A t last, duty and affection re-
stored him to them: they returned to E ngland.
stored him to them: they returned to E ngland.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
O swald would have followed her, but was refused.
A t the dinner hour he was told that she had been out for
some time, not saying where. H e was fearfully alarmed at
her absence; but she shortly returned, with a calm and
gentle air, such as he little ex pected. H e would now have
confided in her, and gained her pardon by sincerity, but
she replied, " E x planation, indeed, is needful to us both;
yet, my dear L ord, permit me still to defer it: you will soon
k now my motives for this req uest. " H er address, he per-
ceived, was more animated than usual; and every day its
warmth, its interest, increased. H e could not understand
this change: its cause is soon told. A ll that L ucy so long
had hidden in her heart escaped in the brief reproach she
made her husband; and, as usually happens to persons
who suddenly break from their habitual character, she now
ran into ex tremes, resolving to seek Corinne, and ask her
if she had determined perpetually to disturb her wedded
peace; but, as she arrived at her sister' s door, her diffi-
dence returned; nor could she have had courage to enter,
had not the invalid, who saw her from a window, sent
Theresina to entreat her. L ucy ascended to the sick
chamber, and all her anger vanished at sight of its occu-
pant. The sisters embraced in tears. Corinne then set an
ex ample of frank ness which it was impossible for L ucy not
to follow. S uch was that mind' s ascendency over every
one, that, in her presence, neither dissimulation nor con-
straint could be preserved. Pallor and weak ness confirmed
her assertion, that she had not long to live: this sad truth
added weight to her counsels. A ll Castel F
her, and all she had guessed from O swald'
that reserve and coldness separated the N
orte had told
s letters, proved
evils from each
other. S he entered very simply on this delicate subj ect:
her perfect k nowledge of the husband' s character enabled
her to point out why he req uired to find spontaneously in
those he loved the confidence which he could not solicit,
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 383
and to be received with cheerfulness proportioned to his
own susceptibility of discouragement. S he described her
past self impartially, as if speak ing of another, and showed
how agreeable it must be for a man to find, united with
moral conduct, that desire to please which is often inspired
by a wish to atone for the loss fcf virtue. " Many women,"
she said, " have been beloved, not merely in spite of, but
for the sak e of their very errors; because they strove to
ex tort a pardon by being ever agreeable, and having so
much need of indulgence dared impose no laws on others.
Therefore, dear sister, pride not in your perfections; let
your charm consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne
and L ucy in one: nor let your own worth ex cuse to you a
moment' s neglect of your graces, nor your self-respect
render your manners repulsive. W ere your dignity ill
founded, it might wound him less; for an over-ex ertion of
certain rights chills the heart more than do unj ust preten-
sions. L ove delights in paying more than is due, where
nothing is ex acted. " L ucy thank ed her sister with much
tenderness for the interest thus generously evinced in her
welfare; and Corinne resumed,-- " I f I were doomed to live,
I might not be capable of it; but now my only selfish
wish is, that O swald should find some traces of my influ-
ence in you and in his child; nor ever taste one rapture that
reminded him not of Corinne. " L ady N evil returned to
her every day, and, with the most amiable delicacy, studied
to resemble the being so dear to her L ord. H is curiosity
increased, as he remark ed the fresh attractions she thus ac-
q uired: he k new that she must owe them to Corinne; yet,
L ucy having promised to k eep the secret of their meetings,
no ex planation occurred. The sufferer proposed yet to
see the wedded pair together, but not till she was assured
that she had but a few moments to live; but she involved
this plan in so much mystery, that L ucy k new not in what
manner it was to be accomplished.
CHAPTER V.
Corinne desired to bid N evil and I taly such a farewell as
might recall the days on which her genius shone with its
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? S S iCO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
full splendour. A pardonable weak ness . L ove and glory
were ever blended in her mind; and, at the moment when
her heart was about to resign all earthly ties, she wished
O swald to feel, once more, that it was the greatest woman
of her day he had destroyed, -- the woman who best k new
how to love and think , -- whose brilliant success he had
obscured in misery and death.
S he had no longer the strength req uired by an impro-
visatrice; but in solitude, since O swald' s return, had re-
sumed her zest for writing poetry: she, therefore, named
a day for assembling, in one of the galleries, all who de-
sired to hear her verses, begging L ucy to bring her hus-
band; adding, " I feel I may demand this of you now. "
O swald was fearfully agitated, wondering what subj
had chosen, and whether she would recite herself: the
bare possibility of look ing on her threw him into ex
confusion. The morning came, and winter frowned on it
with all the sternness of the north: the wind howled,
the rain beat violently against the windows, and, by an
ect she
treme
eccentricity more freq uent in I taly than elsewhere, the
thunder added a sense of dread to all this gloom. O swald
could not speak : every thing around him increased the
desolation of his soul. H e entered the hall with L ucy:
it was immensely crowded. I n an obscure recess was placed
a sofa, whereon Corinne was to recline, being too ill to read
her own verses. Dreading to show herself, changed as she
was, she had chosen those means of seeing O swald unseen.
A s soon as she k new that he was there, she veiled her face,
and was supported to this couch; from time to time stay-
ing to tak e breath, as if that short space had been a painful
j ourney: the last steps of life are ever slow and difficult.
S eating herself, her eyes sought O swald, found him, and
involuntarily starting up, she spread her arms; but in-
stantly fell back , turning away her face, lik e Dido when
she met iE neas in a world which human passions should
not penetrate. Castel F orte detained L ord N evil, who
now, utterly beside himself, would have flown to fail at
her feet: the Prince reminded him of the respect he owed
Corinne before the world. *
>> N ot a word of what he owed his wife. -- Tn.
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 385
A . young girl, dressed in white, and crowned with
flowers, now appeared on the stage which had been erected.
H er meek and peaceful face touchingly contrasting the sen-
timents she was about to breathe; it was Corinne' s taste,
which thus mingled something sweet with thoughts in
themselves too dreary. Music nobly and affectingly pre-
pared the auditors. The hapless O swald could not tear his
eyes from Corinne; she was to him as an apparition that
haunts a night of fever; it was through his own deep sighs
that he heard the death-song of the swan, which the
woman he had so much wronged addressed to his heart.
TH E L A S TS O N GO F CO R I N N E .
Tak e ye my solemn farewell! O my friends,
A lready night is dark ening on my eyes ; --
B ut is not H eaven most beautiful by night?
Thousands of stars shine in the k indling sk y,
W hich is an azure desert during day.
Thus do the gathering of eternal shades
R eveal innumerable thoughts, half lost
I n the full daylight of prosperity.
B ut weak ened is the voice which might instruct;
The soul retires within itself, and seek s
To gather round itself its failing fire.
F rom my first days of youth, my inward hope
W as to do honour to the R oman name;
That name at which the startled heart yet beats.
Y e have allow' d me fame, O generous land!
Y e banish not a woman from the shrine!
Y e do not sacrifice immortal gifts
To passing j ealousies. Y e who still yield
A pplause to Genius in its daring flight;
V ictor without the vanq uished, -- Conq ueror,
Y et without spoil; -- who, from eternity,
Draws riches for all time.
N ature and L ife! with what deep confidence
Y e did inspire me. I deem' d all grief arose
F or that we did not feel, or think enough;
A nd that we might, even on this our earth,
B eforehand taste that heavenly happiness,
W hich is -- but length in our enthusiasm,
B ut constancy in love.
co
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? 386 O O R I N N E j O R I TA L Y .
N
N
W
I
I
I
o, I repent it not, this generous faith;
o -- that caused not the bitter tears I ' ve shed,
atering the dust which doth await me now.
had accomplish' d all my destiny --
had been worthy all the gifts of H eaven,
f I had only vow' d my sounding lyre
To celebrate that goodness all divine,
Made manifest throughout the universe.
A ndthou,myGod! -- O h,thouwiltnotrej ect
The offering of the mind; for poetry,
I ts homage is religious, and the wings
O f thought but serve to draw more near to thee.
R eligion has no limits, and no bonds; --
The vast, the infinite, and the eternal,
N ever from her may Genius separate.
I magination from its earliest flight,
Past o' er the bounds of life: and the sublime
I s the reflection of divinity.
A las! my God, had I loved only thee; *
I f I had raised my head aloft in heaven --
F rom passionate affections shelter' d there,
I had not now been crush' d before my time --
Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams
Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives,
I only k now it by my strength^ of grief:
Under the features of an enemy
I recognise it now.
F arewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land!
F arewell, remembrances of infancy,
F arewell! A h, what have ye to do with death?
A nd ye, who in my writings may have found
F eelings, whose echo was within your soul,
O h, friends of mine -- where' er ye be, --
Corinne has suffer' d much, -- but suffer'
I n an unworthy cause: she has not lost
A t least her claim on pity.
B eautiful I taly! it is in vain
To promise me your loveliness; my heart
I s worn and wasted; what can ye avail?
farewell!
d not
W ould ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs?
W ould ye recall my happiness, and thus
Mak e me revolt against my fate?
* " H adlbutservedmyGodwithhalfthezeal," & c-- J V olsey. (S iiA k spE A R a)
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? CO R I N N E j O R I TA L Y . 387
Meek ly I do submit myself. O h, ye
W ho may survive me, -- when the spring returns,
R emember how I loved its loveliness!
H ow oft I sung its perfume and its air.
I pray you sometimes to recall a line
F rom out my songs, -- my soul is written there:
B ut fatal Muses, love and misery,
Taught my best poetry.
W hen the designs of mighty Providence
A re work 71 in us, internal music mark s
The coming of the angel of the grave:
N or fearful, nor yet terrible, he spreads
H is white wings; and, though compass'
A thousand omens tell of his approach.
d by night,
I f the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear
H is voice; and when night falls, the shadows round
S eem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe.
A t noon, when life sees only the clear sk y,
F eels only the bright sun, the fated one
W hom Death hath called, upon the distance mark s
The heavy shade which is so soon to shroud
A ll nature from their eyes.
Y outh, hope, emotions of the heart -- ye all
A re now no more. F ar from me -- vain regrets;
I f I can yet obtain some falling tears,
I f I can yet believe myself beloved,
I t is because I am about to die.
Could I recall my fleeting life,-- that life,
S oon would it turn upon me all its stings.
A nd R ome! R ome, where my ashes will be borne!
Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive,
I f, with a trembling step, I j oin the shades,
The multitude of your illustrious dead!
F orgive me for my pity of myself. *
F eelings, and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance
A s might have yielded fruit -- ex pire with me.
O f all the powers of mind which nature gave,
The power of suffering has been the sole one,
W hich I have used to its ex tent.
* " J ' ai pitie de moi. meme. " -- Cornk
CC2
ille.
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? 388CO R I N N E j O R I TA L Y .
I tmattersnot. -- I doobey. -- W hate' er
May be the mighty mystery of death,
That mystery at least must give repose.
Y e do not answer me, ye silent tombs!
Merciful God, thou dost not answer me!
I made my choice on earth, and now my heart
H as no asylum. Y e decide for me,
A ndsuchadestinyisbest. L . E . L .
Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The hall re-
sounded with deep sad murmurs of applause. L
ord N evil
could not support the violence of his emotion, but fell
senseless to the ground. Corinne, beholding him in this
condition, would have flown to him, but her strength failed
as she attempted to rise. S he was borne home, and from
that hour no hopes were entertained of saving her. L ucy
hastened to her, so afflicted by her husband' s grief, that she
threw herself at her sister' s feet, imploring her to admit
him; but Corinne refused. " I forgive him," she said,
" for having brok en my heart. Men k now not what they
do; society persuades them that it is sport to fill a heart
with rapture, and then consign it to despair; but God' s
free grace has given me back composure. The sight of
O swald would revive sensations that ill befit a death-bed.
R eligion only possesses the secret clue through this terrific
labyrinth. I pardon the being I so loved," she continued,
with a failing voice; " may he be happy with you . '
but when in his turn he is called on to die, then may he
recollect the poor Corinne. S he will watch over him, if
H eaven permits; for those never cease to love, whose love has
had the strength to cost them life. "
O swald stood at her door, sometimes about to enter,
spite her prohibition, sometimes motionless with sorrow.
L ucy passed from one to the other, lik e an angel of peace,
between despair and death. O ne evening Corinne appeared
more easy, and the parents went for a short time to their
child, whom they had not seen for three days. During
their absence the dying woman performed all the duties of
religion; then said to the reverend man who received her
last solemn confession, " N ow, father, you k now my fate.
J udge me! I have never tak en vengeance on my foes;
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 389
the griefs of others never ask ed my sympathy in vain; my
faults sprung but from passions not guilty in themselves,
though human pride and weak
error. Think you, my father--
ness led them to ex cess and
you who have so much
longer ex perience than I -- that God will pardon me? " --
" Y
es, child, I
hope so--
is not your heart now wholly
his ? " -- "
is O swald'
I
believe it, father; tak e away this portrait, it
lay on my breast the image of H im who de-
s;
scended to this life,-- not for the powerful, nor the in-
spired, but for the sufferer, the dying; they need his
mercy. " S he then perceived Castel F orte, who wept be-
side her bed, and holding out her hand to him, ex claimed,
" My friend! you only are beside me now. I lived for love;
yet, but for you, should die alone. " H er tears fell as she spok e,
yet she added, " There is no help for such a moment;
friends can but follow us to the brink ; there begin thoughts
too deep, too troubled, to be confided. " S he begged they
would remove her to a sofa, whence she could gaze upon
the sk y. L ucy now came to her side; and the unhappy
O swald, following his wife, fell at the feet of Corinne, who
would have spok en to him, but her voice failed: she raised
her eyes to heaven; the moon was covered with j ust such
a cloud as they had seen on their way to N aples. Corinne
pointed to it with a dying hand-- one sigh -- and that hand
sunk powerless.
O swald fell into such distraction that L ucy trembled
for his life. H e followed the funeral pomp to R ome; then
retired to Tivoli, where he remained long, without seeing
even his wife and child.
A t last, duty and affection re-
stored him to them: they returned to E ngland. L ord
N evil' s domestic life became most ex emplary: but did he
ever pardon his past conduct? Could the approving
. world console him? A fter the fate he had enj oyed, could
he content himself with common life? I k now not: nor
will I , on that head, either absolve or condemn him.
TH E E N D.
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? 390
N O TE S TO V O L UME I .
(1) A ncona is not much better supplied to this day.
(2) This observation is made in a letter on R ome, by M. H umboldt,
brother to the celebrated traveller, and Prussian minister at R ome; a gentle-
man whose writings and conversation alik e do honour to his learning and ori-
ginality.
(3) A n ex ception must be made in favour of Monti, who reads verse as well
as he writes it There can be few greater dramatic treats than to hear him
recite the episode of Ugolino-- of F rancesca, or the death of Clorinda.
(4) L ord N evil must have alluded to the beautiful lines of Propertius,--
' Ut caput in magnis ubi non est ponere signis;
Ponitur hie imos ante corona pedes. *
(5) A F renchman commanded the castle of S t A ngelo during the last war;
and, when summoned by the N eapolitans to surrender, replied, that he would
do so when the bronze angel sheathed his sword.
(6 ) These facts are found in * A H istory of the I talian R epublics, during the
middle A ges,' by M. S imonde, of Geneva; an author of profound sagacity,
eq ually conscientious and energetic.
(7)* E ineW eltzwarbistdu,oR om! dochohnedieL ibeW aredieW elt
nicht die W elt, ware denn R om aucht nicht R om,' says Goethe, the poet and
philosopher, of all our modern men of letters the most remark able for ima-
gination.
(8) I t is said that the building of S t Peter' s was one of the principal causes
of the R eformation; as it cost the popes so much, that they multiplied the sale
of indulgences.
(9) Mineralogists affirm that these lions are not basaltic, because the volcanic
stone now so called was never found in E gypt; but as Pliny and W inck leman
(the historian of the arts) both give them that name, 1 avail myself of its pri-
mitive acceptation.
(10) Carpi, te nunc, tauri, de sept cm collibus herbas,
B um licet, hie magna? j am locus urbis erit.
TlB UL L US .
H oc q uodcumq
A nte Phrygem iE
Propertius.
(11) A ugustus ex
ue vides, hospes q u& m max
ucan collis et herba fuit, & c.
ima R
oma est,
which were prescribed him. H e left R
ome in a dying state.
ue facem.
(12) V ix
Propertius.
(13) Plin. H
mari capax
imus insignes inter utramq
ist. N at, 1. 3. Tiberis, q
uam libet magnorum navium ex I talo
pired at N bla, on his way to the waters of B
rundisium,
, rerum in toto orbe nascentium mercator placidissimus, pluribus
probt: solus q uam caH eri in omnibus terris amnes, accolitur, aspiciturq ue villis.
N ulliq ue fluviorum minus licet, inclusis utrinq ue lateribus: nee tamen ipse
pugnat, q uanq uam creber ac subitis incrementis, et nusq uam magis aq uis
q uam in ipsa urbe stagnantibus. Q uin imo vates intelligitur potius ac raonitur,
auctu semper religiosus verius q uam sevus.
(14) Thedancing of Madame R ecamier gave me the idea which I endeavoured
to ex press. This celebrated beauty, in the midst of afflictions, displayed so
touching a resignation, so total a forgetfulness of self, that her moral q ualities
seem as ex traordinary as her personal grace.
(15) Mr. R oscoe, author of the ' H istory of the Medici,' has since published
that of L eo X . , which recounts the proofs of admiring esteem given by the
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? N O TE S . 391
princes and people of I taly to men of letters; impartially adding, that many of
the popes have emulated this liberality.
(16 ) Cesarotti, V erri, and B ettinelli, three modern authors, have instilled
more thought into I talian prose than has been bestowed on it for many years.
(17) Giovanni Pindemonte has published a series of dramas founded on
I talian history; a most praiseworthy enterprise. The name of Pindemonte is
also ennobled by H ippolito, one of I taly' s sweetest modern poets.
(18) A lfieri' s posthumous work s have been printed. I t will be seen, by the
eccentric ex periment which he tried on his tragedy of A bel, that he himself
thought his style too austere, and that the stage req uired entertainments of
greater fancy and variety.
N O TE S TO V O L UME I I .
(1) I have allowed myself to borrow some passages from a discourse on death,
which may be found in * The Course of R eligious Morals,' by M. N eck er.
A nother work of his, ' The I mportance of R eligious O pinions,'
brilliant success, and is sometimes confused with this, which appeared when
public interest was distracted by political events; but I dare affirm, that'
had a more
The
o
Course of R eligious Morals' is my father' s most eloq uent production. N
statesman, I believe, ever before composed volumes for the Christian pulpit;
and this k ind of writing, from a man who had so much to do with men, snows a
k nowledge of the human heart, and the indulgence that k nowledge inspires.
I t appears that, in two respects, these E ssays are completely original. A re-
ligious man is usually a recluse Men of the world are seldom religious*
where, then, shall we find united such observation of life, and such elevation
of soul, that look s beyond it? I should say, fearless of finding my opinion
attributed to partiality, that this book is one of the first among those which
console the feeling heart, and interest the reflective mind, on the great q ues-
tions which are incessantly agitating them both.
(2) F rom a j ournal called * E urope,* I
servations on painting,-- - an inex haustible subj
S chlegel, and for German reasoners in general.
(3) The historical pictures here described are David'
Marius, and Gerard' s B elisarius. The Dido is by R
Ciorinda, in the gallery of F lorence; Macbeth, from an E nglish collection of
pictures from S hak speare: the Phedra is Guerin' s; the two landscapes of
Cincinnatus and O ssian are at R ome; their artist, Mr. W all is, an E nglishman.
(4) I
' A
(5) A
' S
ask
h,'
n I
t A
ed a little Tuscan girl which was the prettiest, her sister or herself.
she replied,' the best face is mine. '
talian postilion, beholding his horse ex pire, prayed for him, crying,
nthony, have pity on his soul! *
(6 ) The reader who wishes to k now more of the R oman Carnival, should read
the charming description of Goethe; a picture faithful as it is animated.
(7) There is an ex q uisite account of the lak e A lbano, in a collection of poems
by Madame B runn (formerly Munter), one of the most talented and imaginative
women of her country.
(8) Discourse' O n the Duty of Children to their Parents,' by M. N eck er. S ee
first note.
(9) O n I
(10) Mr. E
to L ord N
ndulgence. The same.
lliot saved the life of an old N eapolitan in the manner attributed
eviL
(11) This name must not be confused with that of Corilla, an I talian impro-
visa trice. The Grecian Corinna was famed for lyric poetry. Pindar himself
received lessons from her.
have derived many valuable ob-
ect for their author, M. F rederic
s B rutus, Drouet' s
ehberg, a German painter;
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? 392
N O TE S TO V O L UME I I I .
(1) A n old tradition supports the imaginative prej udice which persuaded
Coruitie that the diamond could forewarn its wearer of its giver' s treachery.
F req uent allusions are made to this legend by S panish poets, in their peculiar
manner. I n one of Calderon' s tragedies, F erdinand, Prince of Portugal, pre-
fers death in chains before the crime of surrendering to a Moorish k ing the
Christian city which his brother, K ing E dward, offers for his ransom. The
Moor, enraged at this refusal, subj ects the noble vouth to the basest ignominy.
F erdinand, in reproof, reminds him that mercy and generosity are the truest
characteristics of supreme power. H e cites all that is royal in the universe,--
the lion, the dolphin, the eagle, amid animals; and seek s even among plants
and stones for traits of natural goodness, which have been attributed to those
who lord it over the rest Thus, he says, the diamond, which resists the blow
of steel, resolves itself to duet, that it may inform its master if treason threatens
him. I t is impossible to k now whether this mode of considering all nature ascon-
nected with the destiny and sentiments of man is mathematically correct; but
I t is ever pleasing to imagination ; and poetry, especially that of S pain, has
owed it many great beauties. Calderon is only k nown to me by the German
translation of W ilhelm S chlegel; but this author, one ofhis own country' s finest
poets, has the art of transporting into his native language, with the rarest per-
fection, the poetic graces of S panish, E nglish, and I talian-- giving a lively idea
of the original, be it what it may.
N ote Tr. -- H ad O swald' s gift been his mother' s wedding ring, that incident
would have been more affecting than so fanciful a fable.
(2) M. Dubreu; l, a very sk ilful F rench physician, fell ill of a fatal distemper.
H is popularity filled the sick room with visitants. Calling to his intimate
friend, M. PeW j
people; you k
with me now. '
a, as eminent a man as himself, he said,' S end away all these
now my fever is contagious: no one but yourself ouyht to be
H appy the friend who ever heard such words! Peiniij a died
fifteen days after his heart' s brother.
(3) A mong the comic I talian authors who have described their country' s
manners, must be reck oned the Chevalier R ossi, a R oman, who singularly unites
observation with satire.
(4) Talma, having passed some years in L ondon, blended the charms of each
country' s tragic acting with admirable talent.
(5) A iler the death of Dante, the F lorentines, ashamed of having permitted
him to perish far from his home, sent a deputation to the pope for his remains,
interred at R avenna. The pope refused; rightly deeming that the land which
had sheltered him in ex ile must have become his country, and deserved not
to be thus robbed of the glory that shone around his tomb.
(6 ) A lfieri said, that it was in the church of S anta Croce he first felt a love
for fame. The epitaph he composed for himself and the Countess d' A lbani is
most simply and atfectingly ex pressive of long and perfect friendship.
(7) I t was announced at B ologna that a solar eclipse would tak e place one
day at two. The people H ock ed to see it; and, impatient at its delay, called on
it to begin, as if it were an actor, who k ept them waiting. A t last it com-
menced; but, as the cloudy weather prevented its producing any great effect,
they set up the most violent hissings, angry that the spectacle fell so far short
of their ex pectations.
E N DO F N O TE S .
L ondon:
S roTTiswooDK and S haw,
N ew-street-S q uare.
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? B E N TL E Y ' S
S TA N DA R DN O V E L S
A N DR O MA N CE S .
F B O MTH E " MO R N I N GH E R A L D" O F O CT. 6 ,1849.
E nglish prose fiction has made an advance within the last thirty
years unparalleled in the history of literature. W ith the ex cep-
tion, perhaps, of the rapid development of the national literature
of Germany, there is no instance of a similar k ind which will bear
comparison with the maturity of power, the copiousness, variety,
and sk ill displayed by our modern novelists, who, in a q uarter of
a century, may be said to have created and brought to perfection
a new school of art in the portraiture of life and manners. O ur
language teems with writers of fiction; but the discovery of what
may be truly called the art of fiction, of the application of ex ten-
sive k nowledge, historical research, and the philosophy of human
character, to work s of invention, belongs to the present age.
I llustrious names stand out in the annals of the past; but they
were ex ceptional instances, and cannot be referred to as having
established a class, so to speak , of national fiction. De F oe,
F ielding, R ichardson, S mollett, Goldsmith, are as essentially in-
dividual as in the magnitude and depth of their genius they are
unapproachable. The crowd of novel writers who flourished in
the last century have already vanished into oblivion; and the
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? Charlotte S miths, the L ees, R oches, and the rest, are as little
k nown to contemporary readers as the A phra B ehns and the Man-
leys, and the writers of the fugitive satires and scandalous me-
moirs of a still earlier day. They laboured, industriously enough,
to enrich our literature in this department, but they left no per-
manent results behind. S entimental affectation, unreal passion,
and an artificial nature, pervaded their narratives, and rendered
their pictures of society worthless. O ur modern writers have
passed out of this mirage into the open daylight of reality, and,
with a wise comprehension of the practical capabilities of fiction
as popular ex positor of human life, have given us a series of novels
and romances, which, it is not very hazardous to predict, will
communicate as much delight and instruction to future genera-
tions as they have diffused amongst ourselves.
I t was a happy idea of Mr. B entley, whose enterprise as a pub-
lisher has placed the reading world under so many obligations in
the higher and graver departments of history and the belles let-
tres, to combine in a uniq ue and uniform collection of cheap and
elegant volumes the principal work s of fiction which have appeared
in E ngland during the last q uarter of a century. This collection,
already ex tending to a hundred and six teen volumes, is unrivalled
for diversity of subj ect and treatment, and may be j ustly described
as the most attractive family library of entertainment and of
social precept teaching by ex ample that has ever issued from the
press. E mbracing the most popular productions of B ulwer
L ytton, Marryat, J ames, Cooper, Mrs. Gore, Mrs. Trollope, Miss
Mitford, Grattan, Theodore H ook , Miss A ustin, Morier, Gait,
and numerous other distinguished authors, we traverse in these
compact book s every k nown form of fiction, every section of
society, and every phase of humanity. The collection ranges over
the whole field of fiction, and includes tales of chivalry, historical
romances, tales of fashionable life, domestic novels, stories of
military and naval life, tales of costume and manners, and
national fictions which carry us into the ancient world and
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? s
remote co-mtnes, penetrating the life and usages of early E gypt,
Greece, and I taly, the villages of I ndian tribes, and the palaces
and deserts of the E ast. N or is it merely on the ground of
variety and ability alone that this remark able series confers such
honour upon the literature of the country; it is stamped with a
distinction of a nobler k ind, of which we have good reason to be
still more proud. I n no other language does there ex ist a body of
fiction so unex ceptionable in point of taste, and impressed
hroughout with so pure a spirit of morality. I
that our E nglish " S tandard N ovels"
the more dazzling but corrupting fictions of E
t is in this respect
assert a lofty superiority over
uropean growth.
The charm of such a collection can hardly be sufficiently appre-
ciated on the shelves of our libraries at home here in E ngland.
I magine what a boon these 116 volumes would be to a settler on
the arid plains of S outhern A ustralia! I magine what hours of
dreary solitude they would fill with visions of human faces, and
the flattering action of human passion, in the distant hives of life,
whose faintest echoes are full of interest to the ex ile! To the
colonies, where book s are scarce and dear, and where every
printed scrap is seized upon with avidity, and passed from hand
to hand as a source of inestimable enj oyment, these cheap
volumes, into which such a mass of agreeable and suggestive
reading is compressed, will furnish an inex haustible spring of
information and amusement. The lowness of their price will also
introduce them into hamlets and cottages from which they have
been hitherto ex cluded by the costliness of the original editions;
while the travelling population, by steam-boat or railroad, for
whom have been latterly provided sundry trumpery libraries, the
tex t of which, we suspect, cannot be very confidently relied upon,
and which are got up with a due regard to penury of print and
paper, may rej oice in having a series of book s from which they
can cull, at a trifling cost, abundant entertainment en route, with
the satisfaction of feeling that the volumes are sufficiently elegant
in all details of type, paper, and binding, to be placed in their
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-12-22 00:50 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/hvd. 32044021204953 Public Domain, Google-digitized / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd-google
? libraries or on their drawing-room tables at the end of their
j ourney.
The reader who is attracted by the cheapness of these book s,
would no doubt enj oy their contents with a k eener relish if he had
a peep into their statistics. H e may not, perhaps, suspect, while
he is turning over the pleasant leaves which he has j ust purchased
for a few shillings, that an enormous capital has been ex pended
upon their production. W e will supply him with the items, and
leave him to wonder and rej oice over the enterprise which has
placed its fruits at so small a price within his reach.
The copyright of the standard novels may be estimated
at . . . . . . ? 53,000
The cost of printing, paper, and illustrations at . ? 35,000
Mak ing a total outlay of ? 88,000
? ?
A t the dinner hour he was told that she had been out for
some time, not saying where. H e was fearfully alarmed at
her absence; but she shortly returned, with a calm and
gentle air, such as he little ex pected. H e would now have
confided in her, and gained her pardon by sincerity, but
she replied, " E x planation, indeed, is needful to us both;
yet, my dear L ord, permit me still to defer it: you will soon
k now my motives for this req uest. " H er address, he per-
ceived, was more animated than usual; and every day its
warmth, its interest, increased. H e could not understand
this change: its cause is soon told. A ll that L ucy so long
had hidden in her heart escaped in the brief reproach she
made her husband; and, as usually happens to persons
who suddenly break from their habitual character, she now
ran into ex tremes, resolving to seek Corinne, and ask her
if she had determined perpetually to disturb her wedded
peace; but, as she arrived at her sister' s door, her diffi-
dence returned; nor could she have had courage to enter,
had not the invalid, who saw her from a window, sent
Theresina to entreat her. L ucy ascended to the sick
chamber, and all her anger vanished at sight of its occu-
pant. The sisters embraced in tears. Corinne then set an
ex ample of frank ness which it was impossible for L ucy not
to follow. S uch was that mind' s ascendency over every
one, that, in her presence, neither dissimulation nor con-
straint could be preserved. Pallor and weak ness confirmed
her assertion, that she had not long to live: this sad truth
added weight to her counsels. A ll Castel F
her, and all she had guessed from O swald'
that reserve and coldness separated the N
orte had told
s letters, proved
evils from each
other. S he entered very simply on this delicate subj ect:
her perfect k nowledge of the husband' s character enabled
her to point out why he req uired to find spontaneously in
those he loved the confidence which he could not solicit,
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 383
and to be received with cheerfulness proportioned to his
own susceptibility of discouragement. S he described her
past self impartially, as if speak ing of another, and showed
how agreeable it must be for a man to find, united with
moral conduct, that desire to please which is often inspired
by a wish to atone for the loss fcf virtue. " Many women,"
she said, " have been beloved, not merely in spite of, but
for the sak e of their very errors; because they strove to
ex tort a pardon by being ever agreeable, and having so
much need of indulgence dared impose no laws on others.
Therefore, dear sister, pride not in your perfections; let
your charm consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne
and L ucy in one: nor let your own worth ex cuse to you a
moment' s neglect of your graces, nor your self-respect
render your manners repulsive. W ere your dignity ill
founded, it might wound him less; for an over-ex ertion of
certain rights chills the heart more than do unj ust preten-
sions. L ove delights in paying more than is due, where
nothing is ex acted. " L ucy thank ed her sister with much
tenderness for the interest thus generously evinced in her
welfare; and Corinne resumed,-- " I f I were doomed to live,
I might not be capable of it; but now my only selfish
wish is, that O swald should find some traces of my influ-
ence in you and in his child; nor ever taste one rapture that
reminded him not of Corinne. " L ady N evil returned to
her every day, and, with the most amiable delicacy, studied
to resemble the being so dear to her L ord. H is curiosity
increased, as he remark ed the fresh attractions she thus ac-
q uired: he k new that she must owe them to Corinne; yet,
L ucy having promised to k eep the secret of their meetings,
no ex planation occurred. The sufferer proposed yet to
see the wedded pair together, but not till she was assured
that she had but a few moments to live; but she involved
this plan in so much mystery, that L ucy k new not in what
manner it was to be accomplished.
CHAPTER V.
Corinne desired to bid N evil and I taly such a farewell as
might recall the days on which her genius shone with its
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? S S iCO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
full splendour. A pardonable weak ness . L ove and glory
were ever blended in her mind; and, at the moment when
her heart was about to resign all earthly ties, she wished
O swald to feel, once more, that it was the greatest woman
of her day he had destroyed, -- the woman who best k new
how to love and think , -- whose brilliant success he had
obscured in misery and death.
S he had no longer the strength req uired by an impro-
visatrice; but in solitude, since O swald' s return, had re-
sumed her zest for writing poetry: she, therefore, named
a day for assembling, in one of the galleries, all who de-
sired to hear her verses, begging L ucy to bring her hus-
band; adding, " I feel I may demand this of you now. "
O swald was fearfully agitated, wondering what subj
had chosen, and whether she would recite herself: the
bare possibility of look ing on her threw him into ex
confusion. The morning came, and winter frowned on it
with all the sternness of the north: the wind howled,
the rain beat violently against the windows, and, by an
ect she
treme
eccentricity more freq uent in I taly than elsewhere, the
thunder added a sense of dread to all this gloom. O swald
could not speak : every thing around him increased the
desolation of his soul. H e entered the hall with L ucy:
it was immensely crowded. I n an obscure recess was placed
a sofa, whereon Corinne was to recline, being too ill to read
her own verses. Dreading to show herself, changed as she
was, she had chosen those means of seeing O swald unseen.
A s soon as she k new that he was there, she veiled her face,
and was supported to this couch; from time to time stay-
ing to tak e breath, as if that short space had been a painful
j ourney: the last steps of life are ever slow and difficult.
S eating herself, her eyes sought O swald, found him, and
involuntarily starting up, she spread her arms; but in-
stantly fell back , turning away her face, lik e Dido when
she met iE neas in a world which human passions should
not penetrate. Castel F orte detained L ord N evil, who
now, utterly beside himself, would have flown to fail at
her feet: the Prince reminded him of the respect he owed
Corinne before the world. *
>> N ot a word of what he owed his wife. -- Tn.
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 385
A . young girl, dressed in white, and crowned with
flowers, now appeared on the stage which had been erected.
H er meek and peaceful face touchingly contrasting the sen-
timents she was about to breathe; it was Corinne' s taste,
which thus mingled something sweet with thoughts in
themselves too dreary. Music nobly and affectingly pre-
pared the auditors. The hapless O swald could not tear his
eyes from Corinne; she was to him as an apparition that
haunts a night of fever; it was through his own deep sighs
that he heard the death-song of the swan, which the
woman he had so much wronged addressed to his heart.
TH E L A S TS O N GO F CO R I N N E .
Tak e ye my solemn farewell! O my friends,
A lready night is dark ening on my eyes ; --
B ut is not H eaven most beautiful by night?
Thousands of stars shine in the k indling sk y,
W hich is an azure desert during day.
Thus do the gathering of eternal shades
R eveal innumerable thoughts, half lost
I n the full daylight of prosperity.
B ut weak ened is the voice which might instruct;
The soul retires within itself, and seek s
To gather round itself its failing fire.
F rom my first days of youth, my inward hope
W as to do honour to the R oman name;
That name at which the startled heart yet beats.
Y e have allow' d me fame, O generous land!
Y e banish not a woman from the shrine!
Y e do not sacrifice immortal gifts
To passing j ealousies. Y e who still yield
A pplause to Genius in its daring flight;
V ictor without the vanq uished, -- Conq ueror,
Y et without spoil; -- who, from eternity,
Draws riches for all time.
N ature and L ife! with what deep confidence
Y e did inspire me. I deem' d all grief arose
F or that we did not feel, or think enough;
A nd that we might, even on this our earth,
B eforehand taste that heavenly happiness,
W hich is -- but length in our enthusiasm,
B ut constancy in love.
co
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? 386 O O R I N N E j O R I TA L Y .
N
N
W
I
I
I
o, I repent it not, this generous faith;
o -- that caused not the bitter tears I ' ve shed,
atering the dust which doth await me now.
had accomplish' d all my destiny --
had been worthy all the gifts of H eaven,
f I had only vow' d my sounding lyre
To celebrate that goodness all divine,
Made manifest throughout the universe.
A ndthou,myGod! -- O h,thouwiltnotrej ect
The offering of the mind; for poetry,
I ts homage is religious, and the wings
O f thought but serve to draw more near to thee.
R eligion has no limits, and no bonds; --
The vast, the infinite, and the eternal,
N ever from her may Genius separate.
I magination from its earliest flight,
Past o' er the bounds of life: and the sublime
I s the reflection of divinity.
A las! my God, had I loved only thee; *
I f I had raised my head aloft in heaven --
F rom passionate affections shelter' d there,
I had not now been crush' d before my time --
Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams
Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives,
I only k now it by my strength^ of grief:
Under the features of an enemy
I recognise it now.
F arewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land!
F arewell, remembrances of infancy,
F arewell! A h, what have ye to do with death?
A nd ye, who in my writings may have found
F eelings, whose echo was within your soul,
O h, friends of mine -- where' er ye be, --
Corinne has suffer' d much, -- but suffer'
I n an unworthy cause: she has not lost
A t least her claim on pity.
B eautiful I taly! it is in vain
To promise me your loveliness; my heart
I s worn and wasted; what can ye avail?
farewell!
d not
W ould ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs?
W ould ye recall my happiness, and thus
Mak e me revolt against my fate?
* " H adlbutservedmyGodwithhalfthezeal," & c-- J V olsey. (S iiA k spE A R a)
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? CO R I N N E j O R I TA L Y . 387
Meek ly I do submit myself. O h, ye
W ho may survive me, -- when the spring returns,
R emember how I loved its loveliness!
H ow oft I sung its perfume and its air.
I pray you sometimes to recall a line
F rom out my songs, -- my soul is written there:
B ut fatal Muses, love and misery,
Taught my best poetry.
W hen the designs of mighty Providence
A re work 71 in us, internal music mark s
The coming of the angel of the grave:
N or fearful, nor yet terrible, he spreads
H is white wings; and, though compass'
A thousand omens tell of his approach.
d by night,
I f the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear
H is voice; and when night falls, the shadows round
S eem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe.
A t noon, when life sees only the clear sk y,
F eels only the bright sun, the fated one
W hom Death hath called, upon the distance mark s
The heavy shade which is so soon to shroud
A ll nature from their eyes.
Y outh, hope, emotions of the heart -- ye all
A re now no more. F ar from me -- vain regrets;
I f I can yet obtain some falling tears,
I f I can yet believe myself beloved,
I t is because I am about to die.
Could I recall my fleeting life,-- that life,
S oon would it turn upon me all its stings.
A nd R ome! R ome, where my ashes will be borne!
Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive,
I f, with a trembling step, I j oin the shades,
The multitude of your illustrious dead!
F orgive me for my pity of myself. *
F eelings, and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance
A s might have yielded fruit -- ex pire with me.
O f all the powers of mind which nature gave,
The power of suffering has been the sole one,
W hich I have used to its ex tent.
* " J ' ai pitie de moi. meme. " -- Cornk
CC2
ille.
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? 388CO R I N N E j O R I TA L Y .
I tmattersnot. -- I doobey. -- W hate' er
May be the mighty mystery of death,
That mystery at least must give repose.
Y e do not answer me, ye silent tombs!
Merciful God, thou dost not answer me!
I made my choice on earth, and now my heart
H as no asylum. Y e decide for me,
A ndsuchadestinyisbest. L . E . L .
Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The hall re-
sounded with deep sad murmurs of applause. L
ord N evil
could not support the violence of his emotion, but fell
senseless to the ground. Corinne, beholding him in this
condition, would have flown to him, but her strength failed
as she attempted to rise. S he was borne home, and from
that hour no hopes were entertained of saving her. L ucy
hastened to her, so afflicted by her husband' s grief, that she
threw herself at her sister' s feet, imploring her to admit
him; but Corinne refused. " I forgive him," she said,
" for having brok en my heart. Men k now not what they
do; society persuades them that it is sport to fill a heart
with rapture, and then consign it to despair; but God' s
free grace has given me back composure. The sight of
O swald would revive sensations that ill befit a death-bed.
R eligion only possesses the secret clue through this terrific
labyrinth. I pardon the being I so loved," she continued,
with a failing voice; " may he be happy with you . '
but when in his turn he is called on to die, then may he
recollect the poor Corinne. S he will watch over him, if
H eaven permits; for those never cease to love, whose love has
had the strength to cost them life. "
O swald stood at her door, sometimes about to enter,
spite her prohibition, sometimes motionless with sorrow.
L ucy passed from one to the other, lik e an angel of peace,
between despair and death. O ne evening Corinne appeared
more easy, and the parents went for a short time to their
child, whom they had not seen for three days. During
their absence the dying woman performed all the duties of
religion; then said to the reverend man who received her
last solemn confession, " N ow, father, you k now my fate.
J udge me! I have never tak en vengeance on my foes;
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? CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . 389
the griefs of others never ask ed my sympathy in vain; my
faults sprung but from passions not guilty in themselves,
though human pride and weak
error. Think you, my father--
ness led them to ex cess and
you who have so much
longer ex perience than I -- that God will pardon me? " --
" Y
es, child, I
hope so--
is not your heart now wholly
his ? " -- "
is O swald'
I
believe it, father; tak e away this portrait, it
lay on my breast the image of H im who de-
s;
scended to this life,-- not for the powerful, nor the in-
spired, but for the sufferer, the dying; they need his
mercy. " S he then perceived Castel F orte, who wept be-
side her bed, and holding out her hand to him, ex claimed,
" My friend! you only are beside me now. I lived for love;
yet, but for you, should die alone. " H er tears fell as she spok e,
yet she added, " There is no help for such a moment;
friends can but follow us to the brink ; there begin thoughts
too deep, too troubled, to be confided. " S he begged they
would remove her to a sofa, whence she could gaze upon
the sk y. L ucy now came to her side; and the unhappy
O swald, following his wife, fell at the feet of Corinne, who
would have spok en to him, but her voice failed: she raised
her eyes to heaven; the moon was covered with j ust such
a cloud as they had seen on their way to N aples. Corinne
pointed to it with a dying hand-- one sigh -- and that hand
sunk powerless.
O swald fell into such distraction that L ucy trembled
for his life. H e followed the funeral pomp to R ome; then
retired to Tivoli, where he remained long, without seeing
even his wife and child.
A t last, duty and affection re-
stored him to them: they returned to E ngland. L ord
N evil' s domestic life became most ex emplary: but did he
ever pardon his past conduct? Could the approving
. world console him? A fter the fate he had enj oyed, could
he content himself with common life? I k now not: nor
will I , on that head, either absolve or condemn him.
TH E E N D.
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? 390
N O TE S TO V O L UME I .
(1) A ncona is not much better supplied to this day.
(2) This observation is made in a letter on R ome, by M. H umboldt,
brother to the celebrated traveller, and Prussian minister at R ome; a gentle-
man whose writings and conversation alik e do honour to his learning and ori-
ginality.
(3) A n ex ception must be made in favour of Monti, who reads verse as well
as he writes it There can be few greater dramatic treats than to hear him
recite the episode of Ugolino-- of F rancesca, or the death of Clorinda.
(4) L ord N evil must have alluded to the beautiful lines of Propertius,--
' Ut caput in magnis ubi non est ponere signis;
Ponitur hie imos ante corona pedes. *
(5) A F renchman commanded the castle of S t A ngelo during the last war;
and, when summoned by the N eapolitans to surrender, replied, that he would
do so when the bronze angel sheathed his sword.
(6 ) These facts are found in * A H istory of the I talian R epublics, during the
middle A ges,' by M. S imonde, of Geneva; an author of profound sagacity,
eq ually conscientious and energetic.
(7)* E ineW eltzwarbistdu,oR om! dochohnedieL ibeW aredieW elt
nicht die W elt, ware denn R om aucht nicht R om,' says Goethe, the poet and
philosopher, of all our modern men of letters the most remark able for ima-
gination.
(8) I t is said that the building of S t Peter' s was one of the principal causes
of the R eformation; as it cost the popes so much, that they multiplied the sale
of indulgences.
(9) Mineralogists affirm that these lions are not basaltic, because the volcanic
stone now so called was never found in E gypt; but as Pliny and W inck leman
(the historian of the arts) both give them that name, 1 avail myself of its pri-
mitive acceptation.
(10) Carpi, te nunc, tauri, de sept cm collibus herbas,
B um licet, hie magna? j am locus urbis erit.
TlB UL L US .
H oc q uodcumq
A nte Phrygem iE
Propertius.
(11) A ugustus ex
ue vides, hospes q u& m max
ucan collis et herba fuit, & c.
ima R
oma est,
which were prescribed him. H e left R
ome in a dying state.
ue facem.
(12) V ix
Propertius.
(13) Plin. H
mari capax
imus insignes inter utramq
ist. N at, 1. 3. Tiberis, q
uam libet magnorum navium ex I talo
pired at N bla, on his way to the waters of B
rundisium,
, rerum in toto orbe nascentium mercator placidissimus, pluribus
probt: solus q uam caH eri in omnibus terris amnes, accolitur, aspiciturq ue villis.
N ulliq ue fluviorum minus licet, inclusis utrinq ue lateribus: nee tamen ipse
pugnat, q uanq uam creber ac subitis incrementis, et nusq uam magis aq uis
q uam in ipsa urbe stagnantibus. Q uin imo vates intelligitur potius ac raonitur,
auctu semper religiosus verius q uam sevus.
(14) Thedancing of Madame R ecamier gave me the idea which I endeavoured
to ex press. This celebrated beauty, in the midst of afflictions, displayed so
touching a resignation, so total a forgetfulness of self, that her moral q ualities
seem as ex traordinary as her personal grace.
(15) Mr. R oscoe, author of the ' H istory of the Medici,' has since published
that of L eo X . , which recounts the proofs of admiring esteem given by the
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? N O TE S . 391
princes and people of I taly to men of letters; impartially adding, that many of
the popes have emulated this liberality.
(16 ) Cesarotti, V erri, and B ettinelli, three modern authors, have instilled
more thought into I talian prose than has been bestowed on it for many years.
(17) Giovanni Pindemonte has published a series of dramas founded on
I talian history; a most praiseworthy enterprise. The name of Pindemonte is
also ennobled by H ippolito, one of I taly' s sweetest modern poets.
(18) A lfieri' s posthumous work s have been printed. I t will be seen, by the
eccentric ex periment which he tried on his tragedy of A bel, that he himself
thought his style too austere, and that the stage req uired entertainments of
greater fancy and variety.
N O TE S TO V O L UME I I .
(1) I have allowed myself to borrow some passages from a discourse on death,
which may be found in * The Course of R eligious Morals,' by M. N eck er.
A nother work of his, ' The I mportance of R eligious O pinions,'
brilliant success, and is sometimes confused with this, which appeared when
public interest was distracted by political events; but I dare affirm, that'
had a more
The
o
Course of R eligious Morals' is my father' s most eloq uent production. N
statesman, I believe, ever before composed volumes for the Christian pulpit;
and this k ind of writing, from a man who had so much to do with men, snows a
k nowledge of the human heart, and the indulgence that k nowledge inspires.
I t appears that, in two respects, these E ssays are completely original. A re-
ligious man is usually a recluse Men of the world are seldom religious*
where, then, shall we find united such observation of life, and such elevation
of soul, that look s beyond it? I should say, fearless of finding my opinion
attributed to partiality, that this book is one of the first among those which
console the feeling heart, and interest the reflective mind, on the great q ues-
tions which are incessantly agitating them both.
(2) F rom a j ournal called * E urope,* I
servations on painting,-- - an inex haustible subj
S chlegel, and for German reasoners in general.
(3) The historical pictures here described are David'
Marius, and Gerard' s B elisarius. The Dido is by R
Ciorinda, in the gallery of F lorence; Macbeth, from an E nglish collection of
pictures from S hak speare: the Phedra is Guerin' s; the two landscapes of
Cincinnatus and O ssian are at R ome; their artist, Mr. W all is, an E nglishman.
(4) I
' A
(5) A
' S
ask
h,'
n I
t A
ed a little Tuscan girl which was the prettiest, her sister or herself.
she replied,' the best face is mine. '
talian postilion, beholding his horse ex pire, prayed for him, crying,
nthony, have pity on his soul! *
(6 ) The reader who wishes to k now more of the R oman Carnival, should read
the charming description of Goethe; a picture faithful as it is animated.
(7) There is an ex q uisite account of the lak e A lbano, in a collection of poems
by Madame B runn (formerly Munter), one of the most talented and imaginative
women of her country.
(8) Discourse' O n the Duty of Children to their Parents,' by M. N eck er. S ee
first note.
(9) O n I
(10) Mr. E
to L ord N
ndulgence. The same.
lliot saved the life of an old N eapolitan in the manner attributed
eviL
(11) This name must not be confused with that of Corilla, an I talian impro-
visa trice. The Grecian Corinna was famed for lyric poetry. Pindar himself
received lessons from her.
have derived many valuable ob-
ect for their author, M. F rederic
s B rutus, Drouet' s
ehberg, a German painter;
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? 392
N O TE S TO V O L UME I I I .
(1) A n old tradition supports the imaginative prej udice which persuaded
Coruitie that the diamond could forewarn its wearer of its giver' s treachery.
F req uent allusions are made to this legend by S panish poets, in their peculiar
manner. I n one of Calderon' s tragedies, F erdinand, Prince of Portugal, pre-
fers death in chains before the crime of surrendering to a Moorish k ing the
Christian city which his brother, K ing E dward, offers for his ransom. The
Moor, enraged at this refusal, subj ects the noble vouth to the basest ignominy.
F erdinand, in reproof, reminds him that mercy and generosity are the truest
characteristics of supreme power. H e cites all that is royal in the universe,--
the lion, the dolphin, the eagle, amid animals; and seek s even among plants
and stones for traits of natural goodness, which have been attributed to those
who lord it over the rest Thus, he says, the diamond, which resists the blow
of steel, resolves itself to duet, that it may inform its master if treason threatens
him. I t is impossible to k now whether this mode of considering all nature ascon-
nected with the destiny and sentiments of man is mathematically correct; but
I t is ever pleasing to imagination ; and poetry, especially that of S pain, has
owed it many great beauties. Calderon is only k nown to me by the German
translation of W ilhelm S chlegel; but this author, one ofhis own country' s finest
poets, has the art of transporting into his native language, with the rarest per-
fection, the poetic graces of S panish, E nglish, and I talian-- giving a lively idea
of the original, be it what it may.
N ote Tr. -- H ad O swald' s gift been his mother' s wedding ring, that incident
would have been more affecting than so fanciful a fable.
(2) M. Dubreu; l, a very sk ilful F rench physician, fell ill of a fatal distemper.
H is popularity filled the sick room with visitants. Calling to his intimate
friend, M. PeW j
people; you k
with me now. '
a, as eminent a man as himself, he said,' S end away all these
now my fever is contagious: no one but yourself ouyht to be
H appy the friend who ever heard such words! Peiniij a died
fifteen days after his heart' s brother.
(3) A mong the comic I talian authors who have described their country' s
manners, must be reck oned the Chevalier R ossi, a R oman, who singularly unites
observation with satire.
(4) Talma, having passed some years in L ondon, blended the charms of each
country' s tragic acting with admirable talent.
(5) A iler the death of Dante, the F lorentines, ashamed of having permitted
him to perish far from his home, sent a deputation to the pope for his remains,
interred at R avenna. The pope refused; rightly deeming that the land which
had sheltered him in ex ile must have become his country, and deserved not
to be thus robbed of the glory that shone around his tomb.
(6 ) A lfieri said, that it was in the church of S anta Croce he first felt a love
for fame. The epitaph he composed for himself and the Countess d' A lbani is
most simply and atfectingly ex pressive of long and perfect friendship.
(7) I t was announced at B ologna that a solar eclipse would tak e place one
day at two. The people H ock ed to see it; and, impatient at its delay, called on
it to begin, as if it were an actor, who k ept them waiting. A t last it com-
menced; but, as the cloudy weather prevented its producing any great effect,
they set up the most violent hissings, angry that the spectacle fell so far short
of their ex pectations.
E N DO F N O TE S .
L ondon:
S roTTiswooDK and S haw,
N ew-street-S q uare.
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? B E N TL E Y ' S
S TA N DA R DN O V E L S
A N DR O MA N CE S .
F B O MTH E " MO R N I N GH E R A L D" O F O CT. 6 ,1849.
E nglish prose fiction has made an advance within the last thirty
years unparalleled in the history of literature. W ith the ex cep-
tion, perhaps, of the rapid development of the national literature
of Germany, there is no instance of a similar k ind which will bear
comparison with the maturity of power, the copiousness, variety,
and sk ill displayed by our modern novelists, who, in a q uarter of
a century, may be said to have created and brought to perfection
a new school of art in the portraiture of life and manners. O ur
language teems with writers of fiction; but the discovery of what
may be truly called the art of fiction, of the application of ex ten-
sive k nowledge, historical research, and the philosophy of human
character, to work s of invention, belongs to the present age.
I llustrious names stand out in the annals of the past; but they
were ex ceptional instances, and cannot be referred to as having
established a class, so to speak , of national fiction. De F oe,
F ielding, R ichardson, S mollett, Goldsmith, are as essentially in-
dividual as in the magnitude and depth of their genius they are
unapproachable. The crowd of novel writers who flourished in
the last century have already vanished into oblivion; and the
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? Charlotte S miths, the L ees, R oches, and the rest, are as little
k nown to contemporary readers as the A phra B ehns and the Man-
leys, and the writers of the fugitive satires and scandalous me-
moirs of a still earlier day. They laboured, industriously enough,
to enrich our literature in this department, but they left no per-
manent results behind. S entimental affectation, unreal passion,
and an artificial nature, pervaded their narratives, and rendered
their pictures of society worthless. O ur modern writers have
passed out of this mirage into the open daylight of reality, and,
with a wise comprehension of the practical capabilities of fiction
as popular ex positor of human life, have given us a series of novels
and romances, which, it is not very hazardous to predict, will
communicate as much delight and instruction to future genera-
tions as they have diffused amongst ourselves.
I t was a happy idea of Mr. B entley, whose enterprise as a pub-
lisher has placed the reading world under so many obligations in
the higher and graver departments of history and the belles let-
tres, to combine in a uniq ue and uniform collection of cheap and
elegant volumes the principal work s of fiction which have appeared
in E ngland during the last q uarter of a century. This collection,
already ex tending to a hundred and six teen volumes, is unrivalled
for diversity of subj ect and treatment, and may be j ustly described
as the most attractive family library of entertainment and of
social precept teaching by ex ample that has ever issued from the
press. E mbracing the most popular productions of B ulwer
L ytton, Marryat, J ames, Cooper, Mrs. Gore, Mrs. Trollope, Miss
Mitford, Grattan, Theodore H ook , Miss A ustin, Morier, Gait,
and numerous other distinguished authors, we traverse in these
compact book s every k nown form of fiction, every section of
society, and every phase of humanity. The collection ranges over
the whole field of fiction, and includes tales of chivalry, historical
romances, tales of fashionable life, domestic novels, stories of
military and naval life, tales of costume and manners, and
national fictions which carry us into the ancient world and
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? s
remote co-mtnes, penetrating the life and usages of early E gypt,
Greece, and I taly, the villages of I ndian tribes, and the palaces
and deserts of the E ast. N or is it merely on the ground of
variety and ability alone that this remark able series confers such
honour upon the literature of the country; it is stamped with a
distinction of a nobler k ind, of which we have good reason to be
still more proud. I n no other language does there ex ist a body of
fiction so unex ceptionable in point of taste, and impressed
hroughout with so pure a spirit of morality. I
that our E nglish " S tandard N ovels"
the more dazzling but corrupting fictions of E
t is in this respect
assert a lofty superiority over
uropean growth.
The charm of such a collection can hardly be sufficiently appre-
ciated on the shelves of our libraries at home here in E ngland.
I magine what a boon these 116 volumes would be to a settler on
the arid plains of S outhern A ustralia! I magine what hours of
dreary solitude they would fill with visions of human faces, and
the flattering action of human passion, in the distant hives of life,
whose faintest echoes are full of interest to the ex ile! To the
colonies, where book s are scarce and dear, and where every
printed scrap is seized upon with avidity, and passed from hand
to hand as a source of inestimable enj oyment, these cheap
volumes, into which such a mass of agreeable and suggestive
reading is compressed, will furnish an inex haustible spring of
information and amusement. The lowness of their price will also
introduce them into hamlets and cottages from which they have
been hitherto ex cluded by the costliness of the original editions;
while the travelling population, by steam-boat or railroad, for
whom have been latterly provided sundry trumpery libraries, the
tex t of which, we suspect, cannot be very confidently relied upon,
and which are got up with a due regard to penury of print and
paper, may rej oice in having a series of book s from which they
can cull, at a trifling cost, abundant entertainment en route, with
the satisfaction of feeling that the volumes are sufficiently elegant
in all details of type, paper, and binding, to be placed in their
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? libraries or on their drawing-room tables at the end of their
j ourney.
The reader who is attracted by the cheapness of these book s,
would no doubt enj oy their contents with a k eener relish if he had
a peep into their statistics. H e may not, perhaps, suspect, while
he is turning over the pleasant leaves which he has j ust purchased
for a few shillings, that an enormous capital has been ex pended
upon their production. W e will supply him with the items, and
leave him to wonder and rej oice over the enterprise which has
placed its fruits at so small a price within his reach.
The copyright of the standard novels may be estimated
at . . . . . . ? 53,000
The cost of printing, paper, and illustrations at . ? 35,000
Mak ing a total outlay of ? 88,000
? ?
