No More Learning

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? 204CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
to please, her grief to intimidate me. Perhaps women are
wrong in commanding by tears, enslaving by the strength
of their weak ness; yet, when they fear not to ex ert this
weapon, it is nearly always victorious, at least for a while.
Doubtless, love is weak ened by this sort of usurpation; and
the power of tears, too freq uently ex erted, chills the ima-
gination; but, at that time, there were a thousand ex cuses
for them in F rance. Madame d' A rbigny' s health, too,
seemed daily to decrease: another terrible instrument of
female tyranny is illness. Those who have not, lik e you,'
Corinne, a j ust reliance on their minds, or are not, lik e
E nglishwomen, so proudly modest that feigning is impos-
sible, have always recourse to art; and the best we can
then hope of them is that their deceit is caused by a real
attachment. A third party was now blended with our
connection* -- Monsieur Maltigues. S he pleased him; he
ask ed nothing better than to marry her; though a specu-
lative immorality rendered him indifferent to every thing.
H e loved intrigue as a game, even while not interested in
the stak e; and seconded Madame d' A rbigny' s designs on
me, ready to desert this plot if occasion served for ac-
complishing his own. H e was a man against whom I
felt a singular repugnance; though scarcely thirty, his
manners and person were remark ably hack neyed. I n E ng-
land, where we are accused of coldness, I never met any
thing comparable with the seriousness of his demeanour on
entering a room. I should never have tak en him for a
F renchman, if he had not possessed some taste and plea-
santry, with a love of talk ing very ex traordinary in a man
who seemed sated of the world, and who carried that dis-
position to a system. H e pretended that he was born a
sensitive enthusiast, but that the k nowledge of mank ind
he owed to the revolution had undeceived him. H e per-
ceived, he said, that there was nothing good on earth, save
fortune, or power, or both; and that fine q ualities must
give way to circumstances. H e practised on this theory
cleverly enough; his only mistak e lay in proclaiming it;
but though he had not the national wish to please, he
* The lady' s professed aversion to a third party in . her attachments seems
unaccountably reversed. -- Ta.
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? CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y . 205
nevertheless desired to create some sensation, and that ren-
dered him thus imprudent: he differed in these respects
from Madame d' A rbigny, who sought to attain her end
without betraying herself, or seek ing to shine, even in her
errors. W hat was most strange in these two persons is,
that the ardent one could k eep her secret, while the insen.
sible k new not how to hold his tongue. S uch as he was,
Maltigues had a great ascendancy over his relative; either
he guessed it, or she told him all; for even from her
habitual wariness she req uired, now and then, to tak
breath, as it were, by an indiscretion. I f Maltigues look
e
ed
on her severely, she was always disturbed; if he seemed
discontented, she would tak e him aside to ask the reason;
if he went away angry, she almost instantly shut herself up
to write to him. I ex plained this to myself from the fact
of his having k nown her from her childhood; he had ma-
naged her affairs since she had lost all nearer ties; but the
chief cause was her proj ect, which I discovered too late,
of marrying him, if I left her; for at no price would she
pass for a deserted woman. S uch a resolution might mak e
you believe that she loved me not; yet love alone could
have induced her preference: but through life she could
mix calculation even with passion, and the factitious pre-
tences of society with her natural feelings. S he wept when
she was agitated, but she could also weep because that was
the way to ex press emotion. S he was happy in being
loved, because she loved, but also because it did her honour
before the world. S he had right impulses while left to
herself, but could only enj
profitable to her self-love. S
and by ' good company,'
oy them if they were rendered
he was a person formed for
and made that false use even of
truth itself, which is so often found in a country where a
zeal for producing effect, by certain sentiments, is much
stronger than the sentiments themselves. I t was long
since I had heard from my father, the war having cut off
all communication. A t last, chance favoured the arrival of
a letter* , in which he adj ured me to return, in the name
? F req uent unex plained chances favour subseq uent letters; indeed, the cor-
respondence henceforth seems to proceed as easily as if the countries had been
at peace-- 1' r.
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? 206 CO R DJ N E ; O B I TA L Y .
of my duty and his affection; at the same time declaring
that, if I married Madame d' A rhigny, I should cause him
the most fatal sorrow; pegging me, at least, to decide on
nothing until I had heard his advice. I replied to him
instantly, giving my word of honour that I would shortly
do as he req uired. Madame d' A rhigny tried, first prayers,
then despondence, to detain me; and finding these fail, re-
sorted to a fresh stratagem; but how could I then suspect
it? S he came to me one morning pale and dishevelled,
threw herself into my arms as if dying with terror, and
besought me to protect her. The order, she said, was
come for her arrest, as sister to Count R aimond, and I
must find her some asylum from her pursuers; at this time
women, indeed, were not spared, and all k inds of horrors
appeared probable. 1 took her to a merchant devoted to
my interest, and hoped to save her, as only Maltigues
shared the secret of her retreat. I n such a situation, how
could I avoid feeling a lively interest in her fate? how
separate myself from her? how say, ' Y ou depend on my
support, and I withdraw it? ' N
image continually haunted me, and I
evertheless my father' s
to entreat her leave for setting forth alone;
ened to give herself up to the assassins if I
and twice, at noonday, rushed from the house in a frantic
state that overwhelmed me with grief and fear. I followed,
vainly conj uring her to return; fortunately it happened
(unless by conspiracy) that each time we were met by
Maltigues, who brought her back with reproaches on her
rashness. O f course I resigned myself to stay, and wrote
to my father, accounting, as well as I could, for my con-
duct; though I blushed at being in F rance, amid the
outrages then acting there, while that country, too, was at
war with my own. Maltigues often rallied me on my
scruples; but, clever as he was, he did not perceive the
effect of his j ests, which revived all the feelings he sought
to ex tinguish. Madame d' A rhigny, however, remark ed
this; but she had no influence over her k insman, who was
often decided by caprice, if self-interest was absent. S he
relapsed into her griefs, both real and assumed, to melt
me; and was never more attractive than while fainting at
took
many occasions
but she threat-
q uitted her,
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? CO H I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 207
my feet; for she k new how to heighten her beauty as well
as her other charms, and wedded each to some emotion in
order to subdue me. Thus did I live, ever anx ious, ever
vacillating, trembling when I received no letter from my
father, still more wretched when I did; enchained by my
infatuation for Madame d' A rbigny, still more dreading her
violence; for, by a strange inconsistency, though the
gentlest, and often the gayest of women, habitually, she
was the most terrible person in a scene. S he wished to
bind me both by pleasure and by fear, and thus always
transformed her nature to her use. O ne day, in S eptem-
ber, 1793, more than a year after my coming to F rance,
I had a brief letter from my father; but its few words were
so afflicting, that I must spare myself their repetition,
Corinne; it would too much unman me. H e was already
ill, though he did not say so; his pride and delicacy for-
bade; but his letter breathed so much distress, both on
account of my absence, and of my possible marriage, that
while reading it I wondered how I
blind to the misfortunes with which I
was now, however, sufficiently awak
more; and went to Madame d' A
could have been so long
was menaced. I
ened to hesitate no
rbigny, perfectly decided to
tak e leave of her. S he perceived this, and at once retiring
within herself, rose, saying, ' B efore you go, you ought to
be informed of a secret which I blush to avow. I f you
abandon me, it is not me alone you k ill. The fruit of my
guilty love will perish with me. ' N othing can describe
my sensations; that new, that sacred duty, absorbed my
whole soul, and made me more submissively her slave than
ever. I would have married her at once, but for the
ruinous conseq uences that must have befallen me, as an
E nglishman, in then and there giving my name to the
civil authorities. I deferred our union, therefore, till we
could fly to E ngland, and determined never to leave my
victim till then. A t first this calmed her; but she soon
renewed her complaints against ine, for not braving all
impediments to mak e her my wife. I should shortly have
bent to her will, for I had fallen into the deepest melan-
choly, and passed whole days alone, without power to move,
-- a prey to an idea which I never confessed to myself,
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? 208CO R I N N E J O R I TA L Y .
though its persecution was incessant. I had a foreboding
of my father' s illness, which I considered a weak ness un-
worthy of belief. My reason was so bewildered by the shock
my mistress had dealt me, that I now combated my sense
of duty as a passion; and that which I might have then
thought my passion, tormented me as a duty. Madame
d' A rbigny was perpetually writing me entreaties to visit
her; at last I went, but did not speak on the subj ect which
gave her such rights over me: indeed, she now less fre-
q uently alluded to it herself than I ex pected; but my
sufferings were too great for me to remark that at the
time. O nce, when I had k ept my house for three days,
writing twenty letters to my father, and tearing them all,
M. Maltigues, who seldom sought m>> j came, deputed by his
cousin to tear me from my solitude. Though little interested
in the success of his embassy, as you will discover, he
entered before I
had time to conceal that my face was
bathed in tears. ' W hat is the use of all this, my dear
boy? ' he said; ' either leave my cousin, or marry her.
The one step is as good as the other, each being conclusive. '
. -- ' There are situations in life,' replied I , ' where even
by sacrificing oneself, one may not be able to fulfil every
duty. ' -- '
he added. '
necessary;
That is, there ought to be no such sacrifice,'
I k now of no circumstances in which it is
with a little address one may back out of any
thing. Management is the q ueen of the world. ' -- ' I
covet no such ability,' said I ; ' but at least would wish,
in resigning myself to unhappiness, to afflict no one that
I love. ' -- ' H ave nothing to do, then, with the intricate
work they call love; it is a sick ness of the soul. I am
attack ed by it at times, lik e any one else; but when it so
happens, I tell myself that it shall soon be over, and
always k eep my word. '
with generalities-- for I
him -- I answered, '
S eek ing to deal, lik e himself,
neither could nor would confide in
Do what we will with love, we can-
not banish honour and virtue, that often oppose our in-
clination. ' -- ' I f you mean, by honour, the necessity for
fighting when insulted, there can be no doubt on that
head; but, in other respects, what interest have we in
allowing ourselves to be perplex ed by a thousand fasti-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 209
dious chimeras? ' -- '
the word in q uestion. '
--
I nterest! ' I repeated; ' that is not
' To speak seriously, ' he re-
turned, ' there are few men who have a clear view of this
subj ect. I k now they formerly talk ed of honourable mis-
fortunes, and glorious falls; but now that all men are per-
secuted, k naves as well as those by courtesy called honest,
the only difference is between the birds who are trap-
ped, and those who escape. ' -- ' I k now of other distinc-
tions,' I replied, ' where prosperity is despised, and misfor-
tune honoured by the good. ' -- ' S how me the good, though,'
he said, ' whose courageous esteem would console you for
your own destruction. O n the contrary, the self-elected
virtuous are those who ex cuse you if happy, and love you
if powerful. I t is very fine in you, no doubt, to repent
thwarting a father, who ought no longer to meddle with
your affairs; yet do any thing rather than linger where
you may lose your life in a thousand ways. F or my
part, whatever happens to me, I would, at any price, spare
my friends the sight of my sufferings, and myself their
long faces of condolence. ' -- ' I n my opinion,' interrupted
I , ' the aim of an honest man' s life is not the happiness
which serves only himself, but the virtue which is useful
toothers. ' -- ' V irtue! ' ex claimed Maltigues, ' virtue'
he hesitated for a moment, then, with more decision, con-
tinued; ' that' s a language for the vulgar, that even
priests cannot talk between themselves without laughing.
There are good souls whom certain harmonious words
still move; for their sak es let the tune be played: all the
poetry that they call conscience and devotion was in-
vented to console those who cannot get on in the world,
lik e the de profundis that is sung for the dead. The living
and the prosperous are by no means ambitious of lik e
homage. ' I was so irritated that I could not help saying
haughtily, ' I shall be sorry, sir, when I have a right in the
house of Madame d' A rbigny, if she persists in receiving
amanwhothink sandspeak sasyoudo. ' -- ' W henthat
time comes,' he answered, ' you may act as you please;
but if my cousin is led by me, she will never marry a man
who look s forward in such affright to his union with her.
I have always, as she can tell you, censured her folly, and
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? 210CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
the means she has wasted on an obj ect so little worth her
trouble. ' A t these words, which their accent rendered still
more insulting, I made him a sign to follow me; and,
on our way, it is but j ustice to tell you that he continued
to develope his system with the greatest possible coolness:
he might be no more in a few minutes, yet said not one
serious, one feeling word. ' I f I had been addicted to all
the absurdities of other young men,' he pursued, ' would
not what I have seen in my own country have cured me?
W hen has your scrupulousness done you any good ? ' --
'
I
ne or
now
to
agree with you,' said I , ' that in your country, at present,
it is of less utility than elsewhere;
time, each man has his reward. '
heaven in your calculations -- '
other of us, perhaps, will soon k
but in time, or beyond
-- ' O h, if you include
-- ' A nd why not? O
now what it means. ' --
' I f I die,'
nothing about it;
enlighten me. ' I
he laughed forth, ' I am sure I shall k
if you are k illed, you won' t come back
now remembered that I had tak en no
precautions for informing my father of my probable fate,
or mak ing over to Madame d' A rbigny part of my fortune,
on which I thought she had claims. W e drew near Mal-
tigues' house, and I ask ed leave to write two letters there:
he assented. A s we resumed our route, I gave them to him,
and recommended Madame d' A rbigny to him, as to a
friend of hers on whom I could rely. This proof of
confidence touched him; for, be it observed, to the glory
of honesty, that the most candid profligates are much flat-
tered if they chance to receive a mark of esteem; our
relative position, too, was grave enough to have affected
even him; but as he would not for worlds have had me
guess this, he said j estingly, though I believe prompted by
deeper feelings, ' Y ou are a good fellow, my dear N evil;
I ' d fain do something generous by you: it may bring me
luck , as they say; and truly generosity is so babyish a
q uality, that it ought to be better paid in heaven than on
earth. B ut ere I serve you, our conditions must be made
plain, say what I will -- we fight nevertheless. ' I re-
turned a disdainful consent, for I thought such preface
unnecessary. Maltigues proceeded, in his cold careless
way: -- ' Madame d' A rbigny does not suit you; you are
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? CO R I N N E J CR I TA L Y . 211
in no way congenial; your father would be in despair if
you made such a match, and you would run mad at
having distressed him: therefore it will be better, if I
live, that I should marry the lady; if you k ill me, still
better that she should marry another; for my cousin
is so highly sagacious, even while in love, that she never
fails to provide against the chance of being loved no
longer. A ll this you will learn by her letters. I beq ueath
themtoyou:hereisthek eyofmydesk . I havebeen
her intimate ever since she was born; and you k
mysterious as she is, she has no secrets with me--
dreaming that I should ever tell; it is true I
now that,
little
feel no im-
pulse hurry me on, but I do not attach much importance
to these things; and I think that we men may say what
we lik e to each other about women. A lso, if I die, it is
to her bright eyes that I shall owe such accident; and
though I am q uite ready to die for her, with a good grace,
I am not too obliged by the situation in which her double
intrigue has placed me; for the rest, it is not q uite sure
that you will k ill me. ' S o saying, as we were now beyond
the town, he drew his sword, and stood upon his guard.
H e had spok en with singular vivacity. I was confounded
by what I had heard. The approach of danger, instead of
agitating, animated him; and I k new not whether he had
betrayed the truth, or invented a falsehood out of revenge.
I n this suspense I was very careful of his life: he was not
so adroit a swordsman as myself: ten times might I have
ran him through the breast, but I contented myself with
slightly wounding and disarming him: he seemed sensible
of this. I led him to his own house, and brought him
back to the conversation which our duel had interrupted.
H e then said, ' I am vex ed at having so treated my cousin;
but peril is lik e wine, it gets into one' s head; yet I can
now ex cuse myself; it rested with you to k ill me, and you
spared my life; you could not be happy with her, she is
too cunning; now to me that is nothing; for, charmed as I
am both with her mind and person, she can never do any
thing to my disadvantage, and we shall be of service to
each other when marriage mak es a common interest. B ut
you are romantic, and would be her dupe, therefore I can-
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? 212 corinne; or italy.
not refuse the letters I promised you: read them, start for
E ngland, and do not worry yourself too much as to
Madame d' A rbigny' s regrets. S he will weep, because she
loves you, but she will soon be comforted: she is too
rational a woman to be long unhappy, or, above all, to ap-
pear so. I n three months she shall be Madame de Mal-
tigues. ' A ll that he told me was proved true by her cor-
respondence with him. I felt convinced that her blushing
confession was a falsity, used but to force me into marriage.
This was the basest imposition she had practised on me.
S he certainly loved me, for she even told Maltigues so;
yet flattered him with such art, left him so much to hope,
and studied to please him in a character so contrasted from
that she had ever worn for me, that it was impossible to
doubt her intention of marrying him, if her union with me
was prevented. S uch was the woman, Corinne, who has
for ever wreck ed the peace of my heart and conscience. I
wrote to her ere I departed, and saw her no more. A s
Maltigues predicted, I have since heard that she became
his wife; but I was far from having tasted the bitterest
drop that awaited me. I hoped to obtain my father' s par-
don, sure that, when I told him how I had been misled, he
would love me the more the more pitiable I became. A fter
above a month' s j ourney, by night and day, I crossed Ger-
many, and arrived in E ngland, full of confidence in the
inex haustible bounty of paternal love. Corinne, I had
scarce landed, when a public paper informed me that my
father was no more. Twenty months have passed since
that moment, yet it is ever present, lik e a pursuing phan-
tom. The letters that formed the words, ' L ord N evil
has j ust ex pired,' are written in flames, to which those of
the volcano before us are nothing. I
of grief at my absence in F rance;
renounce my military career, that I
heard that he died
fearing that I should
should marry a woman
of whom he had an indifferent opinion, and settle in a
country at war with my own, entirely forfeiting my reput-
ation as an E nglishman. Corinne, Corinne! am I not a
parricide? Tell me. " -- " N o," she cried, " no;
only unfortunate; your generosity involved you. I re-
spect as much as 1 love you; j udge yourself by my heart;
you are
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? O O H I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 213
mak e that your conscience! Y our grief distracts you; be-
lieve one who loves you from no illusion: it is because
you are the best, the most affectionate of men, that I adore
you. " --
due to me;
think ;
" Corinne," said O swald, " these tributes are not
though, perhaps, I am less guilty than I
my father pardoned me before he died. I found
the last address he wrote me full of tenderness. A letter
from me had reached him, somewhat to my j ustification;
but the evil was done; his heart was brok en. W hen I
returned to the H all his old servants thronged round me: I
repulsed their consolations, and accused myself to them.
I k nelt at his tomb, swearing, if time for atonement yet were
left me, that I would never marry without his consent.
A las! I promised to one who was no more: what now
availed my ravings? I ought, at least, to consider them as
engagements to do nothing which he would have disap-
proved had he lived. Corinne, dear love! why are you
thus depressed? H e might command me to renounce a
woman who owed to her own artifice the power she ex -
erted over me, but the most sincere, natural, and generous
of her sex , for whom I feel my first true love, which pu-
rifies instead of misguiding my soul, why should a heavenly
being wish to separate me from her?
" O n entering my father' s room, I saw his cloak , his foot-
stool, and his sword still in their wonted stations, though'
his place was vacant, and I called on him in vain. This
memento of his thoughts alone replied. Y ou already
k now a part of it," O swald added, giving the manuscript
to Corinne. " R ead what he wrote on the Duty of Children
to their Parents: your sweet voice, perhaps, may familiarise
me with the words. " S he thus obeyed :--
" A h, how slight a cause will teach self-mistrust to a father
or mother in the decline of life! They are easily taught
that they are no longer wanted on earth. W hat use can
they believe themselves to you, who no longer ask their
advice! ye live but in the present; ye are wedded to it by
your passions, and all that belongs not to that present ap-
pears to you superannuated -- ye are so much occupied by
your young hearts and minds, that, mak ing your own day
your point of history, the eternal resemblances between men
p3
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? 214CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
and their times escape your attention. The authority of
ex perience seems but a vain fiction, formed for the cre-
dulity of age, as the last enj oyment of its self-love. W hat
an error is this!
" That vast theatre, the world, changes not its actors: it is
always man who appears there, though he varies; and as
all his changes depend on some great passion, whose circle
hath long and oft been trod, it would be strange, if, in the
little combinations of private life, ex perience, the science
of the past, were not the plenteous source of useful instruc-
tion. H onour your fathers and mothers, then! respect
them, if but for the sak e of their by-gone reign, the time
of which they were the only rulers,-- if but for the years
for ever lost, whose reverent seal is imprinted on their
brows. K now your duty, presumptuous children, impa-
tient to walk alone on the path of life. They will leave
you, do not fear it, though so tardy in yielding you place:
-- that father, whose discourses are still tainted by unwel-
come severity, that mother, whose age imposes on you such
tedious cares. They will go, these watchful guardians of
your childhood, these zealous protectors of your youth,
they will depart, and you will seek in vain for better
friends: when they are lost, they will wear new aspects;
for time, which mak es the living old before our eyes, re-
news their youth when death has torn them away. Time
then lends them a might unk nown before: we see them in
our visions of eternity, wherein there is no age, as there
are no gradations; and if they have left virtuous memories
behind we adorn them with a ray from heaven: our
thoughts follow them to the home of the elect; we see
them in scenes of felicity, and beside the bright beams of
which we form their glory, the light of our own best days,
our own most dazzling triumphs, is ex tinguished. " (8) --
" Corinne ! " cried N evil, almost heart-brok en, "
think you
it was against me he breathed that eloq uent complaint? "
-- " N o, no," she replied: " remember how he loved you,
and believed in your affection. I am of opinion that these
reflections were written long ere you committed the faults
with which you reproach yourself. L isten rather to
these thoughts on I ndulgence, that I find some pages later,
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 5215
-- * W e go through life surrounded by snares, and with
unsteady steps; our senses are seduced by deceptive allure-
ments; our imaginations mislead us by a false glare; our
reason itself each day receives but from ex perience the
degree of light and confidence for that day req uired. S o
many dangers for so much weak ness, so many varied in-
terests with such limited foresight and capacity, in sooth,
so many things unk nown, and so short a life, show us the
high rank we
virtues. A las!
should give to indulgence among the social
where is the man ex empt from foibles,
who can look back on his life without regret and remorse?
H e must be a
stranger to the agitations of timidity, and
never can have ex amined his own heart in the solitude of
conscience. ' (9)
" These," said Corinne, " are the words your father ad-
dresses to you from above. " -- " True," sighed O swald,
" consoling angel! how you cheer me; yet could I but have
seen him, for a moment, ere he died-- could I have said
how unworthy of him I felt myself, and been believed, I
should not tremble lik e the guiltiest of mank ind. I should
not evince the vacillation of conduct and gloom of soul
which can promise happiness to no one. Courage must be
born of conscience; how then should it triumph over her?
E ven now, as the dark ness closes in, methink s I see, in
yon cloud, the thunderbolt that is armed against me.
Corinne, Corinne! comfort your unhappy lover, or leave
me on the earth, which, perhaps, will open at my cries,
and let me descend to the abode of death. " *
* L ord N evil does not inform us whether he entered the army before he
visited F rance, or during his year' s residence in S cotland, ere he returned
thither. B etween his father' s death apd his departure for I taly he had surely
as litUe time as health for the military duties even of a mess-table. -- Tr.
p4
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? 2l6 CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
BOOKXIII.
V E S UV I US ,A N DTH E CA MPA GN A O F N A PL E S .
CH A PTE R I .
L ord N evil remained long ex hausted after the trying re-
cital which had thrilled him to the soul. Corinne gently
strove to revive him. The river of flame which fell from
V esuvius fearfully ex cited his imagination. S he availed
herself of this, in order to draw him from his own recol-
lections, and begged him to walk with her on the bank s
of once inflamed lava. The ground they crossed glowed
beneath their steps, and seemed to warn them from a spot
so hostile to all life. Man could not here call himself " lord
of the creation ; " it seemed escaping from his tyranny by
suicide. The torrent of fire is of a dusk y hue, yet when
it lights a vine, or any other tree, it sends forth a clear
bright blaze; but the lava itself is of that lurid tint, which
might represent infernal fire: it rolls on with a crack ling
sound, that alarms the more from its slightness, -- cunning
seems j oined with strength. Thus secretly steals the tiger .
to his prey: this cataract, though so deliberate, loses not a
moment; if it encounter a high wall, or any thing that
opposes its progress, it heaps against the obstacle its black and
bituminous flood, and buries it beneath burning waves.
I ts course is not so rapid but that men may fly before it;
but lik e Time, it overtak es the old or the imprudent, who,
from its silent approach, think to escape without ex ertion.
I ts brightness is such that earth is reflected in the sk y,
which appears lapped in perpetual lightning; this, too, is
mirrored by the sea, and all nature clothed in their three-
fold fires. The wind is heard, and its effect perceived as
it forms a whirlpool of flame round the gulf whence the
lava issues: one trembles to guess at what is passing in the
bosom of the earth, whose fury shak es the ground beneath
our steps. The rock s about the source of this flood are
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? corinne; or italy. 217
covered with pitch and sulphur; whose colours, indeed,
might suit the home of fiends,-- a livid green, a tawny
brown, and an ensanguined red, form j ust that dissonance
to the eye of which the ear were sensible, if pierced by the
harsh cries of witches, conj uring down the moon from
heaven. A ll that is near the volcano bears so supernal
an aspect, that doubtless the poets thence drew their por-
traitures of hell. There we may conceive how man was
first persuaded that a power of evil ex isted to thwart the
designs of Providence. W ell may one ask , in such a scene,
if mercy alone presides over the phenomena of creation;
or if some hidden principle forces nature, lik e her sons,
into ferocity? " Corinne,"
hence that sorrow comes?
wing from yon summit? I
sighed N evil, " is it not from
Does the angel of death tak e
f I beheld not thy heavenly
face, I should lose all memory of the charms with which
the E ternal has adorned the earth; yet this spectacle, fright.
ful as it is, overawes me less than conscience. A ll perils
may be braved; but how can the dead absolve us for the
wrongs we did them living? N ever, never. A h, Corinne!
what need of fires lik e these? The wheel that turns inces-
santly, the stream that tempts and flies, the stone that
rolls back the more we would impel it on,-- these are but
feeble images of that dread thought, the impossible, the ir-
reparable! " A deep silence now reigned around O swald
and Corinne: their very guides were far behind; and near
the crater nought was heard save the hissing of its fires;
suddenly, however, one sound from the city reached even
this region -- the chime of bells, perhaps announcing a
death, perhaps a birth, it mattered not-- most welcome was
it to our travellers. " Dear O swald," said Corinne, " let
us leave this desert, and return to the living world. O ther
mountains raise us above terrestrial life, and bring us
nearer heaven, but here nature seems treated as a criminal,
and condemned no more to taste the beneficent breath of
her Creator. This is no soj ourn for the good-- let us de-
scend! ' A n abundant shower fell as they sought the
plain, threatening each instant to ex tinguish their torches:
the L azzaroni accompanied them with yells that might
alarm any one who k new not that such was their constant
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? 218CO R I N N E ' ,O R I TA L Y .
custom. These men are sometimes agitated by a superfluity
of life, with which they k now not what to do, uniting
eq ual degrees of violence and sloth. Their physiognomy,
more mark ed than their characters, seems to indicate a k ind
of vivacity in which neither mind nor heart are at all
concerned. O swald, uneasy lest the rain should hurt Co-
rinne, and lest their lights should fail, was absorbed by
this indefinite sense of her danger; and his tenderness by
degrees restored that composure which had been disturbed
by the confidence he had made to her. They regained their
carriage at the foot of the mountain, and stopped not at the
ruins of H erculaneum, which are, as it were, buried afresh
beneath the buildings of Portici. They arrived at N aples
near midnight; and Corinne promised N evil, as they took
leave, to give him the history of her life on the morrow.
CH A PTE R I I .
The nex t morning Corinne resolved to impose on herself
the effort she had promised: the intimate k nowledge of
O swald' s character which she had acq uired redoubled her
inq uietude. S he left her chamber, carrying what she had
written in a trembling yet determined hand. S he entered
the sitting-room of their hotel. O swald was there: he had
j ust received letters from E ngland. O ne of them lay on
the mantel-piece: its direction caught her eye; and, with
inex pressible anx
" F rom L ady E
correspond with her?
iety, she ask ed from whom it came.
dgarmond," replied N evil. -- " Do you
was my father' s friend,"
introduced the subj ect, I
"
added Corinne. -- ' ' H er late lord
he said; " and since chance has
will not conceal from you that
they thought it might one day suit me to marry the
daughter, L ucy. " -- " Great God! " cried Corinne, and
sunk , half fainting, on a seat. -- " W hat means this? " de-
manded O swald j " Corinne, what can you fear from one
who loves you to idolatry? H ad my parent' s dying com-
mand been my union with Miss E dgarmond, I certainly
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? corinne; or italy. 219
should not now be free, and would have flown from your
resistless spells; but he merely advised the match, writing
me word that he could form no j udgment of L ucy' s cha-
racter, as she was still a child. 1 have seen her but once,
when scarcely twelve years old. I made no arrangement
with her mother; yet the indecision of my conduct, I own,
has sprung solely from this wish of my father' s. E re I
met you, I hoped for power to complete it, as a sort of ex -
piation, and to prolong, beyond his death, the empire of
his will; but you have triumphed over my whole being,
and I now desire but your pardon for what must have ap-
peared so weak and irresolute in my conduct. Corinne,
we seldom entirely recover from such griefs as I have ex -
perienced: they blight our hopes, and instil a painful
timidity of the future. F ate had so inj ured me, that even
while she offered the greatest of earthly blessings I could
not trust her; but these doubts are over, love: I am thine
for ever, assured that, had my father k nown thee, he would
have chosen such a companion for my life. " -- " H old! "
wept forth Corinne: " I conj ure you, speak not thus to me. "
-- " W hy," said O swald, " why thus constantly oppose
the pleasure I tak e in blending your image with his? thus
wedding the two dearest and most sacred feelings of my
heart? " -- " Y ou cannot," returned Corinne; " too well I
k now you cannot. " -- " J ust H eaven! what have you to
tell me, then? Give me that history of your life. " -- " I
will, but let me beg a week ' s delay, only a week : what
I have j ust learnt obliges me to add a few particulars. " --
" H
-- "
" Y
ow!