weeds so strong, its flowers so frail?
Is nature's natural order grief?
Unwonted pain soon finds relief
When its strange throes our frames assail—
Joy to the soul's less usual: there
The habitual state is this despair.
How mutable the world appears
Where nothing lasts, but pain and tears![2]

Another life! another life
That is my hope! but still such force
Hath this we bear, that we demand
In heaven the same rebellious band
Of passions that here caused our strife.
The northern zealots paint the shade
Still hunting, with his hound and horse,
The phantom stag, through cloudy glade;
Yet dare we call such shapes unreal?
Naught here is sure save that Distress—
Whose power all suffer who can feel—
Keeps her unpitying promises!

I dream of immortality!
No more of that which man can give;
Once in the future did I live,
The present seem'd too old for me.[3]
All I now ask of Him on high,
Is, that my heart may never die!
Father! the offering and the shrine
A mortal spurns; with grace divine,
Deign to receive—'tis thine!—'tis thine!
I know my days will be but few;
That thought restores a sense of rest:
'Tis sweet to feel, as now I do,
Death draw Grief's barb from out my breast.

'Tis Superstition's sad retreat,
More than the home of pious trust;
Devotion to the blest is sweet.—
What gratitude to the All Just
Ought Oswald's wife to feel! O God, she must.

And yet misfortune oft improves,
Corrects us, teaches us to weigh
Our errors with our sufferings: they
Are wedded: we repent the loves
Of earth, when salutary time
And solitude inspires love more sublime.

'Tis this I need, ere yet I can fulfil
A tranquil voyage to life more tranquil still:—
What innocence is in the thoughts of those
About to leave this life of passion's woes!
The secret which not genius' self can share,
The enigma, may it be reveal'd to prayer?

May not some simple thought, by reverie
Full oft approach'd, disclose the mystery?

Vast as the efforts which the soul may make
They weary her in vain; she cannot take
This latest step; life must be still unknown
Till its last hour on earth be well-nigh flown I
'Tis time mine should repose; and who will sigh—
'Tis still, at last, the heart that beat so high!

CHAPTER VI.

BOOK XIX.

OSWALD'S RETURN TO ITALY.

CHAPTER I.

Let us now return to the events which occurred in Scotland, after the sad fête at which Corinne made her self-sacrifice. Lord Nevil's servant carried his letters to the ball-room. Oswald retired to read them. He opened several which his agent had sent from London, little guessing that among them was one which would decide his fate; but when he beheld the writing of Corinne, and saw the ring, the words—"You are free!"—he felt at once the most cruel grief and the most furious irritation. He had not heard from her for two months, and now her silence was broken by this laconic decision. He remembered what Lady Edgarmond had said of her instability, and entered into all the step-dame's feeling against her; for he still loved enough to be unjust; forgetting how long he had renounced the idea of marrying her, how much Lucy had pleased him, he looked on himself as the blameless victim of an inconstant woman; perplexity and despair beset him; but over them both towered his proud soul, prompting him to rise superior to his wronger. This boasted pride rarely exists unless self-love predominates over affection. Had Nevil now valued Corinne as in their days at Rome and Naples, not all his "wrongs supposed" could have torn her from his heart.

Lady Edgarmond detected his distress. The fatal malady beneath which she labored increased her ardent interest in her daughter. She knew the poor child's heart, and feared that she had compromised her happiness forever; therefore, she seldom lost sight of Nevil, but read his secrets with that discernment which is deemed peculiar to our sex, but which belongs solely to the continual observance which a real interest teaches us. On the pretext of transferring Corinne's inheritance, she besought Lord Nevil's company next morning, and shortly guessed that he was much dissatisfied; she flattered his resentment by the prospect of a noble vengeance, offering to recognize her husband's daughter. This sudden change amazed him; yet though its condition was unexplained, he comprehended it; and, in one of those moments in which we act more quickly than we can think, demanded Lucy's hand. Her mother, scarcely able to restrain her joy, so as not to say yes too hastily, consented; and he left her presence, bound by an engagement, which, when he made it, he had not dreamed of undertaking. While Lady Edgarmond prepared Lucy to receive him, he paced the garden in violent agitation, telling himself that she had merely pleased him, because he knew little of her, and that it was madness to found the happiness of his life on the charm of a mystery that must inevitably be dissipated. He then retraced his letters to Corinne, too plainly showing his internal struggles. "She's right!" he sighed: "I have not the courage fit to make her blest; but yet it should have cost her more to lose me—that cold brief line—yet who knows but her tears might have fallen on it!" His own burst forth in spite of him. These reveries hurried him on unconsciously so far, that he was long sought in vain by the servant, sent to tell him that Lady Edgarmond desired his return. Astonished at his own lack of eagerness, he obeyed. On re-entering the drawing-room, he found Lucy kneeling, her head reclined on the bosom of her parent, with a most touching grace. As she heard his footsteps, she raised her flowing eyes, and, extending her hand to him, said simply: "My Lord, I know you will not separate me from my mother." This innocent manner of announcing her consent much interested Oswald, who, sinking on his knees, besought Lady Edgarmond's permission to imprint on that blushing forehead the first kiss which had ever awakened more than childlike emotions in the breast whose beauty less enchanted him than did its celestial modesty. The days which preceded that chosen for their marriage were spent in the needful arrangements. Lucy spoke more than usual; but all she said was so nobly natural, that Oswald loved and approved her every word, and yet he felt a void beside her. Their conversation consisted but of questions and answers; she neither started nor prolonged any subject: all went well: but without that exhaustless animation with which it is so difficult for those who have once enjoyed it to dispense. Lord Nevil thought of Corinne; but, as he no longer heard her named, hoped that her image would at last become merely an object of his vague regret. When Lucy learned from her mother that her sister still lived in Italy, she much wished to talk of her with Oswald, but Lady Edgarmond forbade; and the girl, habitually submissive, asked not the reason of this prohibition. On the morning of his marriage, the hapless Corinne haunted Nevil fearfully; but be addressed his father's spirit, confessing that it was to win his heavenly benediction, his son accomplished thus his will on earth. Reassured by those meditations, he sought his bride, reproaching himself for having allowed his thoughts to wander from her. A descending angel could not have chosen a face more fit than hers to give mortality a dream of heavenly virtue. At the altar, Lady Edgarmond was even more agitated than her daughter; for all-important steps alarm us the more, the greater our experience. Lucy was all hope; childhood still mingled with her youth, and blended joy with love. In leaving the church she leaned timidly on Oswald's arm, as if to assure herself of his protection: he looked on her tenderly, feeling, at the bottom of his heart, a foe who menaced her repose, and from whom he had promised to defend her. Lady Edgarmond, on their return, said to her son-in-law: "My mind is easy. I have confided to you the happiness of my daughter; and have so short a time to live, that it is a comfort for me to think my place will be so well supplied." Lord Nevil was much affected by these words, and anxiously mused on the duties they imposed. A few days elapsed: Lucy had begun to meet her husband's eye with confidence, and make her mind known to him, when unlucky incidents disturbed the union commenced under these favorable auspices.

CHAPTER II.

Mr. Dickson paid his respects to the young couple, apologizing for not having been present at their marriage. He had been ill, he said, from the effects of a fall, though kindly assisted by the most charming woman in the world. Oswald, at this moment, was playing battledore and shuttlecock with Lucy, who was very graceful at this exercise. Her bridegroom gazed on her, and listened not to Mr. Dickson, who, at last, called to him from the other end of the room. "My Lord, the fair unknown, who came to my aid, had certainly heard much about you, for she asked me many questions concerning your fate."—"Whom do you mean?" said Nevil, continuing his game.—"A lovely creature, my Lord, although she looked changed by suffering, and could not speak of you without emotion."[1] These words attracted Oswald's attention; but Lucy, perfectly unconcerned, joined her mother, who had just sent for her. Lord Nevil now asked Mr. Dickson what lady it was who had thus spoken of him. "I know not," he replied: "her accent proved her English, though I have rarely found so obliging and easy a person among our countrywomen. She took as much care of a poor old man like me as if she had been my own child: while I was beside her, I did not feel my bruises; but, my dear Oswald, have you been faithless here as well as in Italy? My beauteous benefactress trembled and turned pale at naming you."—"Just heaven!" exclaimed Nevil, "you said an Englishwoman?"—"Oh yes: you know foreigners never pronounce our language without a certain intonation."—"And her face?"—"The most expressive I ever saw, though fearfully pale and thin." This description suited not the bright Corinne; yet might she not have suffered much, if in England, and unable to find the being she sought? This dread fell suddenly on Oswald, who continued his questions with extreme uneasiness. Mr. Dickson replied that the lady conversed with an elegance which he had never before met, that the gentlest kindness spoke from her sad and languid eyes. "Did you notice their color?" asked Oswald.—"Magnificently dark!" The catechist trembled. "From time to time," continued Mr. Dickson, "she interrogated, or answered, me, and what she did say was delightful." He would have proceeded, but Lady Nevil, with her mother, rejoined them; and Oswald hastily retired, hoping soon again to find Mr. Dickson alone. Struck by his sadness, Lady Edgarmond sent Lucy away, that she might inquire its cause: her guest simply repeated what had passed. Terrified at anticipating the despair of Oswald, if he were assured that Corinne had followed him to Scotland; foreseeing, too, that he would resume this topic, she instructed Mr. Dickson as to what she wished said to her son-in-law. Thus, the old gentleman only increased the anxiety it was too late to remove. Oswald now asked his servant if all the letters sent him within the last three weeks had come by post.[2] The man "believed they had," and was leaving the room; but, turning back, added, "I remember that, on the ball night, a blind man gave me one for your Lordship. I supposed it a petition for charity."—"I received none such: could you find this man?"—"Yes, my Lord, directly; he lives in the village."—"Go, bring him to me!" said Nevil; and, unable to wait patiently, walked out to meet him at the end of the avenue. "So, my friend," he said, "you brought a letter here for me, on the evening of the ball: who gave it to you?"—"My Lord, ye see I'm blind, how wad I ken?"—"Do you think it was a female?"—"Ech fine that, my Lord! for I hard weel eneuch that she was vera soft voiced, though I jaloused the while that she was greeting."—"And what did she say to you?"—"Oh, sir, she said, 'Gude auld man, gide this to Oswald's servant,' and there stopped, but syne she added, 'I mean Lord Nevil's.'"—"Ah, Corinne!" exclaimed Oswald, and grew so faint that he was forced to support himself on the poor creature's arm, who continued; "I was sitting under a tree just, and wished to do the leddy's bidding diract, but could scarce raise mysel, being auld the noo: weel, after giein me mair siller than I'd had for lang, she was that free she lent me her hand, puir thing! it trembled just as your Lordship's does this minute."—"Enough!" sighed Nevil. "Here, my good friend, as she gave you money, let me do so too; go, and pray for us both!" He withdrew.

From this moment a terrible agitation preyed on his mind: he made a thousand useless inquiries, unable to conceive the possibility of Corinne's having been in Scotland without seeking him. He formed various conjectures as to her motives; and, in spite of all his endeavors to conceal it, this affliction was evident to Lady Edgarmond, nay, even to Lucy. All was constraint and silence. At this time Oswald wrote first to Castel Forte. Had Corinne read that letter, it would much have softened her resentment.

Count d'Erfeuil joined the Nevils ere the Prince's reply arrived. He said no more of Corinne than was necessary, yet felt vexed at their not perceiving that he had an important secret in his power, though too discreet to betray it. His insinuations at first took no effect upon Oswald; but, when he detected that they referred to Corinne, he was all curiosity. The Count having brought him to this, defended his own trust pretty bravely; at last, however, his friend drew forth the whole truth. It was a pleasure for d'Erfeuil to relate how grateful Corinne had felt, and in what a wretched state he had found her; he ran on, without observing how he agonized Lord Nevil; his only object was that of being the hero of his own story; when he had ceased, he was much afflicted at the mischief he had done. Oswald had commanded himself till then, but suddenly became distracted with regret; accused himself as the most barbarous and ungrateful of men; raved of Corinne's devoted tenderness: her generosity at the very moment when she believed him most culpable. He contrasted this with the heartless fickleness by which he had requited her; incessantly repeating that no one ever loved him as she did; and that he should in some way be ultimately punished for his cruelty. He would have set forth to see her, if only for a day, an hour; but Rome and Florence were already occupied by the French: his regiment was about to embark; he could not forfeit his own honor, nor break the heart of his wife: indeed, no faults he might now commit could repair the past; they would but add to the misery he had occasioned. The only hope that calmed him was derived from the dangers he was about to brave. In this mood he wrote again to Castel Forte, whose replies represented Corinne as sad, but resigned; his pride in her softened rather than exaggerated the truth. Oswald believed that he ought not to torture her by his regrets, after having so wronged her by his love—and left Britain with a sense of remorse which nearly rendered life insupportable.

CHAPTER III.

Lucy was afflicted by his departure; yet his recent gloom had so increased her natural timidity, that she had never found courage to confide in him her hopes of becoming a mother; but left it for Lady Edgarmond to send these tidings after him. Nevil, unable to guess what passed in his wife's heart, had thought her farewell cold; compared her silent submission with the eloquence of Corinne, and hesitated not to believe that Lucy loved him but feebly; yet, during his absence, scarcely could even the birth of their daughter divert her mind from his perils. Another grief was added to all this. D'Erfeuil spent a year in Scotland, strongly persuaded that he had not revealed the secret of Corinne's sojourn there; but he said so much that implied it, and found such difficulty, when conversation flagged, in avoiding the theme most interesting to Lady Nevil, that she at last learned the whole truth. Innocent as she was, it required even less art than she possessed to draw d'Erfeuil out upon a favorite subject. Lady Edgarmond was too ill to be present at these conversations; but when she questioned her daughter on the melancholy she detected, Lucy told all. Her mother spoke very severely on Corinne's pursuit of Oswald. Lucy was alternately jealous of her sister, and indignant against her husband, for deserting one to whom he had been so dear. She could not help trembling for her own peace, with a man who had thus wrecked that of another. She had ever cherished a grateful recollection of her early instructress, which now blended with sympathy: far from feeling flattered by Oswald's sacrifice, she was tormented by the idea that he had chosen her merely because her position in the world was more advantageous than that of Corinne. She remembered his hesitation before marriage, his sadness so soon after, and everything confirmed the cruel belief that her husband loved her not. Lady Edgarmond might have been of great service to her daughter, had she striven to calm her; but she too intolerantly anathematized all sentiments that deviated from the line of duty; nor dreamed of tenderly leading a wanderer back, thinking that the only way to awake conscience was by just resentment. She was mortified that so lovely a woman should be so ill appreciated; and aggravated Lucy's fears, in order to excite her pride. Lady Nevil, more gentle and enlightened than her mother, could not rigorously follow such advice; yet her letters to Oswald were always far colder than her heart. Meanwhile he was distinguishing himself nobly, exposing his life, not merely in honorable enthusiasm, but in a positive love of peril. He appeared most gay when most actively employed, and would blush with pleasure when the tumult of battle commenced. At such moments a weight seemed lifted from his heart, and he could breathe with ease. The popularity he enjoyed among his fellow-soldiers animated the existence it could not render happy, and almost blinded him both to the past and the future. He grew accustomed to the lukewarm correspondence of his wife, whom he did not suppose offended with him. When he remembered her, it was as a being worthy of his protection, and whose mind he ought to spare from all deeply serious thoughts. But in those splendid tropic nights, that give so grand an idea of nature and its Author, the image of Corinne was often with him; yet, as both war and climate menaced his life each hour, he excused his lingering memory. At the approach of eternity, we forgive and hope to be forgiven. He thought but of the tears his death would cause her, not upon those his errors had extorted. It was natural he should think most of her; they had so often talked of immortality, and sounded every depth of solemn feeling: he fancied that he still conversed with her, while occupied by the great thoughts the spectacles of war invariably suggest. It was to Corinne he spoke in solitude, although he knew that she must sadly blame him. Despite absence, distance, time, and every change, they seemed to understand each other still.

At last his regiment was ordered home. The monotony of shipboard pleased him less than had the stir of arms. External excitement supplied some of the imaginative joys he owed to his intercourse with Corinne. He had not yet attempted to live calmly without her. The proofs of devotion his soldiers gave him somewhat beguiled the voyage; but even that interest failed on their landing in England.

CHAPTER IV.

Nevil had now to renew his acquaintance with his own family, after four years' separation. He arrived at Lady Edgarmond's castle in Northumberland. Lucy presented her child with as much diffidence as if she had deemed herself guilty. Her imagination had been so occupied by her sister, during the period of her maternal expectations, that little Juliet displayed the dark eyes and hair of Corinne. Her father, in wild agitation, pressed her to his heart; and from that instant, Lucy could not take unqualified delight in his affection for his daughter. The young wife was now nearly twenty. Her beauty had attained a dignity which inspired Nevil with respect. Lady Edgarmond was too infirm to leave her bed; yet, though this tried her temper, she received her son-in-law with satisfaction; having feared that she should die in his absence, and leave her daughter alone upon the world. Oswald, so long accustomed to a military career, found it very difficult to remain nearly all day in the chamber of an invalid, who received no one but himself and wife. Lucy dearly loved her lord; but, believing her affection unprized, concealed what she knew of his passion for Corinne, and became more silent than ever. Mild as she was, her mother had so influenced her, that when Oswald hinted at the added charm she would gain by a little animation, she received this but as a proof that he still preferred her sister, and was too hurt to profit by it: he could not speak of the fine arts without occasioning her a sadness that repressed his enthusiasm. Had she been better taught, she would have treasured up his lightest word, that she might study how to please him. Lady Edgarmond evinced a growing distaste for all deviations from her habitual routine: her irritated nerves shrunk from every sound. She would have reduced life to a state of stagnation, as if the less to regret its loss: but, as few like to confess their personal motives for certain opinions, she supported hers on the general principles of exaggerated morality; and disenchanted life, by making sins of its least amusements—by opposing some duty to every employment which would have made to-day differ from yesterday or to-morrow. Lucy, duteous as she was, had so much flexibility of mind that she would have joined her husband in gently reasoning with this exacting austerity, had she not been persuaded that it was adopted merely to discountenance Oswald's Italian predilections. "You must struggle most perseveringly," would her mother say, "against any return of that dangerous infatuation." Lord Nevil had a great reverence for duty; but he understood it in a wider sense than that of Lady Edgarmond: tracing it to its source, he found that it might perfectly accord with natural inclination, instead of requiring perpetual combats and sacrifices. Virtue, he thought, far from rendering life a torture, contributes to the duration of its happiness, and may be considered as a sort of prescience granted "to man alone beneath the heaven." Sometimes, in explaining these ideas, he yielded to the pleasure of quoting Corinne; but such language always offended his mother-in-law. New doctrines ever displease the old. They like to fancy that the world has been losing wisdom, instead of gaining it, since they were young. Lucy's heart instinctively detected the echoes of her sister's voice in the sentiments Oswald breathed with so much ardor. She would cast down her eyes to hide this consciousness; her husband, utterly unaware of it, attributed her apparent insensibility to want of comprehension; and not knowing where to seek congeniality sank into despondence. He wrote to Castel Forte for news of Corinne; but the war prevented the letter's arrival. His health suffered from the cold of England; and the physicians assured him that his chest would be again attacked, if he did not pass the winter in Italy. He told this to his wife and mother, adding, that the war between France and England must at present prevent his tour. "And when peace is concluded," said Lady Edgarmond, "I should hope, my Lord, that you would not think of returning to Italy."—"If his health depends on it," ventured Lucy, "he could not do better." Oswald expressed much gratitude for her kindness. Alas! his thanks but assured her of his love for another.

War ceased; and every time Oswald complained, Lucy's heart was divided between her dread of his departure for Italy, and her fondness, which overrated his indisposition. He attributed her doubt of the necessity for this voyage to selfishness: thus each wounded the other's feelings, because neither dared confess their own. All these interests were soon absorbed in the state of Lady Edgarmond, who was now speechless, and could only express herself by tears, or by the manner in which she pressed their hands. Lucy was in despair. Oswald sat up every night with her. It was now December; and these cares were highly injurious to him, though they seemed much to gratify the sufferer, whose faults disappeared just as her agonies would have excused them. The approach of death stills all the tumults of soul from which most of our errors proceed. On her last night, she joined the hands of Oswald and Lucy, pressed them to her heart, and raised her eyes to heaven; no longer deploring the voice which could have added nothing to the impressiveness of that action—that look. In a few seconds she expired.

Lord Nevil, who had supported himself by great effort, for her sake, now became dangerously ill, and poor Lucy's distress was thus redoubled. In his delirium, he often named Corinne, and Italy, sighing: "Oh, for the southern sun! it is so cold in the north here: I shall never be warm again." When he recovered his senses, he was surprised at finding that Lucy had prepared everything for his voyage: she merely repeated the advice of his physicians, adding: "If you will permit it, I shall accompany you; and our child ought not to be parted from her parents."—"No, no, we will not part," he answered; "but if this journey would pain you, I renounce it."—"That will not pain me," she replied. Oswald took her hand, and gazed inquiringly on her: she would have explained herself; but the memory of her mother's advice, never to betray a sign of jealousy, reproved her, and she added: "You must be sure, my Lord, that my first object is the re-establishment of your health."—"You have a sister in Italy," continued he.—"I know it: have you any tidings of her?"—"Never, since I left for America."—"Well, my Lord, we shall learn all in Italy."—"Are you then interested in her still?"—"Yes: I have not forgotten the tenderness she showed my childhood."—"We ought not to forget," sighed Nevil; and both again were silent. Oswald had too much delicacy to desire a renewal of his former ties with Corinne; but he thought that it would be sweet to die in Italy, after receiving her pardon and adieu. He little deemed that his delirium had betrayed him, and did injustice to the mind of his wife; because it had rather shown him the opinion of others than what she felt herself, he believed she loved him as much as she could love, but he knew nothing of her sensibility; at present, her pride disguised it; but, had she been perfectly happy, she would have thought it improper to avow a passionate affection even for her own husband; capable as she was of it, education had convinced her that it would be immodest to profess this feeling; but nothing could teach her to take pleasure in speaking of anything else.

CHAPTER V.

Oswald, disliking all recollections of France, crossed it very hastily. Lucy evinced neither wish nor will of any kind, but left it for him to decide everything. They reached the base of the mountains that separate Dauphiny from Savoy, and ascended the Pas des Echelles on foot: this road is dug in the rocks; its entrance resembles a deep cavern; it is dark throughout, even in the brightest days of summer. As yet, they found no snow; but autumn, the season of decay, was herself fast fading. The road was covered with dead leaves, borne to this region on the gale, from the distant trees. Thus they saw the wreck of nature without beholding any promise of her revival. The sight of the mountains charmed Lord Nevil: while we live among plains, the earth seems only made to bear and nourish man; but in picturesque countries we see the impress of their Creator's power and genius; yet man is everywhere familiarized with nature: the roads he frames ascend the steep, or fathom the abyss; nothing is inaccessible to him, save the great mystery of his own being. In Morienne, the winter was more rigorously felt at every step: one might fancy one's self wending northward, in approaching Mont Cenis. Lucy, who had never travelled before, was alarmed at finding the ice render the horses' pace unsteady: she hid her fears, but reproached herself for having brought her little one with her: often doubting whether the resolve to do so had been purely moral, or whether the hope of growing dearer to Oswald, by constantly associating her image with that of their beloved child, had not deadened her to the risks Juliet would thus incur. Lucy was apt to perplex her mind with secret scruples of conscience; the more virtuous we are, the more this kind of fastidiousness increases: she had no resource, save in her long and silent prayers, which somewhat tranquillized her spirit. The landscape now took a more terrific character: the snow fell heavily on ground already covered with it. They seemed entering the Hell of Ice described by Dante. From the foot of the precipices to the mountain-tops, all varieties were concealed. The pines, now clothed in white, were mirrored in the winter like spectral trees. Oswald and Lucy gazed in silence; speech would have seemed presumptuous; nature was frozen into dumbness, and they were mute like her. Suddenly they perceived, on an immense extent of snow, a long file of darkly clad figures carrying a bier towards a church. These priests, the only living beings who broke this desert solitude, preserved their wonted pace. The thought of death lent it a gravity which not even the bleakness of the air tempted them to forget. Here was the mourning of nature and of man for vegetable and for human life.

No color was left—that black, that white, thus united, struck the soul with awe. "What a sad omen!" sighed Lady Nevil.—"Lucy," interrupted Oswald, "trust me, it is not for you."—"Alas!" he thought, "it was not beneath such auspices I travelled with Corinne. Where is she now? may not these gloomy objects be but warnings of what I am to suffer?" Lucy's nerves were shaken by the terrors of her journey. This kind of fear is almost unknown to an intrepid man; and she mistook for carelessness of her, Oswald's ignorance of such alarm's possible existence. The common people, who have no better exercise for fancy, love to exaggerate all hazards, and delight in the effect they thus produce on their superiors. The inn-keepers, every winter, tell their guests wild tales of "le Mont," as if it were an immovable monster, guarding the vales that lead to the land of promise. They watch the weather for formidable symptoms, and beg all foreigners to avoid crossing Mont Cenis during la tourmente. This is a wind announced by a white cloud, spread like a sheet in the air, and by degrees covering the whole horizon. Lucy had gained all possible information, unknown to Nevil, who was too much occupied by the sensation of re-entering Italy to think on these reports. The possible end and aim of his pilgrimage agitated his wife still more than did the journey itself, and she judged everything unfavorably. In the morning of their ascent, several peasants beset her with forebodings; those hired to carry her up the mountain, however, assured her that there was nothing to apprehend: she looked at Nevil, and saw that he laughed at these predictions; therefore, piqued by his security, she professed herself ready to depart. He knew not how much this resolution cost her, but mounted a horse and followed the litter which bore his wife and child. The way was easy, till they were about the centre of the flat which precedes the descent, when a violent hurricane arose. Drifts of snow blinded Lucy's bearers, and often hid Oswald from her view. The religious men who devote their lives to succor travellers on the Alps began to ring their alarm-bell; yet, though this sound proclaimed the neighborhood of benevolent pity, its rapid and heavy repetition seemed more expressive of dismay than assistance. Lucy hoped that Oswald would propose passing the night at this monastery; but, as she said nothing, he thought it best to hasten on, while daylight lasted. Lucy's bearers inquired, with some uneasiness, if she wished them to descend. "Yes," she said, "since my Lord does not oppose it." She erred in thus suppressing her feelings: the presence of her child would have excused them; but, while we love one by whom we cannot deem ourselves beloved, each instant brings its own sense of humiliation. Oswald remained on horseback, though that was the least safe method of descent, but he believed himself thus secure against losing sight of his wife and child. From the summit, Lucy looked down on the abrupt road which she would have taken for a precipice, had not steeps still more perpendicular been close at hand. She pressed her darling to her heart with strong emotion. Oswald observed this, and, quitting his saddle, joined the men who carried her litter. The graceful zeal with which he did this filled her eyes with tears; but, at that instant, the whirlwind rose so furiously that her bearers fell on their knees, exclaiming: "O God, protect us!" Lucy regained her courage; and, raising herself, held Juliet towards Lord Nevil. "Take your child, my love!" she said. Oswald received it, answering: "And you too—-come, I can carry ye both!"—"No," she said, "only save her!!"—"Save!" he repeated: "is there any danger? Unhappy wretches—why did you not tell us?"—"They did," interrupted Lucy.—"And you concealed it from me? How have I merited is cruel reserve?" He wrapped his cloak round Juliet, and cast down his eyes in deep disquietude; but heaven most mercifully appeased the storm, and lent a ray which showed them the fertile plains of Piedmont. In another hour they arrived unharmed at Novalaise, the first Italian town after crossing Mont Cenis. On entering the inn, Lucy embraced her child, and returned her fervent thanks to God. Oswald leaned pensively near the fire, and, when she rose, held out his hand to her, saying: "You were alarmed then, love?"—"Yes, dear."—"Why would you go on?"—"You seemed impatient to proceed."—"Do you not know that, above all things, I dread exposing you to pain or danger?"—"It is for Juliet that they are to be dreaded," she replied, taking the little one on her lap to warm it, and twisting round her fingers the beautiful black curls that the snow had matted on that fair brow.[1] The mother and child formed so charming a picture, that Oswald gazed on them with tender admiration; but Lucy's silence discouraged the feeling which might else have led to a mutual understanding. They arrived at Turin, where the season was unusually severe. The vast apartments of Italy were destined to receive the sun. Their freshness in summer is most welcome; but, in the depth of winter, they seem cheerless deserts; and their possessors feel like pigmies in the abode of giants. The death of Alfieri had just occasioned a general mourning among his proud countrymen. Nevil no longer recognized the gayety formerly so dear to him. The absence of her he loved disenchanted both nature and art: he sought intelligence of her, and learned that for five years she had published nothing, but lived in seclusion at Florence. He resolved on going thither; not to remain, and thus violate the affection he owed to Lucy, but to tell Corinne how ignorant he had been of her residence in Scotland. In crossing Lombardy, he sighed: "How beautiful this was, when all those elms were in full leaf, with vines linking them together!"—"How beautiful it was," thought Lucy, "while Corinne shared it with you!" A humid fog, such as oft arises in so well-watered a land, obscured their view of the country. During the night they heard the deluge of southern rain fall on, nay, through the roof, as if water was pursuing them with all the avidity of fire. Lucy sought in vain for the charm of Italy: it seemed that everything conspired to veil it in gloom for Oswald and herself.