No More Learning

Corinne was not k nown
by her real name: she had for many years led a life far
too independent for him to hope that an union with her
would have obtained the approbation of his parent, and he
felt that it was not by such a step he could ex piate his
early offences. H e purposed to leave R ome, and write
Corinne an ex planation of the motives which enforced such
resolution; but not feeling strength for this, he limited
his ex ertions to a forbearance from visiting her; and this
sacrifice soon appeared the most painful of the two.
Corinne was struck by the idea that she should see him
no more, that he would fly without bidding her adieu.
S he ex pected every instant to hear of his departure; and
terror so aggravated her sensations, that the vulture talons
of passion seized at once on her heart; and its peace, its
liberty, crouched beneath them. Unable to rest in the
house where O swald came not, she wandered in the gar-
dens of R ome, hoping to meet him; she had at least some
chance of seeing him, and best supported the hours during
which she trusted to this ex pectation.
H er ardent fancy, the source of her talents, was unhap-
pily blended with such natural feeling, that it now con-
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? 74CO R I N N B J O R H A L F .
stituted her wretchedness. The evening of the fourth
day' s absence the moon shone clearly over R ome, which,
in the silence of night, look s lovely, as if it were inhabited
but by the spirits of the great. Corinne, on her way from
the house of a female friend, left her carriage, and, op-
pressed with grief, seated herself beside the fount of Trevi,
whose abundant cascade falls in the centre of R ome, and
seems the life of that tranq uil scene. W henever its flow
is suspended all appears stagnation. I n other cities it is
the roll of carriages that the ear req uires, in R ome it is
the murmur of this immense fountain, which seems the in.
dispensable accompaniment of the dreamy life led there. '
I ts water is so pure, that it has for many ages been named
the V irgin S pring. The form of Corinne was now reflected
on its surface. O swald, who had paused there at the
same moment, beheld the enchanting countenance of his
love thus mirrored in the wave: at first it affected him so
strangely that he believed himself gazing on her phantom,
as his imagination had often conj ured up that of his father:
he leaned forward, in order to see it more plainly, and his
own features appeared beside those of Corinne. S he re-
cognised them, shriek ed, rushed towards him, and seized
his arm, as if she feared he would again escape; but
scarcely had she yielded to this too impetuous impulse,
ere, remembering the character of L ord N evil, she blushed,
her hand dropped, and with the other she covered her face
to hide her tears.
" Corinne! dear Corinne! " he cried, " has then my
absence pained you? " -- " Y es," she replied, " you must
have k nown it would. W hy then inflict such pangs on
me? H aveI deservedtosufferthusforyou? " -- " N o,
no," he answered; " but if I cannot deem myself free,--
if my heart be filled by regret and fear, why should I in-
volveyouinitstortures? W hy? " -- " I tistoolatetoask ,"
interrupted Corinne; " grief is already in my breast;
bear with me! " -- " Grief! " repeated O swald; "
midst of so brilliant a career, with so lively a genius! "
-- " H old," shesaid," youk nowmenot. O fallmy
faculties, the most powerful is that of suffering. I was
formed for happiness; my nature is confiding and ani-
in the
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 1$
mated; but sorrow ex cites me to a degree that threatens my
reason, nay, my life. B e careful of me! My gay versa-
tility serves me but in appearance: within my soul is an
abyss of despair, which I can only avoid by preserving
myself from love. " Corinne spok e with an ex pression
which vividly affected O swald. " I will come to you to-
morrow, rely on it, Corinne," he said. " S wear it! " she
ex claimed, with an eagerness which she strove in vain to
disguise. " I do," he answered, and departed.
BOOKV.
TH E TO MB S ,CH UR CH E S ,A N DPA L A CE S .
CH A PTE R I .
The nex t day O swald and Corinne met in great embar-
rassment. S
inspired. H
own weak
he could no longer depend on the love she had
e was dissatisfied with himself, and felt his
ness rebel against the tyranny of his sentiments.
B
"
ex
oth sought to avoid the subj ect of their mutual affection.
To-day," said Corinne, " I propose a somewhat solemn
cursion, but one which will be sure to interest you: let us
visit the last asylums of those who lived among the edifices
we have seen in ruins. " -- " Y
most suit my present disposition,"
a tone, that she dared not speak
ou have guessed what would
said O swald, in so sad
again for some moments;
then gaining courage from her desire to soothe and enter-
tain him, she added, " Y ou k now, my L ord, that among the
ancients, far from the sight of tombs discouraging the
living, they were placed in the high road, to k indle emul-
ation: the young were thus constantly reminded of the
illustrious dead, who seemed silently to bid them imitate
their glories. " -- " A h! " sighed O swald, " how I envy
those whose regrets are unstained by remorse. " -- " Talk
you of remorse? " she cried; " then it is but one virtue
the more, the scruples of a heart whose ex alted delicacy-- "
H e interrupted her. " Corinne! Corinne 1 do not ap-
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? 76 CO B I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
proach that theme: in your blest land gloomy thoughts are
ex haled by the brightness of heaven; but with us grief
buries itself in the depths of the soul, and' shatters its
strength for ever. " -- " Y ou do me inj ustice," she replied.
" I have told you that, capable as I am of enj oyment, I
should suffer more than you, if-- " she paused, and changed
the subj ect; continuing, " My only wish, my L ord, is to
divert your mind for awhile. I ask no more. " The meek -
ness of this reply touched O swald' s heart; and, as he
mark ed the melancholy beauty of those eyes usually so full
of fire, he reproached himself with having thus depressed
a spirit so framed for sweet and j oyous impressions: he
would fain have restored them ; but Corinne' s uncertainty
of his intentions, as to his stay or departure, entirely dis-
ordered her accustomed serenity.
S he led him through the gates to the old A ppian W ay,
whose traces are mark ed in the heart of the country by
ruins on the right and left, for many miles beyond the
walls. The R omans did not permit the dead to be buried
within the city. N one but the emperors were there in-
terred, ex cept one citizen named Publius B iblius, who was
thus recompensed for his humble virtues; such as, indeed,
his contemporaries were most inclined to honour.
To reach the A ppian W ay you leave R ome by the gate
of S t. S ebastian, formerly called the Capena Gate. The
first tombs you then find, Cicero assures us, are those of
Metellus, of S cipio, and S ervilius. The tomb of the S cipio
family was found here, and afterwards removed to the
V atican. I t is almost sacrilege to displace such ashes.
I magination is more nearly allied to morality than is be-
lieved, and ought not to be offended. A mong so many
tombs names must be strewn at random: there is no way
of deciding to which such or such title belongs; but this
very uncertainty prevents our look ing on any of them with
indifference. I t was in such that the peasants made their
homes; for the R omans consecrated q uite space enough to
the urns of their illustrious fellow-citizens. They had not
that principle of utility which, for the sak e of cultivating a
few feet of ground the more, lays waste the vast domain of
feeling and of thought. A t some distance from the A p-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 77
pian W ay is a temple raised by the republic to H onour and
to V irtue; another to the god who caused the return of
H annibal. There, too, is the fountain of E geria; where
in solitude N uma conversed with Conscience, the divinity
of the good. N o monument of guilt invades the repose of
these great beings: the earth around is sacred to the me.
mory of worth. The noblest thoughts may reign there
undisturbed. The aspect of the country near R ome is re.
mark ably peculiar: it is but a desert, as boasting neither
trees nor houses; but the ground is covered with wild
shrubs ceaselessly renewed by energetic vegetation. The
parasitic tribes creep round the tombs, and decorate the
ruins, as if in honour of their dead. Proud nature, con.
scious that no Cincinnatus now guides the plough that
furrows her breast, there repulses the care of man, and
produces plants which she permits not to serve the living.
These uncultivated plains may, indeed, displease those
who speculate on the earth' s capacity for supplying human
wants; but the pensive mind, more occupied by thoughts
of death than of life, loves to contemplate the Campagna,
on which present time has imprinted no trace: it cherishes
the dead, and fondly covers them with useless flowers, that
bask beneath the sun, but never aspire above the ashes
which they appear to caress. O swald admitted that in such
a scene a calm might be regained that could be enj oyed no
where beside. The soul is there less wounded by images
of sorrow: it seems to partak e with those now no more
the charm of that air, that sunlight, and that verdure.
Corinne drew some hope from observing the effect thus
tak en on him : she wished not to efface the j ust regret owed
to the loss of his father; but regret itself is capable of *
sweets, with which we should try to familiarise those who
have tasted but its bitterness, for that is the only blessing
we can confer on them.
" L et us rest," said Corinne, " before this tomb, which
remains almost entire: it is not that of a celebrated man,
but of a young girl, Cecilia Metella, to whom her father
raised it. " -- " H appy the children," sighed O swald, " who
die on the bosom that gave them life; for them even death
must lose its sting. " -- " A y," replied Corinne, with emotion.
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? 78CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
" happy those who are not orphans. B ut look ! arms are
sculptured here: the daughters of heroes had a right to
bear the trophies of their sires: fair union of innocence
and valour! There is an elegy, by Propertius, which,
better than any other writing of antiq uity, describes the
dignity of woman among the R omans; a dignity more
pure and more commanding than even that which she en-
j oyed during the age of chivalry. Cornelia, dying in her
youth, addresses to her husband a consolatory farewell,
whose every word breathes her tender respect for all that
is sacred in the ties of nature. The noble pride of a
blameless life is well depicted in the maj estic L atin; in
poetry august and severe as the masters of the world.
' Y es,' says Cornelia, '
from the hour when H ymen'
which lights my funeral pyre. I
between two flames. ' (12) W
no stain has sullied my career,
s torch was k indled, even to that
what a sublime image! H ow enviable the woman who
preserves this perfect unity in her fate, and carries but one
remembrance to the grave! That were enough for one life. "
A s she ceased, her eyes filled with tears. A cruel sus-
picion seized the heart of O swald. " Corinne," he cried,
" has your delicate mind aught with which to reproach
you? I f I could offer you myself, should I
rivals in the past? Could I pride in my choice?
not j ealousy disturb my delight? " -- " I
not have
Might
am free,"
replied
Corinne, " and love you as I never loved before. W hat
would you have? Must I confess, that, ere I k new you,
I might have deceived myself as to the interest with
which others inspired me? I s there no divinity in man' s
heart for the errors which, beneath such illusion, might have
been committed? " A modest glow overspread her face.
O swald shuddered, but was silent. There was such timid
penitence in the look s of Corinne, that he could not
rigorously j udge one whom a ray from heaven seemed de-*
scending to absolve. H e pressed her hand to his heart,
and k nelt before her, without uttering a promise, indeed,
but with a glance of love which left her all to hope. " L et
us form no plan for years to come," she said: " the hap-
piest hours of life are those benevolently granted us by
have lived spotless
hat an admirable ex pression!
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? CO R I N N B ; O B I TA L Y . 79
chance: it is not here, in the midst of tombs, that we
should trust much to the future. " -- " N o," cried N
" I believe in no future that can part us: four days of
absence have but too well convinced me that I now ex
but for you. " Corinne made no reply, but religiously
hoarded these precious words in her heart: she always
evil;
^ st
feared, in prolonging a conversation on the only subj ect of
her thoughts, lest O swald should declare his intentions
before a longer habit of being with her rendered separation
impossible. S he often designedly directed his attention to
ex terior obj ects, lik e the sultana in the A rabian tales, who
sought by a thousand varied stories to captivate her beloved,
and defer his decision of her fate, till certain that her wit
must prove victorious.
CH A PTE R I I .
N ot far from the A ppian W ay is seen the Columba-
rium, where slaves are buried with their lords; where
the same tomb contains all who dwelt beneath the protection
of one master or mistress. The women devoted to the care
of L ivia' s beauty, who contended with time for the pre-
servation of her charms, are placed in small urns beside
her. The noble and ignoble there repose in eq ual silence.
A t a little distance is the field wherein vestals, unfaithful
to their vows, were interred alive; a singular ex ample of
fanaticism in a religion naturally so tolerant.
" I shall not tak e you to the catacombs," said Corinne,
" though, by a strange chance, they lie beneath the A ppian
W ay, tombs upon tombs! B ut that asylum of persecuted
Christians is so gloomy and terrible, that I cannot resolve
to revisit it. I t has not the touching melancholy which
one breathes in open wilds: it is a dungeon near a sepulchre
-- the tortures of ex istence beside the horrors of death.
Doubtless one must admire men who, by the mere force of
enthusiasm, could support that subterranean life-- for ever
banished from the sun; but the soul is too ill at ease in
such a scene to be benefited by it. Man is a part of
creation, and finds his own moral harmony in that of the
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? 80 corinne; or italy.
universe: in the habitual order of fate, violent ex ceptions
may astonish, but they create too much terror to be 01
service. L et us rather seek the pyramid of Cestius, around
which all Protestants who die here find charitable graves. "
-- " Y es," returned O swald, " many a countryman of
mine is amongst them. L et us " go there: in one sense
at least, perhaps, I shall never leave you. " Corinne' s hand
trembled on his arm. H
better since I have k
its wonted air of tender j
e continued, " Y et I am much
nown you. " H er countenance resumed
oy.
Cestius presided over the R oman sports. H is name is
not found in history, but rendered famous by his tomb.
The massive pyramid that enclosed him defends his death
from the oblivion which has utterly effaced his life. A urelian,
fearing that this pyramid would be used but as a fortress
from whence to attack the city, had it surrounded by walls
which still ex ist, not as useless ruins, but as the actual
boundaries of modern R ome. I t is said that pyramids
were formed in imitation of the flames that rose from
funeral pyres. Certainly their mysterious shape attracts
the eye, and gives a picturesq ue character to all the views
of which they constitute a part.
I n front of this pyramid is Mount Testacio, beneath I
which are several cool grottos, where fetes are held in the
gammer.
I f, at a distance, the revellers see pines and
cypresses shading their smiling land, and recalling a solemn
consciousness of death, this contrast produces the same
effect with the lines which H orace has written in the
midst of verses teeming with earthly enj oyment: --
" Moriture Delli,
*>>*?
L inq uenda tellus, et domus, ct placens
Ux or. "
' Dellius, remember thou must die -- leaving the world,
thy home, and gentle wife. ' The ancients ack nowledged
this in their very voluptuousness: even love and festivity
reminded them of it, and j oy seemed heightened by a sense
of its brevity.
O swald and Corinne returned by the side of the Tiber;
formerly covered with vessels, and bank ed by palaces. O f
yove, even its inund tiens were regarded r. s orders. I t was
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 81
then the prophetic, the tutelar divinity of R ome. (13) I t
may now be said to flow among phantoms, so livid is its
hue-- so deep its loneliness. The finest statues and other
work s of art were thrown into the Tiber, and are hidden
beneath its tides. W ho k nows but that, in search of them,
the river may at last be driven from its bed? B ut, while
we muse on efforts of human genius that lie, perhaps,
beneath us, and that some eye, more piercing than our own,
may yet see through these waves, we feel that awe which,
in R ome, is constantly reviving in various forms, and
giving the mind companions in those physical obj ects which
are elsewhere dumb.
CH A PTE R I I I .
R aphael said that modern R ome was almost entirely
built from the ruins of the ancient city; Pliny had talk ed of
the " eternal walls," which are still seen amid the work s
of latter times. N early all the buildings bear the stamp
of history, teaching you to compare the physiognomies of'
different ages. F rom the days of the E truscans (a people
senior to the R omans themselves, resembling the E gyptians
in the solidity and eccentricity of their designs), down to
the time of B ernini, an artist as guilty of mannerism as
were the I talian poets of the seventeenth century, one may
trace the progress of the human mind, in the characters of:
the arts, the buildings, and ruins. The middle ages and
the brilliant day of the de Medici, re-appearing in their
work s, it is but to study the past in the present-- to pene-
trate the secrets of all time. I t is believed that R ome had
formerly a mystic name, k nown but to few. The city has
still spells, into which we req uire initiation. I t is not
simply an assemblage of dwellings; it is a chronicle of the
world, represented by figurative emblems. Corinne agreed
with N evil, that they would now ex plore modern R ome,
reserving for another opportunity its admirable collection
of pictures and of statues. Perhaps, without confessing it
to herself, she wished to defer these sights as long as
a
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? 82CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
possible: for who has ever left R ome without look ing on
the A pollo B elvidere and the paintings of R aphael? This
security, weak as it was, that O swald would not yet depart,
was every thing to her. W here is their pride, some may
ask , who would retain those they love by any other motive
than that of affection? I k now not: but, the more we love,
the less we rely on our own power; and, whatever be the
cause which secures us the presence of the obj ect dear to
us, it is accepted with gratitude. There is often much
vanity in a certain species of pride; and if women as
generally admired as Corinne have one real advantage, it is;
the right to ex ult rather in what they feel than in what'
they inspire.
Corinne and N evil recommenced their ex cursions, by
visiting the most remark able among the numerous churches
of R ome. They are all adorned by magnificent antiq uities;
but these festal ornaments, torn from Pagan temples,
have here a strange, wild effect. Granite and por-
phyry pillars are so plentiful, that they are lavished as if
almost valueless. A t S t. J ohn L ateran, famed for the
councils that have been held in it, so great is the q uantity
of marble columns, that many of them are covered with
cement, to form pilasters; thus indifferent has this pro-
fusion of riches rendered its possessors. S ome of these
pillars belonged to the Tomb of A drian, others to the
Capitol; some still bear the forms of the geese which pre-
served the R omans; others have Gothic and even A rab-
esq ue embellishments. The urn of A grippa contains the
ashes of a pope. The dead of one generation give place \
to the dead of another, and tombs here as often change
their occupants as the abodes of the living. N ear S t. J
L ateran are the holy stairs, brought, it is said, from J
rusalem, and which no one ascends but on his k nees;
ohn
e-
as
Claudius, and even Csesar, mounted those which led to the
temple of J upiter Capitolinus. B eside S t. J ohn' s is the
font where Constantine is supposed to have been baptized.
I n the centre of this ground is an obelisk , perhaps the
most ancient work of art in the world-- contemporary with
the Troj an war; so respected, even by the barbarous
Gambyses, that he put a stop to the conflagration of a city
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? CO R I N N B ; O B I TA L Y . 83
in its honour; and, for its sak e, a k ing pledged the life of
his only son. The R omans brought it from the heart of
E gypt by miracle. They turned the N ile from his course
that it might be found, and carried to the sea. This
obelisk is still covered with hieroglyphics, which have k ept
their secret for centuries, and defy the sages of to-day to
decipher signs that might reveal the annals of I ndia
and of E gypt-- the antiq uities of antiq uity! The won-
drous charm of R ome consists not only in the real beauty
of her monuments, but in the interest they ex cite; the ma. )
terial for think ing they suggest; the speculations which
grow, every day, the stronger from each new study.
O ne of the most singular churches in R ome is S t. Paul' s:
its ex terior is that of an ill-built barn; yet it is bedeck ed
within by eighty pillars of such ex q uisite material and pro-
portion, that they are believed to have been transported
from an A thenian temple, described by Pausanias. I f
Cicero said, in his day, ' we are surrounded by vestiges of V
history,' what would he say now? Columns, statues, and
pictures are so prodigally crowded in the churches of mo-
dern R ome, that, in S t. A gnes' , bas-reliefs, turned face
downwards, serve to pave a staircase, no one troubling
himself to ascertain what they might represent. H ow
astonishing a spectacle were ancient R ome, had its trea-
sures been left where they were found! The immortal city,
nearly as it was of yore, were still before us: but could the
men of our day dare to enter it? The palaces of the R o-
man lords are vast in the ex treme, and often display much
architectural grace; but their interiors are rarely arranged
by good taste. They have none of those elegant apart-
ments invented elsewhere for the perfect enj oyment of
social life. S uperb galleries, hung with the chefs-d' wuvre
of the tenth L eo' s age, are abandoned to the gaze of stran-
gers, by their lazy proprietors, who retire to their own ob-
scure little chambers, dead to the pomp of their ancestors,
as were they to the austere virtues of the R oman republic.
The country-houses give one a still greater idea of solitude,
and of their owners' carelessness amid the loveliest scenes
of nature. O ne walk s immense gardens, doubting if they
have a master; the grass grows in every path, yet in these
o2
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? 84CO R I N N E j O R I TA L Y .
very alleys are the trees cut into shapes, after the fantastic
mode that once reigned in F rance. S trange inconsistency!
this neglect of essentials, and affectation in what is useless!
Most I talian towns, indeed, surprise us with this mania,
in a people who have constantly heneath their eyes such
models of noble simplicity. They prefer glitter to con-
venience; and in every way betray the advantages and dis-
advantages of not habitually mix ing with society. Their
lux ury is rather that of fancy than of comfort. I solated
among themselves, they dread not that spirit of ridicule,
which, in truth, seldom penetrates the interior of R oman
abodes. Contrasting this with what they appear from
without, one might say that they were rather built to dazzle
the peasantry than for the reception of friends.
A fter having shown O swald the churches and the pa-
laces, Corinne led him to the V illa Melini, whose lonely
garden is ornamented soW y by maj estic trees. F rom
thence is seen afar the chain of the A pennines, tinted by the
transparent air against which their outlines are defined
most picturesq uely. O swald and Corinne rested for some
time, to taste the charms of heaven and the tranq uillity of
nature. N o one who has not dwelt in southern climes can
form an idea of this stirless silence, unbrok en by the light-
est zephyr. The tenderest blades of herbage remain per-
fectly motionless; even the animals partak e this noontide
lassitude. Y ou hear no hum of insects, no chirp of grass-
hoppers, no song of birds; nothing is agitated, all sleeps,
till storm or passion wak en that natural vehemence which
impetuously I rishes from this profound repose. The R o-
man garden possesses a great number of evergreens, that,
during winter, add to the illusion which the mild air cre-
ates. The tufted tops of pines, so close to each other that
they form a k ind of plain in the air, have a charming effect
from any eminence; trees of inferior stature are sheltered
by this verdant arch. O nly two palms are to be found in
the Monk s' Gardens: one is on a height; it may be seen
from some distance, always with pleasure. I n returning
towards the city, this image of a meridian more burning
than that of I taly awak ens a host of agreeable sensations.
" Do you not find," said Corinne, " that nature here gives
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? C0R 1N N B ; O R I TA L Y . 85
birth to reveries elsewhere unk nown? S he is as intimate
with the heart of man as if the Creator made her the in-
terpretress between his creatures and himself. " -- " I feel
all this," replied O swald; " yet it may be but your melt-
ing influence which renders me so susceptible. Y ou reveal
to me emotions which ex terior obj ects may create. I lived'
but in my heart; you have revived my imagination. B ut
the magic of the universe, which you teach me to appre-
ciate, will never offer me aught lovelier than your look s,
more touching than your voice. " -- " May the feeling I
k indle in your breast to-day," said Corinne, " last as long
as my life;
your love!
V illa B
or, at least, may my life last no longer than
" They finished their tour of R ome by the
orghese. I n no R oman palace or garden are the
splendours of nature and art collected so tastefully. E very
k ind of tree, superb waterfalls, with an incredible blending
of statues, vases, and sarcophagi, here reanimate the my-
thology of the land. N aiads recline beside the streams;
nymphs start from thick ets worthy of such guests. Tombs
repose beneath E lysian shades; E sculapius stands in
the centre of an island; V enus appears gliding from a
bower. O vid and V irgil might wander here, and believe
themselves still in the A ugustan age. The great work s
of sculpture, which grace this scene, give it a charm for
ever new. Through its trees may be descried the city,
S t. Peter' s, the Campagna, and those long arcades, ruins of
aq ueducts, which formerly conducted many a mountain
stream into old R ome. There is every thing that can
mingle purity with pleasure, and promise perfect happiness:
but if you ask why this delicious spot is not inhabited, you
will be told, that the cattiva aria, or bad air, prevents its
being occupied in summer. This enemy, each year, be-
sieges R ome more and more closely-- its most charming
abodes are deserted perforce. Doubtless the want of
tr^ es is one cause; and therefore did the R omans dedicate
their woods to goddesses, that they might be respected by
the people: yet have numberless forests been felled in our
own times. W hat can now be so sanctified that avarice will
forbear its devastation? This malaria is the scourge of
R ome, and often threatens its whole population; yet, per-
o3
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? 86 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
haps, it adds to the effect produced by the lovely gardens
to be found within the boundaries. I ts malignant power
is betrayed by no ex ternal sign: you respire an air that
seems pure' ; the earth is fertile;
in the evening for the heat of the day;
death!
" I love such invisible danger,"
a delicious freshness atones
and all this is:
said O swald, " veiled;
as it is in delight. I f death, as I believe, be but a call to
happier life, why should not the perfume of flowers, the
shade of fine trees, and the breath of eve be charged to re-
mind us of our fate? O f course, government ought, in
every way, to watch over human life; but nature has
secrets which imagination only can penetrate; and I easily
conceive that neither natives nor foreigners find any thing
to disgust them in the perils which belong to the sweetest
seasons of the year. "
BOOKVI.
O N I TA L I A N CH A R A CTE R A N DMA N N E R S .
CH A PTE R I .
O swald' s irresolution, augmented by misfortunes, taught
him to fear every irrevocable engagement. H e dared not
ask Corinne her name or story, though his love for her
grew each day more strong: he could not look on her
without emotion ; hardly, in the midst of society, q uit her
side for an instant; she said not a word he did not feel,
nor ex pressed a sentiment, sad or gay, that was not reflected
in his face. Y et, loving, admiring her as he did, he for-
got not how little such a wife would accord with E nglish
habits; how much she differed from the idea his father
formed of the woman it would become him to marry: all
he said to Corinne was restrained by the disq uiet these re-
flections caused him. S he perceived this but too plainly;
yet so much would it have cost her to break with him,
that she lent herself to whatever could prevent a decisive
ex planation; and, never possessing much forethought, re-
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? corinne; or italy. 87
veiled in the present, such as it was, not dreaming of the
inevitable future. S he entirely secluded herself from the
world in this devotion to him; but, at last, hurt by his
silence on their prospects, she resolved to accept a pressing
invitation to a ball. N othing is more common, in R ome,
than for persons to leave and return to society by fits:
there is so little gossip in I taly, that people do what they
lik e, without comment, at least without obstacle, in affairs
either of love or ambition. F oreigners are as safe as na-
tives in this rendezvous of E uropeans. W hen N evil learnt
that Corinne was going to a ball, he was out of humour;
for some time he had fancied that he detected in her a me-
lancholy sympathetic with his own; yet suddenly she
appeared to think
she so much ex
was not frivolous;
of nothing but dancing (in which
celled), and the eclat of a fete. Corinne
but, feeling every day more subdued by
love, she wished to combat its force. S he k new by ex -'
perience that reflection and forbearance have less power
over impassioned characters than dissipation; and she
thought that, if unable to triumph over herself as she ought,
thenex tbeststepweretodosoasshecould. W henN e-
vil censured her intentions, she replied, " I want to ascer-
tain whether what formerly pleased can still amuse me,
or whether my regard for you is to absorb every other in-
terest of my life. " -- " Y ou would fain cease to love me,"
he said. " N ot so," she replied; " but it is only in do-
mestic life that it can be agreeable to feel one' s self lorded
over by a single affection. To me, who need my wit and
genius to sustain the reputation of the life I have adopted,
it is a great misfortune to love as I love you. " -- " Y ou
will not sacrifice your glory to me, then ? " cried O swald. --
" O f what importance were it to you," she replied, " if I
did? S ince we are not destined' for each other, I must not
for ever destroy the k ind of happiness with which I ought
to content myself. " L ord N evil said nothing; conscious
that he could not now speak without ex plaining his de-
signs; and, in truth, he was ignorant of them himself.
H e sighed, and reluctantly followed Corinne to the ball.
I t was the first time, since his loss, that he had gone to
such an assembly. I ts tumult so oppressed him that he
o4
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? 88CO B I N K E ; O B I TA L Y .
remained for some period in a hall beside the dancing-
room, with his head reclined upon his hand; not even
wishing to see Corinne dance. A ll music, even if its oc-
casion be a gay one, renders us pensive. The Count
d' E rfeuil arrived, enchanted with the crowd and amuse-
ments, which once more reminded him of F rance. " I ' ve
done my best," he said, " to interest myself in their
vaunted ruins, but I see nothing in them: ' tis a mere pre-
j udice, this fuss about rubbish covered with briars! I
shall speak my mind when I return to F rance; for it is
high time that the farce should be ended. There is not a
single building of to-day, in good repair, that is not worth
all these trunk s of pillars, and mouldy bas-reliefs, which
can only be admired through the spectacles of pedantry.
A rapture which one must purchase by study cannot be very
vivid in itself.