No More Learning

ment under which she had so long lived, seized her in
F ebruary. B y the use of ex cessively violent means, it was
thrown off; but, though the disease was gone, her con-
stitution was brok en up. L ife passed at first insensibly
from the ex tremities, and then no less slowly retired from
the more vital organs. I n general, she suffered little, and
her faculties remained in unclouded brightness to the last.
The interest ex cited by her situation proved the affection
she had inspired, and of what conseq uence her life was'
accounted to her country. E very day some of the royal
family were anx iously enq uiring at the door, and every day
the Duk e of W ellington came in person to ask if there was
no hope. H er most intimate friends (who have been often
mentioned in the course of this memoir) were admitted
into her sick chamber. S he conversed upon all the subj
that were introduced, and took an interest in them all. I
her conversation at this period had less than her usual
animation, it is said to have had more of richness and
depth. The deadly paleness of her features formed a
touching contrast with the dazzling intelligence, which
never deserted her ex pressive countenance. H er friends
placed a double value on every remark she uttered, and
treasured it in their inmost hearts as one of the last efforts
of her wonderful mind. S ome of them indulged the hope
ects
f
that she might recover; but she k new from the first that
the work of death was begun. A t one time, owing to a
high nervous ex citement produced by the progress of her
disease, the thought of dissolution was terrible to her. -- S he
mourned over the talents that had made her life so brilliant;
C2
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? llV ME MO I R O F MA DA ME DE S TA E L .
short, it was an intellectual banq uet, at which all that the
human mind could conceive or create was abundantly
served up. I n these literary and philosophical disputes,
Madame de S tael had a decided superiority over her father
in q uick ness of perception, readiness of ex pression, and
eloq uence. B ut whenever she was about to seize the palm
of victory, she always appeared restrained by a feeling of
filial respect. A s if fearful of the success she had ob-
tained, she would with admirable dex terity and grace com-
mit herself in an error, for the purpose of resigning to her
antagonist the glory of the victory. B ut that antagonist
was her father; and he was the only person to whom she
ever conceded such an advantage.
" ' A fter break fast, the party separated until dinner,
which was constantly accompanied by disputes between M.
N eck er and several deaf and ill-tempered maitres-d' hotel,
the remnants of a system which M. N eck er himself had
overthrown, and who in their embroidered coats had fol-
lowed his fortunes to Coppet. The afternoon was devoted
to study until seven o' clock , when whist was commenced.
This was always a stormy game: M. N eck er and his
daughter invariably q uarrelled, lost their tempers, and left
the table with the determination of never again playing
together. B ut in spite of this the game was daily resumed.
The rest of the evening was passed in agreeable conversation.
" ' W ith the ex ception of a few ex cursions, Madame de
S tael in this manner spent eight years of her life; alter
nately devoting herself to the society of her father and the
education of her children. A t this period, too, she wrote
what may be termed her work s of the second-rate class;
viz. O n the I nfluence of the Passions; O n L iterature; and
lastly, Delphine.
" ' A fterthedeathofM. N eck er,in1804,Madamede
S tael, finding herself relieved from all restraint, and the
mistress of a splendid fortune, aspired to figure upon the
stage of politics. To this she was urged by a vivid recol-
lection of the commencement of the revolution, the date of
her first acq uaintance with the world, and her early suc-
-cess. S he was enticed to enter this arena, by the desire of
ex ercising the power which she regarded as an attribute of
her superior genius.
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? ME MO I R O F MA DA ME DE S TA E L . lv
" ' B ut this love of authority took possession of her at a
fatal moment; viz. at a time when all the efforts of an
herculean government were ex erted to free society from the
action of individual influence, and to concentrate all power
in itself. Thus a contest ensued, between the individual
influence which Madame de S tael wished to ex ercise, and
the resistance which was opposed by the government of
the empire. This contest lasted eight years, at the ex -
piration of which time, Madame de S tael withdrew from
this conflict hetween a stupendous moral power and a phy-
sical power stronger than had ever before ex isted.
" ' During this period Madame de S tael published Co-
rinne, and her great work on Germany; the materials for
the latter she collected in j ourneys undertak en to escape
from the imperial authority, and to sympathise with the vic-
tims of that authority who had been wounded, but permitted
to survive. The idea of this work was suggested by the
labours she undertook , and ex ecuted conj ointly with M.
S chlegel, to ex plore the literary world of Germany; a world
which was then new, and entirely unacq uainted with the
ideas, traditions, and even the rules which were the pride
of F rench literature.
" ' Madame de S tael felt the necessity of emancipating
herself from these ideas, traditions, and rules; she was en-
dowed with a genuine poetic feeling, a horror of bad taste,
and a power of charming by the harmony of language,
which gave rise to freq uent controversies between her and
M. S chlegel, who, as it may be observed from his lectures,
did not allow himself to be fascinated by R acine' s har-
monious versification. I t was only necessary for Madame
de S tael to recite some passages of R acine, to stir up one
of those disputes whence emanated a thousand ideas, as
novel as profound, on the mysteries of our moral nature.
" ' O ne of Madame de S taeTs favourite amusements, at
this time, consisted in dramatic representation. H er fine
voice and energetic gestures gave her a great advantage in
the performance of tragedy. I n these representations she
was assisted by Count E lzear de S abran, M. Charles de
L abedoyere and Don Pedro de S ouza, now Marq uis de
Palmella. H er style of acting belonged to the school
which had preceded Talma; for, in spite of her admiration
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? lviME MO I R O F MA DA ME DE S TA E L .
of that great tragedian, she was not his disciple. Madame
de S tael attached no great value to her talent for dramatic
performance. I t is curious that she ex celled in the repre-
sentation of soubrettes.
" ' The Count de S ahran wrote pieces for these private
theatricals, and Madame de S tael herself wrote " A
S unamite" and two other pieces, which were subseq
printed and much admired. A t these performances at
Coppet, the audience consisted of Madame de S tael'
gar, la
uently
s ac-
q uaintance in the neighbourhood, and very freq uently,
friends who came from a considerable distance to see her.
A mong these friends, I must mention Prince W illiam of
Prussia, B aron de V oght, B onstettin, the poet V erner,
M. de Montmorency (who every year made a pilgrimage
to the V al-S ainte and Coppet), and Madame de R ecamier,
who j oined to ex q uisite beauty a fund of talent and amia-
bility which were duly appreciated by Madame de S tael.
" ' A s long as Madame de S tael could assemble around
her this circle of friends, ex istence was endurable to her,
even in ex ile. B ut when, beneath her hospitable roof, and
on one and the same day, sentence of ex ile was pronounced
upon Madame de R ecamier and M. de Montmorency, the
distress of her feelings overcame her fortitude. H er ex -
treme horror of solitude, and the mortification of believing
herself the immediate cause of the condemnation of her
friends, determined her to leave F rance until happier days,
and to seek elsewhere the liberty which F rance denied her. '
" A s I have already mentioned, Madame de S tael returned
to Paris after the death of her father, M. N eck er. H er
numerous friends wished to mak e this return a sort of
triumph. This was ill-j udged. The E mperor, who en-
tertained towards her a very unj ust and groundless dislik e,
took offence at the interest which was ex cited by the
arrival of a woman. H e forgot that that woman was
endowed with ex traordinary genius; that she scanned with
an eagle glance all that came under her observation; that
in short, though a woman, she was one of the greatest
political economists of the day. Perhaps, however, he did
not forget all this, and it might possibly be fear which in-
duced him to banish her. "
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? CO R I N N E ;
OR
' I TA L Y .
BOOKI.
O S W A L D.
CH A PTE R I .
I n the year 1794, O
swald, L
ord N
evil, a S
taly. * H
cotch nobleman,
e possessed
left E dinburgh to pass the winter in I
a noble and handsome person, a fine mind, a great name,
an independent fortune; but his health was impaired; and
the physicians, fearing that his lungs were affected, pre-
scribed the air of the south. H e followed their advice,
though with little interest in his own recovery, hoping, at
least, to find some amusement in the varied obj ects he
was about to behold. That heaviest of all afflictions, the
loss of a father, was the cause of his malady. The re-
morse inspired by scrupulous delicacy still more embittered
his regret, and haunted his imagination. S uch sufferings
we readily convince ourselves that we deserve, for violent
griefs ex tend their influence even over the realms of con-
science. A t five-and-twenty he was tired of life; he
j udged the future by the past, and no longer relished the
illusions of the heart. N o one could be more devoted to
the service of his friends; yet not even the good he effected
gave him one sensation of pleasure. H e constantly sacri-
* N either of these names are S cotch. W e are not informed whether the
hero' s Christian name is O swald, or N evil his family one, as well as his title.
H e signs the former to his letters, and constantly calls himself an E nglishman.
-- Translator.
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? 2C0R I N N E ; O B I TA L Y .
ficed his tastes to those of others; but this generosity alone,
far from proving a total forgetfulness of self, may often be
attributed to a degree of melancholy, which renders a man
careless of his own doom. The indifferent considered
this mood ex tremely graceful; but those who loved him
felt that he employed himself for the happiness of others,
lik e a man who hoped for none; and they almost repined
at receiving felicity from one on whom they could never
bestow it. H is natural disposition was versatile, sensitive,
and impassioned; uniting all the q ualities which could
ex cite himself or others; but misfortune and repentance
had rendered him timid, and he thought to disarm, by ex -
acting nothing from fate. H e trusted to find, in a firm
adherence to his duties, and a renouncement of all enj oy-
ments, a security against the sorrows which had distracted
him. N othing in the world seemed worth the risk of
these pangs; but while we are still capable of feeling them,
to what k ind of life can we fly for shelter?
L ord N evil flattered himself that he should q uit S cot-
land without regret, as he had remained there without
pleasure; but the dangerous dreams of imaginative minds are
not thus fulfilled; he was sensible of the ties which bound
him to the scene of his miseries, the home of his father.
There were rooms he could not approach without a shud-
der, and yet, when he had resolved to fly them, he felt
more alone than ever. A barren dearth seized on his
heart; he could no longer weep; no more recall those little
local associations which had so deeply melted him; his
recollections had less of life; they belonged not to the
things that surrounded him. H e did not think the less of
those he mourned, but it became more difficult to conj ure
back their presence. S ometimes, too, he reproached him-
self for abandoning the place where his father had dwelt.
" W ho k nows," would he sigh, " if the shades of the
dead follow the obj ects of their affection? They may not
be permitted to wander beyond the spots where their ashes
repose! Perhaps, at this moment, is my father deploring
mine absence, powerless to recall me. A las! may not a
host of wild events have persuaded him that I have be-
-
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 3
trayed his tenderness, turned rebel to my country, to his
will, and all that is sacred on earth? "
These remembrances occasioned him such insupportable
despair, that, far from daring to confide them in any one,
he dreaded to sound their depths himself; so easy is it,
out of our own reflections, to create irreparable evils!
I t costs added pain to leave one' s country, when
one must cross the sea. There is such solemnity in a
pilgrimage, the first steps of which are on the ocean. I t
seems as if a gulf were opening behind you, and your return
becoming impossible; besides, the sight of the main always
profoundly impresses us, as the image of that infinitude
which perpetually attracts the soul, and in which thought
ever feels herself lost. O swald, leaning near the helm, his
eyes fix ed on the waves, appeared perfectly calm. Pride
and diffidence generally prevented his betraying his emo-
tions even before his friends; but sad feelings struggled
within. H e thought on the time when that spectacle
animated his youth with a desire to buffet the tides, and
measure his strength with theirs.
" W hy," he bitterly mused, " why thus constantly
yield to meditation? There is such rapture in active life!
in those violent ex ercises that mak e us feel the energy of
ex istence! then death itself may appear glorious; at least
it is sudden, and not preceded by decay; but that death
which finds us without being bravely sought, -- that gloomy
death which steals from you, in a night, all you held dear,
which mock s your regrets, repulses your embrace, and
pitilessly opposes to your desire the eternal laws of time
and nature, -- that death inspires a k ind of contempt for
human destiny, for the powerlessness of grief, and all the
vain efforts that wreck themselves against necessity. "
S uch were the torturing sentiments which characterised
the wretchedness of his state. The vivacity of youth was
united with the thoughts of another age,- such as might
well have occupied the mind of his father in his last hours;
but O swald tinted the melancholy contemplations of age
with the ardour of five-and-twenty. H e was weary of
every thing; yet, nevertheless, lamented his lost content,
as if its visions still lingered.
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? 4CO R I N N E J O B I TA L Y .
This inconsistency, entirely at variance with the will of
nature (which has placed the conclusion and the gradation
of things in their rightful course), disordered the depths
of his soul; but his manners were ever sweet and harmo-
nious; nay, his grief, far from inj uring his temper, taught
him a still greater degree of consideration and gentleness
for others.
Twice or thrice in the voyage from H arwich to E mden
the sea threatened stormily. N
re-assured the passengers;
for a moment took the pilot'
evil directed the sailors,
and while, toiling himself, he
s place, there was a vigour and
address in what he did, which could not be regarded as
the simple effect of personal strength and activity, for
mind pervaded it all.
W hen they were about to part, all on board crowded
round him to tak e leave, thank ing him for a thousand
good offices, which he had forgotten: sometimes it was a
child that he had nursed so long; more freq uently, some old
man whose steps he had supported while the wind rock ed
the vessel. S uch an absence of personal feeling was scarce
ever k nown. H is voyage had passed without his having
devoted a moment to himself; he gave up his time to
others, in melancholy benevolence. A nd now the whole
crew cried, almost with one voice, " God bless you, my
L ord! we wish you better! "
Y et O swald had not once complained; and the persons
of a higher class, who had crossed with him, said not a
word on this subj ect: but the common people, in whom
their superiors rarely confide, are wont to detect the truth
without the aid of words: they pity you when you suffer,
though ignorant of the cause; and their spontaneous sym-
pathy is unmix ed with either censure or advice.
CH A PTE R I I .
Travelling, say what we will, is one of the saddest plea,
sures in life. I f you ever feel at ease in a strange place,
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 5
it is because you have begun to mak e it your home; but
to traverse unk nown lands, to hear a language which you
hardly comprehend, to look on faces unconnected with
either your past or future, this is solitude without repose
or dignity; for the hurry to arrive where no one awaits
you, that agitation whose sole cause is curiosity, lessens you
in your own esteem, while, ere new obj ects can become
old, they have bound you by some sweet link s of senti-
ment and habit.
O swald felt his despondency redoubled in crossing Ger-
many to reach I taly, obliged by war to avoid F rance and
its frontiers, as well as the troops, who rendered the roads
impassable. This necessity for attending to detail, and
tak ing, almost every instant, a new resolution, was utterly
insufferable. H is health, instead of improving, often
obliged him to stop, while he longed to arrive at some
other place, or at least to fly from where he was. H e took
the least possible care of his constitution; accusing him-
self as culpable, with but too great severity. I f he wished
still to live, it was but for the defence of his country.
" My native land," would he sigh -- " has it not a
parental right over me? but I want power to serve it use-
fully.
I must not offer it the feeble ex istence which I
drag towards the sun, to beg of him some principle of life,
that may struggle against my woes. N one but a father
could receive me thus, and love me the more, the more I
was deserted by nature and by fate. "
H e had flattered himself that a continual change of
ex ternal obj ects would somewhat divert his fancy from its
usual routine; but he could not, at first, realise this effect.
I t were better, after any great loss, to familiarise ourselves
afresh with all that had surrounded us, accustom our-
selves to the old familiar faces, to the house in which we
had lived, and the daily duties which we ought to resume:
each of these efforts j ars fearfully on the heart; but no-
thing multiplies them lik e an absence.
O swald' s only pleasure was ex ploring the Tyrol, on a
horse which he had brought from S cotland and who
climbed the hills at a gallop. The astonished peasants
began by shriek ing with fright, as they saw him borne
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? b corinne; or italy.
along the precipice' s edge, and ended by clapping their
hands in admiration of his dex terity, grace, and courage.
H e loved the sense of danger. I t reconciled him for the
instant with that life which he thus seemed to regain, and
which it would have been so easy to lose.
CH A PTE R I I I .
A t I nspruck
of a bank er, O
' Count d' E
, where he stayed for some time, in the house
swald was much interested by the history of
rfeuil, a F rench emigrant, who had sustained the
total loss of an immense fortune with perfect serenity. B y
his musical talents he had maintained himself and an aged
uncle, over whom he watched till the good man' s death,
constantly refusing the pecuniary aid which had been
pressed on him. H e had displayed the most brilliant va-
lour-- that of F rance-- during the war, and an unchange-
able gaiety in the midst of reverses. H e was anx ious to
visit R ome, that he might find a relative, whose heir he ex -
pected to become; and wished for a companion, or rather
a friend, with whom to mak e the j ourney agreeably.
L ord N evil' s saddest recollections were attached to
' F rance; yet he was ex empt from the prej udices which
divided the two nations. O ne F renchman had been his
intimate friend, in whom he had found an union of the
most estimable q ualities. H e therefore offered, through
the narrator of Count d' E rfeuil' s story, to tak e this noble
and unfortunate young man with him to I taly. The
bank er in an hour informed him that his proposal was
gratefully accepted. O swald rej oiced in rendering this
' service to another, though it cost him much to resign his
seclusion; and his reserve suffered greatly at the prospect
of finding himself thus thrown on the society of a man he
did not k now.
H e shortly received a visit of thank s from the Count,
who possessed an elegant manner, ready politeness, and
good taste; from the first appearing perfectly at his ease.
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . f
E very one, on seeing him, wondered at what he had un-'
dergone; for he bore his lot with a courage approaching
to forgetfulness. There was a liveliness in his convers.
ation truly admirable, while he spok e of his own misfor-
tunes; though less so, it must be owned, when ex tended to
other subj ects.
" I am greatly obliged to your L ordship," said he, " for
transporting me from Germany, of which I am tired to
death. " -- " A nd yet," replied N
sally beloved and respected here. " --
indeed, whom I shall sincerely regret;
evil, " you are univer.
" I have friends,
for in this country
one meets none but the best of people: only I don' t k now
a word of German;
long and tedious task
to lose my uncle, I
and you will confess that it were a
to lear n it. S ince I had the ill-luck
have not k nown what to do with my lei-
sure: while I had to attend on him, that filled up my time;
but now the four-and-twenty hours hang heavily on my
hands. " -- " The delicacy of your conduct towards your
k insman, Count," said N evil, " has impressed me with the
deepest regard for you. " -- " I did no more than my duty.
Poor man! he had lavished his favours on my childhood. I
could never have left him, had he lived to be a hundred; but
' tis well for him that he' s gone; ' twere well for me to be
with him," he added, laughing, " for I ' ve little to hope in
this world. I did my best, during the war, to get k illed;
but since fate would spare me, I must live on as I may. "
-- " I shall congratulate myself on coming hither," an-
swered N evil, " should you do well in R ome; and if"
-- " O h,H eaven! " interruptedd' E rfeuil," I dowell
enough every where; while we are young and cheerful,
all things find their level. ' Tis neither from book s nor
from meditation that I have acq uired my philosophy, but
from being used to the world and its mishaps; nay, you
see, my L ord, I have some reason for trusting to chance,
since I owe to it the opportunity of travelling with you. "
The Count then agreed on the hour for setting forth nex t
day, and, with a graceful bow, departed. A fter the mere
interchange of civilities with which their j ourney com-
menced, O swald remained silent for some hours; but per-
ceiving that this fatigued his fellow-traveller, he ask ed him
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? 8 coaiN N B ; or italy.
if he anticipated much pleasure in their I talian tour.
" O h," replied the Count, " I k now what to ex pect, and
don' t look forward to the least amusement. A friend of
mine passed six months there, and tells me that there is
not a F rench province without a better theatre, and more
agreeable society, than R ome; but in that ancient capital
of the world I shall be sure to find some of my country-
men to chat with; and that is all I req uire. "
you have not been tempted to learn I talian? "
that was never included in the plan of my studies,"
-- " Then
-- " N o,
he
answered, with so serious an air, that one might have
thought him ex pressing a resolution founded on the gravest
motives. " The fact is," he continued, " that I lik e no
, people but the E nglish and the F rench. Men must be
proud lik e you, or wits lik e ourselves; all the rest is
mere imitation. " O swald said nothing. A few moments
afterwards the Count renewed the conversation by sallies
of vivacity and humour, in which he played on words
most ingeniously; but neither what he saw nor what
he felt was his theme. H is discourse sprang not from
within, nor from without; but, steering clear alik e of
reflection and imagination, found its subj ects in the
superficial traits of society. H e named twenty persons
in F rance and E ngland, enq uiring if L ord N evil k new
them; and relating as many pointed anecdotes, as if,
in his opinion, the only language for a man of taste was
the gossip of good company. N evil pondered for some
time on this singular combination of courage and frivolity,
this contempt of misfortune, which would have been so
heroic if it had cost more effort, instead of springing from
' the same source which rendered him incapable of deep
affections. " A n E nglishman," thought he, " would have
been overwhelmed by similar circumstances. W hence does
this F renchman derive his fortitude, yet pliancy of cha-
racter? Does he rightly understand the art of living? I
deem myself his superior, yet am I not ill and wretched?
/Does his trifling course accord better than mine with the
fleetness of life? Must one fly from thought as from a foe,
instead of yielding all the soul to its power? " I n vain he
sought to clear these doubts; he could call no aid from
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . y
his own intellectual region, whose best q ualities were even
more ungovernable than its defects.
The Count gave none of his attention to I taly, and ren-
dered it almost impossible for O swald to be entertained by
it. D' E rfeuil turned from his friend' s admiration of a
fine country, and sense of its picturesq ue charm: our in-
valid listened as oft as he could to the sound of the winds,
or the murmur of the waves; the voice of nature did more
for his mind than sk etches of coteries held at the foot of
the A lps, among ruins, or on the bank s of the sea. H is
own grief would have been less an obstacle to the pleasure
he might have tasted than was the mirth of d' E rfeuil.
The regrets of a feeling heart may harmonise with a con-
templation of nature and an enj oyment of the fine arts; but
frivolity, under whatever form it appears, deprives attention
of its power, thought of its originality, and sentiment of
its depth. O ne strange effect of the Count' s levity was
its inspiring N evil with diffidence in all their affairs to-
gether.
The most reasoning characters are often the easiest
abashed. The giddy embarrass and over-awe the contem-
plative; and the being who calls himself happy appears
wiser than he who suffers. D' E rfeuil was every way mild,
obliging, and free; serious only in his self-love, and
worthy to be lik ed as much as he could lik e another; that
is, as a good companion in pleasure and in peril, but one
who k new not how to participate in pain. H e wearied of
O swald' s melancholy; and, as well from the goodness of
his heart as from taste, he strove to dissipate it. " W hat
would you have? " he often said: " A re you not young,
rich, and well, if you choose? you are but fancy-sick
have lost all, and k now not what will become of me;
enj oy life as if I possessed every earthly blessing. "
. I
yet I
-- " Y our
" but
courage is as rare as it is honourable," replied N evil;
the reverses you have k nown wound less than do the sor-
rows of the heart. " -- " The sorrows of the heart! ay, true,
they must be the worst of all; but still you must console
yourself; for a sensible man ought to banish from his
mind whatever can be of no service to himself or others.
A re we not placed here below to be useful first, and con-
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? 10CO R I N N E :O R I TA L Y .
seq uently happy? My dear N evil, let us hold by that
faith. "
A ll this was rational enough, in the usual sense of the
word; for d' E rfeuil was, in most respects, a clear-headed
man. The impassioned are far more liable to weak ness,
than the fick le; but, instead of his mode of think ing se-
curing the confidence of N evil, he would fain have assured
the Count that he was the happiest of human beings, to
escape the infliction of his attempts at comfort. N ever-
theless, d' E rfeuil became strongly attached to L ord N evil.
H is resignation and simplicity, his modesty and pride,
created respect irresistibly. The Count was perplex ed by
O swald' s ex ternal composure, and tax ed his memory for all
the grave max ims, which in childhood he had heard from
his old relations, in order to try their effect upon his friend:
and, astonished at failing to vanq uish his apparent coldness,
he ask ed himself, " A
and popular in society?
impression on this man?
m I not good-natured, frank , brave,
W hat do I want, then, to mak
May there not be some misunder-
e an
standing between us, arising, perhaps, from his not suf-
ficiently understanding F rench? "
CH A PTE R I V .
A n unforeseen circumstance much increased the sensations
of deference which d'
companion. L ord N
stop some days at A
E rfeuil felt towards his travelling
evil' s state of health obliged him to
ncona. Mount and main conspired to
beautify its site; and the crowd of Greek s, orientally seated
at work before the shops, the varied costumes of the
L evant, to be met with in the streets, give the town an
original and interesting air. Civilisation tends to render
all men alik e, in appearance if not in reality; yet fancy
may find pleasure in characteristic national distinctions.
Men only resemble each other when sophisticated by
sordid or fashionable life; whatever is natural admits of
? ? Generated for (University of Chicago) on 2014-12-22 00:48 GMT / http://hdl. handle. net/2027/hvd. 32044021204953 Public Domain, Google-digitized / http://www. hathitrust. org/access_use#pd-google
? CO B I N N E ; O B I TA L Y . I I
variety. There is a slight gratification, at least for the
eyes, in that diversity of dress, which seems to promise us
ex perience in eq ually novel ways of feeling and of j
udgment.
The Greek , Catholic, and J ewish forms of worship ex ist
peaceably together in A ncona. Their ceremonies are
strongly contrasted; but the same sigh of distress, the same
petition for support, ascends to H eaven from all.
The Catholic church stands on a height that overlook s
the main, the lash of whose tides freq uently blends with
the chant of the priests. W ithin, the edifice is loaded
by ornaments of indifferent taste; but, pausing beneath the
portico, the soul delights to recall its purest of emotions--
religion, -- while gazing at that superb spectacle, the sea,
on which man never left his trace. H e may plough the
earth, and cut his way through mountains, or contract
rivers into canals, for the transport of his merchandise;
but if his fleets for a moment furrow the ocean, its waves
as instantly efface this slight mark of servitude, and it
again appears such as it was on the first day of its creation. *
L ord N evil had decided to start for R ome on the mor-
row, when he heard, during the night, a terrific cry from
the streets, and hastening from his hotel to learn the cause,
beheld a conflagration which, beginning at the port, spread
from house to house towards the top of the town. The
flames were reflected afar off in the sea; the wind, increasing
their violence, agitated their images on the waves, which
mirrored in a thousand shapes the blood-red features of a
lurid fire. The inhabitants, having no engine in good re-
pair (1), hurriedly bore forth what succour they could;
above their shouts was heard a clank of chains, as the slaves
from the galleys toiled to save the city which served them for
* L ord B yron translated this paragraph in the fourth canto of Clulde H arold,
but without ack nowledging whence the ideas were borrowed: --
" R oll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean -- roll 1
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man mark s the earth with ruin -- his control
S tops with the shore ; -- upon the wafry plain
The wreck s are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man'
>>****
Time writes no wrink
S uch as creation'
s ravage. * *
le on thine azure brow --
s dawn beheld, thou rollest now. "
S ee stanzas 1/9. and 182 Tr.
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? 12CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y .
a prison. The various people of the L evant, whom com-
merce had drawn to A ncona, betrayed their dread by the
stupor of their look s. The merchants, at sight of their
blazing stores, lost all presence of mind. Trembling for
fortune as much as for life, the generality of men were
scared from that zealous enthusiasm which suggests re-
sources in emergency.
The shouts of^ . sailors have ever something dreary in
their sound; fear now rendered them still more appalling.
The mariners of the A driatic were clad in peculiar red and
brown hoods, from which peeped their animated I talian
faces, under every ex pression of dismay. The natives,
lying on the earth, covered their heads with their cloak s, as
if nothing remained for them to do but ex clude the sight of
their calamity. R eck less fury and blind submission reigned
alternately, but no one evinced that coolness which re-
doubles our means and our strength.
O swald remembered that there were two E nglish vessels
in the harbour: the pumps of both were in perfect order: he
ran to the Captain' s house, and put off with him in a boat,
to fetch them. Those who witnessed this ex claimed to
him, " A h, you foreigners do well to leave our unhappy
town ! " -- " W e shall soon return," said O swald. They
did not believe him, till he came back , and placed one of the
pumps in front of the house nearest to the port, the other
before that which blazed in the centre of the street. Count
d' E rfeuil ex posed his life with gay and careless daring.
The E nglish sailors and L ord N evil' s servants came to his
aid, for the populace remained motionless, scarcely under-
standing what these strangers meant to do, and without the
slightest faith in their success. The bells rung from all
sides; the priests formed processions; weeping females
threw themselves before their sculptured saints ; but no one
thought on the natural powers which God has given man
for his own defence. N evertheless, when they perceived
the fortunate effects of O swald' s activity -- the flames ex -
tinguished, and their homes preserved -- rapture succeeded
astonishment: they pressed around him, and k issed his
hand with such ardent eagerness, that he was obliged by
feigned displeasure to drive them from him, lest they should
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? CO R I N N E ; O R I TA L Y . 13
impede the rapid succession of necessary orders for saving
the town. E very one rank ed himself beneath O swald' s
command; for, in trivial as in great events, where danger
is, firmness will find its rightful station; and while men
strongly fear, they cease to feel j ealousy. A mid the general
tumult, N evil now distinguished shriek s more horrible than
aught he had previously heard, as if from the other ex tre-
mity of the town. H e enq uired their source; and was told
that they proceeded from the J ews' q uarter. The officer of
police was accustomed to close its gates every evening; the
fire gained on it, and the occupants could not escape.
O swald shuddered at the thought, and bade them instantly
open the barriers; but the women, who heard him, flung
themselves at his feet, ex claiming, " O h, our good angel!
you must be aware that it is certainly on their account we
have endured this visitation; it is they who bring us ill
fortune; and if you set them free, all the water of the
ocean will never q uench these flames. " They entreated him
to let the J ews be burnt with as much persuasive eloq uence
as if they had been petitioning for an act of mercy. N ot
that they were by nature cruel, but that their superstitious
fancies were forcibly struck by a great disaster. O swald
with difficulty contained his indignation at hearing a prayer
so revolting. H e sent four E nglish sailors, with hatchets,
to cut down the gate which confined these hapless men,
who instantly spread themselves about the town, rushing
to their merchandize, through the flames, with that greedi-
ness of wealth, which impresses us so painfully, when it
drives men to brave even death; as if human beings, in the
present state of society, had nothing to do with the simple
gift of life. There was now but one house, at the upper
part of the town, where the fire mock ed all efforts to sub-
due it. S o little interest had been shown in this abode,
that the sailors, believing it vacant, had carried their pumps
towards the port. O swald himself, stunned by the calls
for aid around him, had almost disregarded it.