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.
of life, with which they k now not what to do, uniting
eq ual degrees of violence and sloth.
Madame de Stael - Corinna, or Italy
' 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
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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.
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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! " said O swald, " what connection have you"
Do not ex act my answer now," interrupted Corinne.
ou will soon k now all, and that, perhaps, will be the
end, the dreaded end of my felicity; but ere it comes, let
us ex plore together the Campagna of N aples, with minds
still accessible to the charms of nature. I n these fair
scenes will I so celebrate the most solemn era of my life,
that you must cherish some memory of Corinne, such as
she was, and might have ever been, had she not loved you,
O swald. " -- " Corinne, what mean these hints? Y ou can
have nothing to disclose which ought to chill my tender
admiration; why then prolong the mystery that raises
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? 220 corinne; or I taly.
barriers between us? " -- " Dear O swald, ' tis my will:
pardon me this last act of power; soon you alone will de-
cide for us both. I shall hear my sentence from your
lips unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel; for I have on this
earth nor love nor duty condemning me to live when
you are lost. " S he withdrew, gently repulsing O swald,
who would fain have followed her.
CH A PTE R I I I .
Corinne decided on giving a fete, united as the idea was
with melancholy associations. S he k new she must be
j udged as a poet, as an artist, ere she could be pardoned
for the sacrifice of her rank , her family, her name, to her
enthusiasm. L ord N evil was indeed capable of appreci-
ating genius, but, in his opinion, the relations of social
life over-ruled all others; and the highest destiny of wo-
man, nay of man too, he thought was accomplished, not
by the ex ercise of intellectual faculties, but by the fulfil-
ment of domestic duties. R emorse, in driving him from
the false path in which he had strayed, fortified the moral
principles innately his. The manners and habits of E ng-
land, a country where such respect for law and duty ex ists,
held, in many respects, a strict control over him. I ndeed
the discouragement deep sorrows inculcate teaches men to
love that natural order which req uires no new resolves, no
decision contrary to the circumstances mark ed for us by
fate. O swald' s love for Corinne modified his every feeling:
but love never wholly effaces the original character, which
she perceived through the passion that now lorded over it;
and, perhaps, his ruling charm consisted in the opposition
of his character to his attachment, giving added value to
every pledge of his love. B ut the hour drew nigh when
the fleeting fears she had constantly banished, and which
had but lightly disturbed her dream of j oy, were to decide
her fate. H er mind, formed for delight, accustomed to the
varying moods of poetry and talent, was wonder-struck at
the sharp fix edness of grief; a shudder thrilled her heart,
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? CO R I N N B ; O R I TA L Y . 221
such as no woman long resigned to suffering ever k new.
Y et, in the midst of the most torturing fears, she secretly
prepared for the one more brilliant evening she might pass
with O swald. F ancy and feeling were thus romantically
blended. S he invited the E nglish who were there, and
some N eapolitans whose society pleased her. O n the day
chosen for this fete, whose morrow might destroy her hap-
piness for ever, a singular wildness animated her features,
and lent them q uite a new ex pression. Careless eyes
might have mistak en it for that of j oy; but her rapid and
agitated movements, her look s that rested no where, proved
but too plainly to N evil the struggle in her heart. V ainly
he strove to soothe her by tender protestations. " Y ou
shall repeat them two days hence, if you will," she said;
" now these soft words but mock me. " The carriages of
Corinne' s party arrived at the close of day, j ust as the sea
breeze refreshed the air, inviting man to the contemplation
of nature. They went first to V irgil' s tomb. I t over-
look s the bay of N aples; and such is the magnificent repose
of this spot, that one is tempted to believe the bard himself
must have selected it. These simple words from his
Georgics might have served him for epitaph:--
" I llo V irgilium me tempore dulcis alebat Parthenope. "
" Then did the soft Parthenope receive me. "
H is ashes here repose, and attract universal homage, --
all, all that man on earth can steal from death. Petrarch set
a laurel beside them-- lik e its planter, it is dead. H e alone
was worthy to have left a lasting trace near such a grave.
O ne feels disgust at the crowd of ignoble names traced by
strangers on the walls about the urn: they trouble the
peace of this classic solitude. I ts present visitants left it
in silence, musing over the images immortalised by the
Mantuan. B lest intercourse between the past and future!
which the art of writing perpetually renews. S hadow of
death, what art thou? Man' s thoughts survive; can he
then be no more? S uch contradiction is impossible.
" O swald," said Corinne, " these impressions are strange
preparatives for a fete; yet," she added, with wild sub-
limity, " how many fetes are held thus near the grave! " --
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? 222CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
" My life," he said, " whence all this secret dread? Con-
fide in me: for six months have I owed you every thing;
perhaps have shed some pleasure over your path. W ho
then can err so impiously against happiness as to dash
down the supreme bliss of soothing such a soul? it is
much to feel one' s self of use to the most humble mortal;
but Corinne! to be her comfort! trust me, is a glory too
delicious to renounce. " -- " I believe your promises," she
said; " yet there are moments when something strange and
new seizes the heart, and hurries it thus sadly. " They
passed through the Grotto of Pausilipo by torchlight, as
I indeed would have been the case at noon; for it ex tends
nearly a q uarter of a league beneath the mountain, and
in the centre, the light of day, admitted at either ex -
tremity, is scarcely visible. I n this long vault the tramp of
steeds and cries of their drivers resound so stunningly,
that they deaden all thought in the brain. Corinne' s
horses drew her carriage with astonishing rapidity;
yet
did she say, " Dear N evil, how slowly we advance! pray
hasten them. " -- " W hy thus impatient? " he ask ed:
"
ex
"
formerly, while we were together, you sought not to
pedite time, but to enj oy it. " -- " Y et now," she said,
all must be decision; every thing must come to an end;
and I would hasten it, were it my death. " O n leaving the
Grotto you feel a lively sensation at regaining daylight, and
the open country; such a country too! W hat are so often
missed in I taly, fine trees, here flourish in abundance.
I talian earth is every where so spread with flowers, that
woods may better be dispensed with here than in most
other lands. The heat at N aples is so great, that, even
in the shade, it is impossible to walk by day; but in the
evening the sea and sk y alik e shed freshness through the
transparent air: the mountains are so picturesq ue that
painters love to select their landscapes from a country
whose original charm can be ex plained by no comparison
with other realms. " I lead ye," said Corinne, to those
near her, " through the fair scene celebrated by the name
of B ais: we will not pause there now, but gather its recol-
lections into the moment when we reach the spot which
sets them all before us. " I t was on the cape of Micena
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 223
that she had prepared her fete; nothing could he more
tastefully arranged. S ailors, in habits of contrasted hues,
and some O rientalists from a L evantine bark then in the
port, danced with the peasant girls from I schia and Procida,'
whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace; sweet voices
were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental
music answered from behind the rock s. I t was lik e echo
echoed by sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The
softness of the air animated all around-- even Corinne her-
self. S he was entreated to dance among the rustics: at
first she consented with pleasure, but scarcely had she be-
gun ere her forebodings rendered all amusement odious to
her, and she withdrew to the ex treme verge of the cape;
thither O swald followed, with others, who now begged
her to ex temporise in this lovely scene: her emotions were
such that she permitted them to lead her towards the
elevation on which they had placed her lyre, without
power to comprehend what they ex pected.
CH A PTE R I V .
S till Corinne desired that O swald should once more hear
her, as on the day at the Capitol. I f the talent with which
H eaven had gifted her was about to be ex tinguished for
ever, she wished its last rays to shine on him she loved:
these very fears afforded her the inspiration she req uired.
H er friends were impatient to hear her. E ven the com-
mon people k new her fame; and, as imagination rendered
them j udges of poetry, they closed silently round, their
eager faces ex pressing the deepest attention. The moon
arose; but the last beams of day still paled her light.
F rom the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea,
forms the cape of Micena, V esuvius is plainly seen, and the
bay and isles that stud its bosom. W ith one consent the
friends of Corinne begged her to sing the memories that
scene recalled. S he tuned her lyre, and began with a
brok en voice. H er look was beautiful; but one who k new
her, as O swald did, could there read the trouble of her
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? 224-CO R I N N B ; O R I TA L Y .
soul. S he strove, however, to restrain her feelings, and
once more, if but for awhile, to soar above her personal
situation.
CO R I N N e' sCH A N TI N TH E V I CI N I TY O F N A PL E S .
A y, N ature, H istory, and Poesie,
R ival each other' s greatness : -- here the eye
S weeps with a glance, all wonders and all time.
A dead volcano now, I see thy lak e
A vernus, with the fear-inspiring waves
A cheron, and Phlegeton boiling up
W ith subterranean flame: these are the streams
O f that old hell J E neas visited.
F ire, the devouring life which first creates
The world which it consumes, struck terror most
W hen least its laws were k nown. --
R eveal' d her secrets but to Poetry.
A h! N ature then
The town of Cuma and the S ibyl' s cave,
The temple of A pollo mark ' d this height;
H ere is the wood where grew the bough of gold.
The country of the ^ neid is around;
The fables genius consecrated here
A re memories whose traces still we seek .
A Triton has beneath these billows plunged
The daring Troj an, who in song defied
The sea divinities: still are the rock s
H ollow and sounding, such as V irgil told.
I magination' s truth is from its power:
Man' s genius can create when nature' s felt;
H e copies when he deems that he invents.
A mid these masses, terrible and old,
Creation' s witnesses, you see arise
A younger hill of the volcano born:
F or here the earth is stormy as the sea,
B ut doth not, lik e the sea, peaceful return
W ithin its bounds: the heavy element,
Upshak en by the tremulous abyss,
Digs valleys, and rears mountains; while the waves,
H arden' d to stone, attest the storms which rend
H er depths; strik e now upon the earth,
Y ou hear the subterranean vault resound.
I t is as if the ground on which we dwell
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 225
I W ere but a surface ready to unclose.
N aples! how doth thy country lik eness bear
To human passions; fertile, sulphurous:
I ts dangers and its pleasures both seem born
O f those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow
Upon the atmosphere so many charms,
Y et bid the thunder growl beneath our feet.
Pliny but studied nature that the more
H e might love I taly; and call' d his land
The loveliest, when all other titles fail' d.
H e sought for science as a warrior seek s
F or conq uest: it was from this very cape
H e went to watch V esuvius through the flames:
Those flames consumed him.
O h Memory! noble power! thy reign is here.
S trange destiny, how thus, from age to age,
Doth man complain of that which he has lost.
S till do departed years, each in their turn,
S eem treasurers of happiness gone by;
A nd while mind, j oyful in its far advance,
Plunges amid the future, still the S oul
S eems to regret some other ancient home
To which it is drawn closer by the past.
W e envy R oman grandeur -- did they not
E nvy their fathers' brave simplicity?
O nce this voluptuous country they despised;
I ts pleasures but subdued their enemies.
| S ee, in the distance, Capua! she o' ercame
The warrior, whose 6 rm soul resisted R ome
More time than did a world.
The R omans in their turn dwelt on these plains,
W hen strength of mind but only served to feel
More deeply shame and grief; effeminate,
They sank without remorse. Y et B aise saw
The conq uer' d sea give place to palaces:
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain,
A nd the world' s masters, now in their turn slaves,
Made nature subj ect to console themselves
That they were subj ect too.
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
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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.
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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! " said O swald, " what connection have you"
Do not ex act my answer now," interrupted Corinne.
ou will soon k now all, and that, perhaps, will be the
end, the dreaded end of my felicity; but ere it comes, let
us ex plore together the Campagna of N aples, with minds
still accessible to the charms of nature. I n these fair
scenes will I so celebrate the most solemn era of my life,
that you must cherish some memory of Corinne, such as
she was, and might have ever been, had she not loved you,
O swald. " -- " Corinne, what mean these hints? Y ou can
have nothing to disclose which ought to chill my tender
admiration; why then prolong the mystery that raises
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? 220 corinne; or I taly.
barriers between us? " -- " Dear O swald, ' tis my will:
pardon me this last act of power; soon you alone will de-
cide for us both. I shall hear my sentence from your
lips unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel; for I have on this
earth nor love nor duty condemning me to live when
you are lost. " S he withdrew, gently repulsing O swald,
who would fain have followed her.
CH A PTE R I I I .
Corinne decided on giving a fete, united as the idea was
with melancholy associations. S he k new she must be
j udged as a poet, as an artist, ere she could be pardoned
for the sacrifice of her rank , her family, her name, to her
enthusiasm. L ord N evil was indeed capable of appreci-
ating genius, but, in his opinion, the relations of social
life over-ruled all others; and the highest destiny of wo-
man, nay of man too, he thought was accomplished, not
by the ex ercise of intellectual faculties, but by the fulfil-
ment of domestic duties. R emorse, in driving him from
the false path in which he had strayed, fortified the moral
principles innately his. The manners and habits of E ng-
land, a country where such respect for law and duty ex ists,
held, in many respects, a strict control over him. I ndeed
the discouragement deep sorrows inculcate teaches men to
love that natural order which req uires no new resolves, no
decision contrary to the circumstances mark ed for us by
fate. O swald' s love for Corinne modified his every feeling:
but love never wholly effaces the original character, which
she perceived through the passion that now lorded over it;
and, perhaps, his ruling charm consisted in the opposition
of his character to his attachment, giving added value to
every pledge of his love. B ut the hour drew nigh when
the fleeting fears she had constantly banished, and which
had but lightly disturbed her dream of j oy, were to decide
her fate. H er mind, formed for delight, accustomed to the
varying moods of poetry and talent, was wonder-struck at
the sharp fix edness of grief; a shudder thrilled her heart,
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? CO R I N N B ; O R I TA L Y . 221
such as no woman long resigned to suffering ever k new.
Y et, in the midst of the most torturing fears, she secretly
prepared for the one more brilliant evening she might pass
with O swald. F ancy and feeling were thus romantically
blended. S he invited the E nglish who were there, and
some N eapolitans whose society pleased her. O n the day
chosen for this fete, whose morrow might destroy her hap-
piness for ever, a singular wildness animated her features,
and lent them q uite a new ex pression. Careless eyes
might have mistak en it for that of j oy; but her rapid and
agitated movements, her look s that rested no where, proved
but too plainly to N evil the struggle in her heart. V ainly
he strove to soothe her by tender protestations. " Y ou
shall repeat them two days hence, if you will," she said;
" now these soft words but mock me. " The carriages of
Corinne' s party arrived at the close of day, j ust as the sea
breeze refreshed the air, inviting man to the contemplation
of nature. They went first to V irgil' s tomb. I t over-
look s the bay of N aples; and such is the magnificent repose
of this spot, that one is tempted to believe the bard himself
must have selected it. These simple words from his
Georgics might have served him for epitaph:--
" I llo V irgilium me tempore dulcis alebat Parthenope. "
" Then did the soft Parthenope receive me. "
H is ashes here repose, and attract universal homage, --
all, all that man on earth can steal from death. Petrarch set
a laurel beside them-- lik e its planter, it is dead. H e alone
was worthy to have left a lasting trace near such a grave.
O ne feels disgust at the crowd of ignoble names traced by
strangers on the walls about the urn: they trouble the
peace of this classic solitude. I ts present visitants left it
in silence, musing over the images immortalised by the
Mantuan. B lest intercourse between the past and future!
which the art of writing perpetually renews. S hadow of
death, what art thou? Man' s thoughts survive; can he
then be no more? S uch contradiction is impossible.
" O swald," said Corinne, " these impressions are strange
preparatives for a fete; yet," she added, with wild sub-
limity, " how many fetes are held thus near the grave! " --
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? 222CO R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
" My life," he said, " whence all this secret dread? Con-
fide in me: for six months have I owed you every thing;
perhaps have shed some pleasure over your path. W ho
then can err so impiously against happiness as to dash
down the supreme bliss of soothing such a soul? it is
much to feel one' s self of use to the most humble mortal;
but Corinne! to be her comfort! trust me, is a glory too
delicious to renounce. " -- " I believe your promises," she
said; " yet there are moments when something strange and
new seizes the heart, and hurries it thus sadly. " They
passed through the Grotto of Pausilipo by torchlight, as
I indeed would have been the case at noon; for it ex tends
nearly a q uarter of a league beneath the mountain, and
in the centre, the light of day, admitted at either ex -
tremity, is scarcely visible. I n this long vault the tramp of
steeds and cries of their drivers resound so stunningly,
that they deaden all thought in the brain. Corinne' s
horses drew her carriage with astonishing rapidity;
yet
did she say, " Dear N evil, how slowly we advance! pray
hasten them. " -- " W hy thus impatient? " he ask ed:
"
ex
"
formerly, while we were together, you sought not to
pedite time, but to enj oy it. " -- " Y et now," she said,
all must be decision; every thing must come to an end;
and I would hasten it, were it my death. " O n leaving the
Grotto you feel a lively sensation at regaining daylight, and
the open country; such a country too! W hat are so often
missed in I taly, fine trees, here flourish in abundance.
I talian earth is every where so spread with flowers, that
woods may better be dispensed with here than in most
other lands. The heat at N aples is so great, that, even
in the shade, it is impossible to walk by day; but in the
evening the sea and sk y alik e shed freshness through the
transparent air: the mountains are so picturesq ue that
painters love to select their landscapes from a country
whose original charm can be ex plained by no comparison
with other realms. " I lead ye," said Corinne, to those
near her, " through the fair scene celebrated by the name
of B ais: we will not pause there now, but gather its recol-
lections into the moment when we reach the spot which
sets them all before us. " I t was on the cape of Micena
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 223
that she had prepared her fete; nothing could he more
tastefully arranged. S ailors, in habits of contrasted hues,
and some O rientalists from a L evantine bark then in the
port, danced with the peasant girls from I schia and Procida,'
whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace; sweet voices
were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental
music answered from behind the rock s. I t was lik e echo
echoed by sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The
softness of the air animated all around-- even Corinne her-
self. S he was entreated to dance among the rustics: at
first she consented with pleasure, but scarcely had she be-
gun ere her forebodings rendered all amusement odious to
her, and she withdrew to the ex treme verge of the cape;
thither O swald followed, with others, who now begged
her to ex temporise in this lovely scene: her emotions were
such that she permitted them to lead her towards the
elevation on which they had placed her lyre, without
power to comprehend what they ex pected.
CH A PTE R I V .
S till Corinne desired that O swald should once more hear
her, as on the day at the Capitol. I f the talent with which
H eaven had gifted her was about to be ex tinguished for
ever, she wished its last rays to shine on him she loved:
these very fears afforded her the inspiration she req uired.
H er friends were impatient to hear her. E ven the com-
mon people k new her fame; and, as imagination rendered
them j udges of poetry, they closed silently round, their
eager faces ex pressing the deepest attention. The moon
arose; but the last beams of day still paled her light.
F rom the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea,
forms the cape of Micena, V esuvius is plainly seen, and the
bay and isles that stud its bosom. W ith one consent the
friends of Corinne begged her to sing the memories that
scene recalled. S he tuned her lyre, and began with a
brok en voice. H er look was beautiful; but one who k new
her, as O swald did, could there read the trouble of her
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? 224-CO R I N N B ; O R I TA L Y .
soul. S he strove, however, to restrain her feelings, and
once more, if but for awhile, to soar above her personal
situation.
CO R I N N e' sCH A N TI N TH E V I CI N I TY O F N A PL E S .
A y, N ature, H istory, and Poesie,
R ival each other' s greatness : -- here the eye
S weeps with a glance, all wonders and all time.
A dead volcano now, I see thy lak e
A vernus, with the fear-inspiring waves
A cheron, and Phlegeton boiling up
W ith subterranean flame: these are the streams
O f that old hell J E neas visited.
F ire, the devouring life which first creates
The world which it consumes, struck terror most
W hen least its laws were k nown. --
R eveal' d her secrets but to Poetry.
A h! N ature then
The town of Cuma and the S ibyl' s cave,
The temple of A pollo mark ' d this height;
H ere is the wood where grew the bough of gold.
The country of the ^ neid is around;
The fables genius consecrated here
A re memories whose traces still we seek .
A Triton has beneath these billows plunged
The daring Troj an, who in song defied
The sea divinities: still are the rock s
H ollow and sounding, such as V irgil told.
I magination' s truth is from its power:
Man' s genius can create when nature' s felt;
H e copies when he deems that he invents.
A mid these masses, terrible and old,
Creation' s witnesses, you see arise
A younger hill of the volcano born:
F or here the earth is stormy as the sea,
B ut doth not, lik e the sea, peaceful return
W ithin its bounds: the heavy element,
Upshak en by the tremulous abyss,
Digs valleys, and rears mountains; while the waves,
H arden' d to stone, attest the storms which rend
H er depths; strik e now upon the earth,
Y ou hear the subterranean vault resound.
I t is as if the ground on which we dwell
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 225
I W ere but a surface ready to unclose.
N aples! how doth thy country lik eness bear
To human passions; fertile, sulphurous:
I ts dangers and its pleasures both seem born
O f those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow
Upon the atmosphere so many charms,
Y et bid the thunder growl beneath our feet.
Pliny but studied nature that the more
H e might love I taly; and call' d his land
The loveliest, when all other titles fail' d.
H e sought for science as a warrior seek s
F or conq uest: it was from this very cape
H e went to watch V esuvius through the flames:
Those flames consumed him.
O h Memory! noble power! thy reign is here.
S trange destiny, how thus, from age to age,
Doth man complain of that which he has lost.
S till do departed years, each in their turn,
S eem treasurers of happiness gone by;
A nd while mind, j oyful in its far advance,
Plunges amid the future, still the S oul
S eems to regret some other ancient home
To which it is drawn closer by the past.
W e envy R oman grandeur -- did they not
E nvy their fathers' brave simplicity?
O nce this voluptuous country they despised;
I ts pleasures but subdued their enemies.
| S ee, in the distance, Capua! she o' ercame
The warrior, whose 6 rm soul resisted R ome
More time than did a world.
The R omans in their turn dwelt on these plains,
W hen strength of mind but only served to feel
More deeply shame and grief; effeminate,
They sank without remorse. Y et B aise saw
The conq uer' d sea give place to palaces:
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain,
A nd the world' s masters, now in their turn slaves,
Made nature subj ect to console themselves
That they were subj ect too.
