The Carthusian monastery is built upon the ruins of the Thermae of Diocletian; and the church by the side of the monastery, is decorated with such of its granite columns as remained standing. The monks who inhabit this retreat are very eager to show them, and the interest they take in these ruins seems to be the only one they feel in this world. The mode of life observed by the Carthusians, supposes in them either a very limited mind, or the most noble and continued elevation of religious sentiments; this succession of days without any variety of event, reminds us of that celebrated line:

Sur les mondes detruits le Temple dort immobile.

The Temple sleeps motionless on the ruins of worlds.

The whole employment of their life serves but to contemplate death. Activity of mind, with such an uniformity of existence, would be a most cruel torment. In the midst of the cloister grow four cypresses. This dark and silent tree, which is with difficulty agitated by the wind, introduces no appearance of motion into this abode. Near the cypresses is a fountain, scarcely heard, whose fall is so feeble and slow, that one would be led to call it the clepsydra of this solitude, where time makes so little noise. Sometimes the moon penetrates it with her pale lustre, and her absence and return may be considered as an event in this monotonous scene.

Those men who exist thus, are nevertheless the same to whom war and all its bustle would scarcely suffice if they had been brought up to it.

The different combinations of human destiny upon earth afford an inexhaustible source of reflection. A thousand accidents pass, and a thousand habits are formed in the interior of the soul, which make every individual a world and the subject of a history. To know another perfectly, would be the task of a whole life; what is it then that we understand by knowing men? To govern them is practicable by human wisdom, but to comprehend them belongs to God alone.

From the Carthusian monastery Oswald repaired to that of St Bonaventure, built upon the ruins of the palace of Nero; there, where so many crimes have been committed without remorse, poor monks, tormented by scruples of conscience, impose upon themselves the most cruel punishment for the slightest fault. "Our only hope," said one of these devotees, "is that at the hour of death our sins will not have exceeded our penances." Lord Nelville, as he entered this monastery struck his foot against a trap, and asking the use of it—"It leads to our place of interment;" said one of the young monks, who was already struck with the malady caused by the malaria. The inhabitants of the south being very much afraid of death, we are astonished to find institutions in Italy which fix the ideas upon this point; but it is natural to be fond of thoughts that inspire us with dread. There is, as it were, an intoxication of sadness, which does good to the soul by occupying it entirely.

An ancient Sarcophagus of a young child serves for the fountain to this convent. The beautiful Palm-tree of which Rome boasts, is the only tree of any sort in the garden of these monks; but they pay no attention to external objects. Their discipline is too rigorous to allow any kind of latitude to the mind. Their looks are cast down, their gait is slow, they make no use of their will. They have abdicated the government of themselves, so fatiguing is this empire to its sad possessor. This day, however, did not produce much emotion in the soul of Oswald; the imagination revolts at death, presented under all its various forms in a manner so manifestly intentional. When we unexpectedly meet this memento mori, when it is nature and not man that speaks to our soul, the impression we receive is much deeper.

Oswald felt the most calm and gentle sensations when, at sunset, he entered the garden of San Giovanni e Paolo. The monks of this monastery are subjected to a much less rigid discipline, and their garden commands a view of all the ruins of ancient Rome. From this spot is seen the Coliseum, the Forum, and all the triumphal arches, the obelisks, and the pillars which remain standing. What a fine situation for such an asylum! The secluded monks are consoled for their own nothingness, in contemplating the monuments raised by those who are no more. Oswald strolled for a long time beneath the umbrageous walks of this garden, whose beautiful trees sometimes interrupt for a moment the view of Rome, only to redouble the emotion which is felt on beholding it again. It was that hour of the evening, when all the bells in Rome are heard chiming the Ave Maria.

————————squilla di lontano Che paja il giorno pianger che si muore. DANTE.

————————the vesper bell from far, That seems to mourn for the expiring day. CAREY'S TR.

The evening prayer is used to fix the time. In Italy they say: I will see you an hour before, or an hour after the Ave Maria: and the different periods of the day and of the night, are thus religiously designated. Oswald enjoyed the admirable spectacle of the sun which towards the evening descends slowly in the midst of the ruins, and appears for a moment submitted to the same destiny as the works of man. Oswald felt all his habitual thoughts revive within him. Corinne herself was too charming, and promised too much happiness to occupy his mind at this moment. He sought the spirit of his father in the clouds, where the force of imagination traced his celestial form, and made him hope to receive from heaven some pure and beneficent breath, as the benediction of his sainted parent.



Chapter ii.

The desire of studying and becoming acquainted with the Roman religion, determined Lord Nelville to seek an opportunity of hearing some of those preachers who make the churches of this city resound with their eloquence during Lent. He reckoned the days that were to divide him from Corinne, and during her absence, he wished to see nothing that appertained to the fine arts; nothing that derived its charm from the imagination. He could not support the emotion of pleasure produced by the masterpieces of art when he was not with Corinne; he was only reconciled to happiness when she was the cause of it. Poetry, painting, music, all that embellishes life by vague hopes, was painful to him out of her presence.

It is in the evening, with lights half extinguished, that the Roman preachers deliver their sermons in Holy Week. All the women are then clad in black, in remembrance of the death of Jesus Christ, and there is something very moving in this anniversary mourning, which has been so often renewed during a lapse of ages. It is therefore impossible to enter without genuine emotion those beautiful churches, where the tombs so fitly dispose the soul for prayer; but this emotion is generally destroyed in a few moments by the preacher.

His pulpit is a fairly long gallery, which he traverses from one end to the other with as much agitation as regularity. He never fails to set out at the beginning of a phrase and to return at the end, like the motion of a pendulum; nevertheless he uses so much action, and his manner is so vehement, that one would suppose him capable of forgetting everything. But it is, to use the expression, a kind of systematic fury that animates the orator, such as is frequently to be met with in Italy, where the vivacity of external action often indicates no more than a superficial emotion. A crucifix is suspended at the extremity of the pulpit; the preacher unties it, kisses it, presses it against his heart, and then restores it to its place with the greatest coolness, when the pathetic period is concluded. There is a means of producing effect which the ordinary preachers frequently have recourse to, namely, the square cap they wear on their head, which they take off, and put on again with inconceivable rapidity. One of them imputed to Voltaire, and particularly to Rousseau, the irreligion of the age. He threw his cap into the middle of the pulpit, charging it to represent Jean Jacques, and in this quality he harangued it, saying; "Well, philosopher of Geneva, what have you to object to my arguments?" He was silent for some minutes as if he waited for a reply—the cap made no answer: he then put it upon his head again and finished the conversation in these words: "now that you are convinced I shall say no more."

These whimsical scenes are often repeated among the Roman preachers; for real talent in this department is here very scarce. Religion is respected in Italy as an omnipotent law; it captivates the imagination by its forms and ceremonies, but moral tenets are less attended to in the pulpit than dogmas of faith, which do not penetrate the heart with religious sentiments. Thus the eloquence of the pulpit, as well as several other branches of literature, is absolutely abandoned to common ideas, which neither paint nor express any thing. A new thought would cause almost a panic in those minds at once so indolent and so full of ardour that they need the calm of uniformity, which they love because it offers repose to their thoughts. The ideas and phraseology of their sermons are confined to a sort of etiquette. They follow almost in a regular sequence, and this order would be disturbed if the orator, speaking from himself, were to seek in his own mind what he should say. The Christian philosophy, whose aim is to discover the analogy between religion and human nature, is as little known to the Italian preachers as any other kind of philosophy. To think upon matters of religion would scandalise them as much as to think against it; so much are they accustomed to move in a beaten track.

The worship of the Blessed Virgin is particularly dear to the Italians, and to every other nation of the south; it seems in some manner united with all that is most pure and tender in the affection we feel for woman. But the same exaggerated figures of rhetoric are found in what the preachers say upon this subject; and it is impossible to conceive why their gestures do not turn all that is most serious into mockery. Hardly ever in Italy do we meet in the august function of the pulpit, with a true accent or a natural expression.

Oswald, weary of the most tiresome of all monotony—that of affected vehemence, went to the Coliseum, to hear the Capuchin who was to preach there in the open air, at the foot of one of those altars which mark out, within the enclosure, what is called the Stations of the Cross. What can offer a more noble subject of eloquence than the aspect of this monument, of this amphitheatre, where the martyrs have succeeded to the gladiators! But nothing of this kind must be expected from the poor Capuchin, who, of the history of mankind, knows no more than that of his own life. Nevertheless, if we could be insensible to the badness of his discourse, we should feel ourselves moved by the different objects that surround him. The greater part of his auditors are of the confraternity of the Camaldoli; they are clad during their religious exercises in a sort of grey robe, which entirely covers the head and the whole body, with two little holes for the eyes. It is thus that the spirits of the dead might be represented. These men, who are thus concealed beneath their vestments, prostrate themselves on the earth and strike their breasts. When the preacher throws himself on his knees crying for mercy and pity, the congregation throw themselves on their knees also, and repeat this same cry, which dies away beneath the ancient porticoes of the Coliseum. It is impossible at this moment not to feel the most religious emotion; this appeal from earthly misery to celestial good, penetrates to the inmost sanctuary of the soul. Oswald started when all the audience fell on their knees; he remained standing, not to join in a worship foreign to his own; but it was painful to him that he could not associate publicly with mortals of any description, who prostrated themselves before God. Alas! is there an invocation of heavenly pity that is not equally suited to all men?

The people had been struck with the fine figure and foreign manners of Lord Nelville, but were by no means scandalized at his not kneeling down. There are no people in the world more tolerant than the Romans; they are accustomed to visitors who come only to see and observe; and whether by an effect of pride or of indolence, they never seek to instil their opinions into others. What is more extraordinary still, is, that during Holy Week particularly, there are many among them who inflict corporal punishment upon themselves; and while they are performing this flagellation, the church-doors are open, and they care not who enters. They are a people who do not trouble their heads about others; they do nothing to be looked at; they refrain from nothing because they are observed; they always proceed to their object, and seek their pleasure without suspecting that there is a sentiment called vanity, which has no object, no pleasure, except the desire of being applauded.



Chapter iii.

The ceremonies of Holy Week at Rome have been much spoken of. Foreigners come thither during Lent expressly to enjoy this spectacle; and as the music of the Sixtine Chapel and the illumination of St Peter's are beauties unique in themselves, it is natural that they should excite a lively curiosity; but expectation is not equally satisfied. The ceremonies themselves, properly speaking—the dinner of the twelve Apostles, served by the Pope, the washing of the feet by him, and all the different customs of this solemn season—excite very moving recollections; but a thousand inevitable circumstances often injure the interest and the dignity of this spectacle. All those who assist at it are not equally devout, equally occupied with pious ideas. These ceremonies, so often repeated, have become a sort of mechanical exercise for most people, and the young priests despatch the service of great festivals with an activity and a dexterity little calculated to produce any religious effect. That indefinite, that unknown, that mysterious impression, which religion ought to excite, is entirely destroyed by that species of attention which we cannot help paying to the manner in which each acquits himself of his functions. The avidity of some for the meats presented them, and the indifference of others in the genuflections which they multiply and the prayers which they recite, often strip the festival of its solemnity.

The ancient costumes which still serve for the vestments of the priests, agree badly with the modern style of treating the hair. The Greek bishop, with his long beard, has the most respectable appearance. The ancient custom also of making a reverence after the manner of women, instead of bowing as men do now, produces an impression by no means serious. In a word, the ensemble is not in harmony, and the ancient is blended with the modern without sufficient care being taken to strike the imagination, or at least to avoid all that may distract it. A worship, dazzling and majestic in its external forms, is certainly calculated to fill the soul with the most elevated sentiments; but care must be taken that the ceremonies do not degenerate into a spectacle in which each one plays his part—in which each one studies what he must do at such a moment; when he is to pray, when he is to finish his prayer; when to kneel down, and when to get up. The regulated ceremonies of a court introduced into a temple of devotion, confine the free movement of the heart, which can alone give man the hope of drawing near to the Deity.

These observations are pretty generally felt by foreigners, but the Romans for the most part do not grow weary of those ceremonies; and every year they find in them new pleasure. A singular trait in the character of the Italians is, that their mobility does not make them inconstant, nor does their vivacity render variety necessary to them. They are in every thing patient and persevering; their imagination embellishes what they possess; it occupies their life instead of rendering it uneasy; they think every thing more magnificent, more imposing, more fine, than it really is: and whilst in other nations vanity consists in an affectation of boredom, that of the Italians, or rather their warmth and vivacity, makes them find pleasure in the sentiment of admiration.

Lord Nelville, from all that the Romans had said to him, expected to be more affected by the ceremonies of Holy Week. He regretted the noble and simple festivals of the Anglican church. He returned home with a painful impression; for nothing is more sad than not being moved by that which ought to move us; we believe that our soul is become dry, we fear that the fire of enthusiasm is extinguished in us, without which the faculty of thinking can only serve to disgust us with life.



Chapter iv.

But Good Friday soon restored to Lord Nelville all those religious emotions, the want of which he so much regretted on the preceding days. The seclusion of Corinne was about to terminate; he anticipated the happiness of seeing her again: the sweet expectations of tender affection accord with piety; it is only a factious, worldly life, that is entirely hostile to it. Oswald repaired to the Sixtine Chapel to hear the celebrated miserere, so much talked of all over Europe. He arrived thither whilst it was yet day, and beheld those celebrated paintings of Michael Angelo, which represent the Last Judgment, with all the terrible power of the subject and the talent which has handled it. Michael Angelo was penetrated with the study of Dante; and the painter, in imitation of the poet, represents mythological beings in the presence of Jesus Christ; but he always makes Paganism the evil principle, and it is under the form of demons that he characterises the heathen fables. On the vault of the chapel are represented the prophets, and the sybils called in testimony by the Christians,

Teste David cum Sibylla.

A crowd of angels surround them; and this whole vault, painted thus, seems to bring us nearer to heaven, but with a gloomy and formidable aspect. Hardly does daylight penetrate the windows, which cast upon the pictures shadow rather than light. The obscurity enlarges those figures, already so imposing, which the pencil of Michael Angelo has traced; the incense, whose perfume has a somewhat funereal character, fills the air in this enclosure, and every sensation is prelusive to the most profound of all—that which the music is to produce.

Whilst Oswald was absorbed by the reflections which every object that surrounded him gave birth to, he saw Corinne, whose presence he had not hoped to behold so soon, enter the women's gallery, behind the grating which separated it from that of the men. She was dressed in black, all pale with absence, and trembled so when she perceived Oswald, that she was obliged to lean on the balustrade for support as she advanced; at this moment the miserere began.

The voices, perfectly trained in this ancient song, proceeded from a gallery at the commencement of the vault; the singers are not seen; the music seems to hover in the air; and every instant the fall of day renders the chapel more gloomy. It was not that voluptuous and impassioned music which Oswald and Corinne had heard eight days before; they were holy strains which counselled mortals to renounce every earthly enjoyment. Corinne fell on her knees before the grating and remained plunged in the most profound meditation. Oswald himself disappeared from her sight. She thought that in such a moment one could wish to die, if the separation of the soul from the body could take place without pain; if, on a sudden, an angel could carry away on his wings our sentiments and our thoughts—sparks of ethereal fire, returning towards their source: death would then be, to use the expression, only a spontaneous act of the heart, a more ardent and more acceptable prayer.

The miserere, that is to say, have mercy on us, is a psalm, composed of verses, which are sung alternately in a very different manner. A celestial music is heard by turns, and the verse following, in recitative, is murmured in a dull and almost hoarse tone. One would say, that it is the reply of harsh and stern characters to sensitive hearts; that it is the reality of life which withers and repels the desires of generous souls. When the sweet choristers resume their strain, hope revives; but when the verse of recitative begins, a cold sensation seizes upon the hearer, not caused by terror, but by a repression of enthusiasm. At length, the last piece, more noble and affecting than all the others, leaves a pure and sweet impression upon the soul: may God vouchsafe that same impression to us before we die.

The torches are extinguished; night advances, and the figures of the prophets and the sybils appear like phantoms enveloped in twilight. The silence is profound; a word spoken would be insupportable in the then state of the soul, when all is intimate and internal; as soon as the last sound expires, all depart slowly and without the least noise; each one seems to dread the return to the vulgar interests of the world.

Corinne followed the procession, which repaired to the temple of St Peter, then lighted only by an illuminated cross. This sign of grief, alone and shining in the august obscurity of this immense edifice, is the most beautiful image of Christianity in the midst of the darkness of life. A pale and distant light is cast on the statues which adorn the tombs. The living, who are perceived in crowds beneath these vaults, seem like pigmies, compared with the images of the dead. There is around the cross, a space which it lights up, where the Pope clad in white is seen prostrate, with all the cardinals ranged behind him. They remain there for half an hour in the most profound silence, and it is impossible not to be moved at this spectacle. We know not the subject of their prayers; we hear not their secret groanings; but they are old, they precede us in the journey to the tomb. When we in our turn pass into that terrible advance guard, may God by his grace so ennoble our age, that the decline of life may be the first days of immortality!

Corinne, also,—the young and beautiful Corinne,—was kneeling behind the train of priests, and the soft light reflected on her countenance, gave it a pale hue, without diminishing the lustre of her eyes. Oswald contemplated her as a beautiful picture—a being that inspired adoration. When her prayer was concluded she arose. Lord Nelville dared not yet approach her, respecting the religious meditation in which he thought her plunged; but she came to him first with a transport of happiness; and this sentiment pervading all her actions, she received with a most lively gaiety, all those who accosted her in St Peter's, which had become, all at once, a great public promenade, and a rendezvous to discuss topics of business or pleasure.

Oswald was astonished at this mobility which caused such opposite impressions to succeed each other; and though the gaiety of Corinne gave him pleasure, he was surprised to find in her no trace of the emotions of the day. He did not conceive how, upon so solemn, a day, they could permit this fine church to be converted into a Roman cafe, where people met for pleasure; and beholding Corinne in the midst of her circle, talking with so much vivacity, and not thinking on the objects that surrounded her, he conceived a sentiment of mistrust as to the levity of which she might be capable. She instantly perceived it, and quitting her company abruptly, she took the arm of Oswald to walk with him in the church, saying, "I have never held any conversation with you upon my religious sentiments—permit me to speak a little upon that subject now; perhaps I shall be able to dissipate those clouds which I perceive rising in your mind."



Chapter v.

"The difference of our religions, my dear Oswald," continued Corinne, "is the cause of that secret censure which you cannot conceal from me. Yours is serious and rigid—ours, cheerful and tender. It is generally believed that Catholicism is more rigorous than Protestantism; and that may be true in a country where a struggle has subsisted between the two religions; but we have no religious dissensions in Italy, and you have experienced much of them in England. The result of this difference is, that Catholicism in Italy has assumed a character of mildness and indulgence; and that to destroy it in England, the Reformation has armed itself with the greatest severity in principles and morals. Our religion, like that of the ancients, animates the arts, inspires the poets, and becomes a part, if I may so express it, of all the joys of our life; whilst yours, establishing itself in a country where reason predominates more than imagination, has assumed a character of moral austerity which will never leave it. Ours speaks in the name of love, and yours in the name of duty. Our principles are liberal, our dogmas are absolute; nevertheless, our despotic orthodoxy accommodates itself to particular circumstances, and your religious liberty enforces obedience to its laws without any exception. It is true that our Catholicism imposes very hard penance upon those who have embraced a monastic life. This state, freely chosen, is a mysterious relation between man and the Deity; but the religion of laymen in Italy is an habitual source of affecting emotions. Love, hope, and faith, are the principal virtues of this religion, and all these virtues announce and confer happiness. Our priests therefore, far from forbidding at any time the pure sentiment of joy, tell us that it expresses our gratitude towards the Creator. What they exact of us, is an observance of those practices which prove our respect for our worship, and our desire to please God, namely, charity for the unfortunate, and repentance for our errors. But they do not refuse absolution, when we zealously entreat it; and the attachments of the heart inspire a more indulgent pity amongst us than anywhere else. Has not Jesus Christ said of the Magdalen: Much shall be pardoned her, because she hath loved much? These words were uttered beneath a sky, beautiful as ours; this same sky implores for us the Divine mercy."

"Corinne!" answered Lord Nelville, "how can I combat words so sweet, and of which my heart stands so much in need? But I will do it, nevertheless, because it is not for a day that I love Corinne—I expect with her a long futurity of happiness and virtue. The most pure religion is that which makes a continual homage to the Supreme Being, by the sacrifice of our passions and the fulfilment of our duties. A man's morality is his worship of God; and it would be degrading the idea we form of the Creator, to suppose that He wills anything in relation with His creature, that is not worthy of His intellectual perfection. Paternal authority, that noble image of a master sovereignly good, demands nothing of its children that does not tend to make them better or happier. How then can we imagine that God would exact anything from man, which has not man himself for its object? You see also what confusion in the understandings of your people results from the practice of attaching more importance to religious ceremonies than to moral duties. It is after Holy Week, you know, that the greatest number of murders is committed at Rome. The people think, to use the expression, that they have laid in a stock during Lent, and expend in assassination the treasures of their penitence. Criminals have been seen, yet reeking with murder, who have scrupled to eat meat on a Friday; and gross minds, who have been persuaded that the greatest of crimes consists in disobeying the discipline of the church, exhaust their consciences on this head, and conceive that the Deity, like human sovereigns, esteems submission to his power more than every other virtue. This is to substitute the sycophancy of a courtier for the respect which the Creator inspires, as the source and reward of a scrupulous and delicate life. Catholicism in Italy, confining itself to external demonstrations, dispenses the soul from meditation and self-contemplation. When the spectacle is over, the emotion ceases, the duty is fulfilled, and one is not, as with us, a long time absorbed in thoughts and sentiments, which give birth to a rigid examination of one's conduct and heart."

"You are severe, my dear Oswald," replied Corinne; "it is not the first time I have remarked it. If religion consisted only in a strict observance of moral duties, in what would it be superior to reason and philosophy? And what sentiments of piety could we discover, if our principal aim were to stifle the feelings of the heart? The stoics were as enlightened as we, as to the duties and the austerity of human conduct; but that which is peculiar to Christianity is the religious enthusiasm which blends with every affection of the soul; it is the power of love and pity; it is the worship of sentiment and of indulgence, so favourable to the flights of the soul towards heaven. How are we to interpret the parable of the Prodigal Son, if not that love, sincere love, is preferred even to the most exact discharge of every duty? This son had quitted his paternal abode, and his brother had remained there; he had plunged into all the dissipation and pleasure of the world, and his brother had never deviated for a single moment from the regularity of domestic life; but he returned, full of love for his father and of repentance for his past follies, and his parent celebrated this return by a festival. Ah! can it be doubted that among the mysteries of our nature, to love and to love again is what remains to us of our celestial inheritance? Even our virtues are often too complicated with life, for us to comprehend the gradations of good, and what is the secret sentiment that governs and leads us astray: I ask of my God to teach me to adore him, and I feel the effect of my prayers in the tears that I shed. But to support this disposition of the soul, religious practices are more necessary than you think; they are a constant communication with the Deity; they are daily actions, unconnected with the interests of life and solely directed towards the invisible world. External objects are also a great help to piety; the soul falls back upon itself, if the fine arts, great monuments, and harmonic strains, do not reanimate that poetical genius, which is synonymous with religious inspiration.

"The most vulgar man, when he prays, when he suffers, and places hope in heaven, has at that moment something in him which he would express like Milton, Homer, or Tasso, if education had taught him to clothe his thoughts with words. There are only two distinct classes of men in the world; those who feel enthusiasm, and those who despise it; every other difference is the work of society. The former cannot find words to express their sentiments, and the latter know what it is necessary to say to conceal the emptiness of their heart. But the spring that bursts from the rock at the voice of heaven, that spring is the true talent, the true religion, the true love.

"The pomp of our worship; those pictures in which the kneeling saints express a continual prayer in their looks; those statues placed on the tombs as if they were one day to rise with their inhabitants; those churches and their immense domes, have an intimate connection with religious ideas. I like this splendid homage paid by men to that which promises them neither fortune nor power—to that which neither punishes nor rewards them, but by a sentiment of the heart. I then feel more proud of my being; I recognise something disinterested in man; and were even religious magnificence multiplied to an extreme, I should love that prodigality of terrestrial riches for another life, of time for eternity: enough is provided for the morrow, enough care is taken for the economy of human affairs. How I love the useless, useless if existence be only a painful toil for a miserable gain! But if on this earth we are journeying towards heaven, what can we do better than to take every means of elevating our soul, that it may feel the infinite, the invisible, and the eternal, in the midst of all the limits that surround us?

"Jesus Christ permitted a weak, and perhaps, repentant woman, to anoint His feet with the most precious perfumes, and repulsed those who advised that those perfumes should be reserved for a more profitable use. "Let her alone" said He, "for I am only with you for a short time." Alas! all that is good and sublime upon earth is only with us for a short time; age, infirmity, and death, would soon dry up that drop of dew which falls from heaven and only rests upon the flowers. Let us then, dear Oswald, confound everything,—love, religion, genius, the sun, the perfumes, music, and poetry: atheism only consists in coldness, egotism, and baseness. Jesus Christ has said: When two or three are gathered together in my name, I will be in the midst of them. And what is it O God! to be assembled in Thy name, if it be not to enjoy Thy sublime gifts, and to offer Thee our homage, to thank Thee for that existence which Thou hast given us; above all, to thank Thee, when a heart, also created by Thee is perfectly responsive to our own?"

At this moment a celestial inspiration animated the countenance of Corinne. Oswald could hardly refrain from falling on his knees before her in the midst of the temple, and was silent for a long time to indulge in the pleasure of recalling her words and retracing them still in her looks. At last he set about replying; for he would not abandon a cause that was dear to him. "Corinne," said he, then, "indulge your lover with a few words more. His heart is not dry; no, Corinne, believe me it is not, and if I am an advocate for austerity in principle and action, it is because it renders sentiment more deep and permanent. If I love reason in religion, that is to say, if I reject contradictory dogmas and human means of producing effect upon men, it is because I perceive the Deity in reason as well as in enthusiasm; and if I cannot bear that man should be deprived of any one of his faculties, it is because I conceive them all barely sufficient to comprehend truths which reflection reveals to him, as well as the instinct of the heart, namely, the existence of God, and the immortality of the soul. What can be added to these sublime ideas, to their union with virtue? What can we add thereto that is not beneath them? The poetical enthusiasm which gives you so many charms, is not, I venture to assert, the most salutary devotion. Corinne, how could we by this disposition prepare for the innumerable sacrifices which duty exacts of us! There was no revelation, except by the flights of the soul, when human destiny, present and future, only revealed itself to the mind through clouds; but for us, to whom Christianity has rendered it clear and positive, feeling may be our recompense, but ought not to be our only guide: you describe the existence of the blessed, not that of mortals. Religious life is a combat, not a hymn. If we were not condemned in this world to repress the evil inclinations of others and of ourselves, there would in truth be no distinction to be made except between cold and enthusiastic souls. But man is a harsher and more formidable creature than your heart paints him to you; and reason in piety, and authority in duty, are a necessary curb to the wanderings of his pride.

"In whatever manner you may consider the external pomp and multiplied ceremonies of your religion, believe me, my love, the contemplation of the universe and its author, will be always the chief worship; that which will fill the imagination, without any thing futile or absurd being found in it upon investigation. Those dogmas which wound my reason also cool my enthusiasm. Undoubtedly the world, such as it is, is a mystery which we can neither deny nor comprehend; it would therefore be foolish to refuse credence to what we are unable to explain; but that which is contradictory is always of human creation. The mysteries of heavenly origin are above the lights of the mind; but not in opposition to them. A German philosopher[31] has said: I know but two beautiful things in the universe: the starry sky above our heads, and the sentiment of duty in our hearts. In truth all the wonders of the creation are comprised in these words.

"So far from a simple and severe religion searing our hearts, I should have thought, before I had known you, Corinne, that it was the only one which could concentrate and perpetuate the affections. I have seen the most pure and austere conduct unfold in a man the most inexhaustible tenderness. I have seen him preserve even to old age, a virginity of soul, which the passions and their criminal effects would necessarily have withered. Undoubtedly repentance is a fine thing, and I have more need than any person to believe in its efficacy; but repeated repentance fatigues the soul—this sentiment can only regenerate once. It is the redemption which is accomplished at the bottom of our soul, and this great sacrifice cannot be renewed. When human weakness is accustomed to it, the power to love is lost; for power is necessary in order to love, at least with constancy.

"I shall offer some objections of the same kind to that splendid form of worship, which according to you, acts so powerfully upon the imagination. I believe the imagination to be modest, and retired as the heart. The emotions which are imposed on it, are less powerful than those born of itself. I have seen in the Cevennes, a Protestant minister who preached towards the evening in the heart of the mountains. He invoked the tombs of the French, banished and proscribed by their brethren, whose ashes had been assembled together in this spot. He promised their friends that they should meet them again in a better world. He said that a virtuous life secured us this happiness; he said: do good to mankind, that God may heal in your heart the wound of grief. He testified his astonishment at the inflexibility and hard-heartedness of man, the creature of a day, to his fellow man equally with himself the creature of a day, and seized upon that terrible idea of death, which the living have conceived, but which they will never be able to exhaust. In short, he said nothing that was not affecting and true: his words were perfectly in harmony with nature. The torrent which was heard in the distance, the scintillating light of the stars, seemed to express the same thought under another form. The magnificence of nature was there, that magnificence, which can feast the soul without offending misfortune; and all this imposing simplicity, touched the soul more deeply than dazzling ceremonies could have done."

On the second day after this conversation, Easter Sunday, Corinne and Lord Nelville went together to the square of St Peter, at the moment when the Pope appears upon the most elevated balcony of the church, and asks of heaven that benediction which he is about to bestow on the land; when he pronounces these words, urbi et orbi (to the city and to the world)—all the assembled people fell on their knees, and Corinne and Lord Nelville felt, by the emotion which they experienced at this moment, that all forms of worship resemble each other. The religious sentiment intimately unites men among themselves, when self-love and fanaticism do not make it an object of jealousy and hatred. To pray together in the same language, whatever be the form of worship, is the most pathetic bond of fraternity, of hope, and of sympathy, which men can contract upon earth.

FOOTNOTE:

[31] Kant.



Chapter vi.

Easter-Day was passed, and Corinne took no notice of the fulfilment of her promise to confide her history to Lord Nelville. Wounded by this silence, he said one day before her that he had heard much of the beauty of Naples, and that he had a mind to visit it. Corinne, discovering in a moment what was passing in his soul, proposed to perform the journey with him. She flattered herself that she, should be able to postpone the confession which he required of her, by giving him this satisfying proof of her love. And besides she thought that if he should take her with him, it would be without doubt because he desired to consecrate his life to her. She waited then with anxiety for what he should say to her, and her almost suppliant looks seemed to entreat a favourable answer. Oswald could not resist; he had at first been surprised at this offer and the simplicity with which Corinne made it, and hesitated for some time before he accepted it; but beholding the agitation of her he loved, her palpitating bosom, her eyes suffused with tears, he consented to set out with her, without reflecting upon the importance of such a resolution. Corinne was elevated to the summit of joy; for at this moment her heart entirely relied on the passion of Oswald.

The day was fixed upon, and the sweet perspective of their journey together made every other idea disappear. They amused themselves with settling the details of their journey, and every one of these details was a source of pleasure. Happy disposition of the soul, in which all the arrangements of life have a particular charm, from their connection with some hope of the heart! That moment arrives only too soon, when each hour of our existence is as fatiguing as its entirety, when every morning requires an effort to support the awakening and to guide the day to its close.

The moment Lord Nelville left Corinne's house in order to prepare every thing for their departure, the Count d'Erfeuil arrived, and learnt from her the project which they had just determined on.—"Surely you don't think of such a thing!" said he, "what! travel with Lord Nelville without his being your husband! without his having promised to marry you! And what will you do if he abandon you?" "Why," replied Corinne, "in any situation of life if he were to cease to love me, I should be the most wretched creature in the world!" "Yes, but if you have done nothing to compromise your character, you will remain entirely yourself."—"Remain entirely myself, when the deepest sentiment of my life shall be withered? when my heart shall be broken?"—"The public will not know it, and by a little dissimulation you would lose nothing in the general opinion." "And why should I take pains to preserve that opinion," replied Corinne, "if not to gain an additional charm in the eyes of him I love?"—"We may cease to love," answered the Count, "but we cannot cease to live in the midst of society, and to need its services."—"Ah! if I could think," retorted Corinne, "that that day would arrive when Oswald's affection would not be all in all to me in this world; if I could believe it, I should already have ceased to love. What is love when it anticipates and reckons upon the moment when it shall no longer exist? If there be any thing religious in this sentiment, it is because it makes every other interest disappear, and, like devotion, takes a pleasure in the entire sacrifice of self."

"What is that you tell me?" replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "can such an intellectual lady as you fill her head with such nonsense? It is the advantage of us men that women think as you do—we have thus more ascendancy over you; but your superiority must not be lost, it must be serviceable to you." "Serviceable to me?" said Corinne, "Ah! I owe it much, if it has enabled me to feel more acutely all that is interesting and generous in the character of Lord Nelville."—"Lord Nelville is like other men," said the Count; "he will return to his native country, he will pursue his profession; in short he will recover his reason, and you would imprudently expose your reputation by going to Naples with him."—"I am ignorant of the intentions of Lord Nelville," observed Corinne, "and perhaps I should have done better to have reflected more deeply before I had let him obtain such power over my heart; but now, what signifies one more sacrifice! Does not my life depend on his love? I feel pleasure, on the contrary, in leaving myself no resource;—there is none when the heart is wounded; nevertheless, the world may sometimes think the contrary, and I love to reflect that even in this respect my calamity would be complete, if Lord Nelville were to leave me!"—"And does he know how you expose yourself on his account?" proceeded d'Erfeuil.—"I have taken great care to conceal it from him," answered Corinne, "and as he is not well acquainted with the customs of this country, I have a little exaggerated to him the latitude of conduct which they allow. I must exact from you a promise, that you will never undeceive him in this respect—I wish him to be perfectly free, he can never make me happy by any kind of sacrifice. The sentiment which renders me happy is the flower of my life; were it once to decay, neither kindness nor delicacy could revive it. I conjure you then, my dear Count, not to interfere with my destiny; no opinion of yours upon the affections of the heart can possibly apply to me. Your observations are very prudent, very sensible, and extremely applicable to the situations of ordinary life; but you would innocently do me a great injury, in attempting to judge of my character in the same manner as large bodies of people are judged, for whom there are maxims ready made. My sufferings, my enjoyments, and my feelings, are peculiar to myself, and whoever would influence my happiness must contemplate me alone, unconnected with the rest of the world."

The self-love of Count d'Erfeuil was a little wounded by the inutility of his counsels, and the decided proof of her affection for Lord Nelville which Corinne gave him. He knew very well that he himself was not beloved by her, he knew equally that Oswald was; but it was unpleasant to him to hear this so openly avowed. There is always something in the favour which a man finds in a lady's sight, that offends even his best friends.—"I see that I can do nothing for you," said the Count; "but should you become very unhappy you will think of me; in the meantime, I am going to leave Rome, for since you and Lord Nelville are about to quit it, I should be too much bored in your absence. I shall certainly see you both again, either in Scotland or Italy; for since I can do nothing better with myself, I have acquired a taste for travelling. Forgive my having taken the liberty to counsel you, charming Corinne, and believe me ever devoted to you!"—Corinne thanked him, and separated with a sentiment of regret. Her acquaintance with him commenced at the same time as with Oswald, and this remembrance formed a tie between them which she did not like to see broken. She conducted herself agreeably to what she had declared to the Count. Some uneasiness disturbed for a moment the joy with which Lord Nelville had accepted the project of the journey. He feared that their departure for Naples might injure Corinne, and wished to obtain her secret before they went, in order to know with certainty whether some invincible obstacle to their union might not exist; but she declared to him that she would not relate her history till they arrived at Naples, and sweetly deceived him, as to what the public opinion would be on her conduct. Oswald yielded to the illusion. In a weak and undecided character, love half deceives, reason half enlightens, and it is the present emotion that decides which of the two halves shall be the whole. The mind of Lord Nelville was singularly expansive and penetrating; but he only formed a correct judgment of himself in reviewing his past conduct. He never had but a confused idea of his present situation. Susceptible at once of transport and remorse, of passion and timidity, those contrasts did not permit him to know himself till the event had decided the combat that was taking place within him.

When the friends of Corinne, particularly Prince Castel-Forte, were informed of her project, they felt considerably chagrined. Prince Castel-Forte was so much pained at it, that he resolved in a short time to go and join her. There was certainly no vanity in thus filling up the train of a favoured lover; but he could not support the dreadful void which he would find in the absence of Corinne. He had no acquaintances but the circle he met at her house; and he never entered any other. The company which assembled around her would disperse when she should be no longer there; and it would be impossible to collect together the fragments. Prince Castel-Forte was little accustomed to domestic life: though possessing a good share of intellect, he did not like the fatigue of study; the whole day therefore would have been an insufferable weight to him, if he had not come, morning and evening, to visit Corinne. She was about to depart—he knew not what to do; however he promised himself in secret to approach her as a friend, who indulged in no pretensions, but who was ever at hand to offer his consolation in the moment of misfortune; such a friend may be sure that his hour will come.

Corinne felt oppressed with melancholy in thus breaking all her former connections; she had led for some years in Rome a manner of life that pleased her. She was the centre of attraction to every artist and to every enlightened man. A perfect independence of ideas and habits gave many charms to her existence: what was to become of her now? If destined to the happiness of espousing Oswald, he would take her to England, and what would she be thought of there; how would she be able to confine herself to a mode of existence so different from what she had known for six years past! But these sentiments only passed through her mind, and her passion for Oswald always obliterated every trace of them. She saw, she heard him, and only counted the hours by his absence or his presence. Who can dispute with happiness? Who does not welcome it when it comes? Corinne was not possessed of much foresight—neither fear nor hope existed for her; her faith in the future was vague, and in this respect her imagination did her little good, and much harm.

On the morning of her departure, Prince Castel-Forte visited her, and said with tears in his eyes: "Will you not return to Rome?" "Oh, Mon Dieu, yes!" replied she, "we shall be back in a month."—"But if you marry Lord Nelville you must leave Italy!" "Leave Italy!" said Corinne, with a sigh.—"This country," continued Prince Castel-Forte, "where your language is spoken, where you are so well known, where you are so warmly admired, and your friends, Corinne—your friends! Where will you be beloved as you are here? Where will you find that perfection of the imagination and the fine arts, so congenial to your soul? Is then our whole life composed of one sentiment? Is it not language, customs, and manners, that compose the love of our country; that love which creates a home sickness so terrible to the exile?" "Ah, what is it you tell me," cried Corinne, "have I not felt it? Is it not that which has decided my fate?"—She regarded mournfully her room and the statues that adorned it, then the Tiber which rolled its waves beneath her windows, and the sky whose beauty seemed to invite her to stay. But at that moment Oswald crossed the bridge of St Angelo on horseback, swift as lightning. "There he is!" cried Corinne. Hardly had she uttered these words, when he was already arrived,—she ran to meet him, and both impatient to set out hastened to ascend the carriage. Corinne, however, took a kind farewell of Prince Castel-Forte; but her obliging expressions were lost in the midst of the cries of postillions, the neighing of horses, and all that bustle of departure, sometimes sad, and sometimes intoxicating, according to the fear or the hope which the new chances of destiny inspire.



Book xi.

NAPLES AND THE HERMITAGE OF ST SALVADOR.



Chapter i.

Oswald was proud of carrying off his conquest; he who felt himself almost always disturbed in his enjoyments by reflections and regrets, for once did not experience the pangs of uncertainty. It was not that he was decided, but he did not think about it and followed the tide of events hoping it would lead him to the object of his wishes.

They traversed the district of Albano[32], where is still shown what is believed to be the tomb of the Horatii and the Curiatii. They passed near the lake of Nemi and the sacred woods that surround it. It is said that Hippolitus was resuscitated by Diana in these parts; she would not permit horses to approach it, and by this prohibition perpetuated the memory of her young favourite's misfortune. Thus in Italy our memory is refreshed by History and Poetry almost at every step, and the charming situations which recall them, soften all that is melancholy in the past, and seem to preserve an eternal youth.

Oswald and Corinne traversed the Pontine marshes—a country at once fertile and pestilential,—where, with all the fecundity of nature, a single habitation is not to be found. Some sickly men change your horses, recommending to you not to sleep in passing the marshes; for sleep there is really the harbinger of death. The plough which some imprudent cultivators will still sometimes guide over this fatal land, is drawn by buffaloes, in appearance at once mean and ferocious, whilst the most brilliant sun sheds its lustre on this melancholy spectacle. The marshy and unwholesome parts in the north are announced by their repulsive aspect; but in the more fatal countries of the south, nature preserves a serenity, the deceitful mildness of which is an illusion to travellers. If it be true that it is very dangerous to sleep in crossing the Pontine marshes, their invincible soporific influence in the heat of the day is one of those perfidious impressions which we receive from this spot. Lord Nelville constantly watched over Corinne. Sometimes she leant her head on Theresa who accompanied them; sometimes she closed her eyes, overcome by the languor of the air. Oswald awakened her immediately, with inexpressible terror; and though he was naturally taciturn, he was now inexhaustible in subjects of conversation, always well supported and always new, to prevent her from yielding to this fatal sleep. Ah! should we not pardon the heart of a woman the cruel regret which attaches to those days when she was beloved, when her existence was so necessary to that of another, when at every moment she was supported and protected? What isolation must succeed this season of delight! How happy are they whom the sacred hand of Hymen has conducted from love to friendship, without one painful moment having embittered their course!

Oswald and Corinne, after the anxious passage of the marshes, at length arrived at Terracina, on the sea coast, near the confines of the kingdom of Naples. It is there that the south truly begins; it is there that it receives travellers in all its magnificence. Naples, that happy country, is, as it were, separated from the rest of Europe by the sea which surrounds it and by that dangerous district which must be passed in order to arrive at it. One would say that nature, wishing to secure to herself this charming abode, has designedly made all access to it perilous. At Rome we are not yet in the south; we have there a foretaste of its sweets, but its enchantment only truly begins in the territory of Naples. Not far from Terracina is the promontory fixed upon by the poets as the abode of Circe: and behind Terracina rises Mount Anxur, where Theodoric, king of the Goths, had placed one of those strong castles with which the northern warriors have covered the earth. There are few traces of the invasion of Italy by the barbarians; or at least, where those traces consist in devastation, they are confounded with the effects of time. The northern nations have not given to Italy that warlike aspect which Germany has preserved. It seems that the gentle soil of Ausonia was unable to support the fortifications and citadels which bristle in northern countries. Rarely is a Gothic edifice or a feudal castle to be met with here; and the monuments of the ancient Romans reign alone triumphant over Time, and the nations by whom they have been conquered.

The whole mountain which dominates Terracina, is covered with orange and lemon trees, which embalm the air in a delicious manner. There is nothing in our climate that resembles the southern perfume of lemon trees in the open air; it produces on the imagination almost the same effect as melodious music; it gives a poetic disposition to the soul, stimulates genius, and intoxicates with the charms of nature. The aloe and the broad-leaved cactus, which are met here at every step, have a peculiar aspect, which brings to mind all that we know of the formidable productions of Africa. These plants inspire a sort of terror: they seem to belong to a violent and despotic nature. The whole aspect of the country is foreign: we feel ourselves in another world, a world which is only known by the descriptions of the ancient poets, who have at the same time so much imagination and so much exactness in their descriptions. On entering Terracina, the children threw into the carriage of Corinne an immense quantity of flowers which they gather by the road-side or on the mountain, and which they carelessly scatter about; such is their reliance on the prodigality of nature! The carts which bring home the harvest from the fields are every day ornamented with garlands of roses, and sometimes the children surround the cups they drink out of with flowers; for beneath such a sky the imagination of the common people becomes poetical. By the side of these smiling pictures the sea, whose billows lashed the shore with fury, was seen and heard. It was not agitated by the storm; but by the rocks which stand in habitual opposition to its waves, irritating its grandeur.

E non udite ancor come risuona Il roco ed alto fremito marino?

And do you not hear still the hoarse and deep roar of the sea?

This motion without aim, this strength without object which is renewed throughout eternity without our being able to discover either its cause or its end, attracts us to the shore, where this grand spectacle offers itself to our sight; and we experience, as it were, a desire mingled with terror, to approach the waves and to deaden our thoughts by their tumult.

Towards the evening all was calm. Corinne and Lord Nelville walked into the country; they proceeded with a slow pace silently enjoying the scene before them. Each step they took crushed the flowers and extorted from them their delicious perfumes; the nightingales, resting on the rose-bushes, willingly lent their song, so that the purest melodies were united to the most delicious odours; all the charms of nature mutually attracted each other, while the softness of the air was beyond expression. When we contemplate a fine view in the north, the climate in some degree disturbs the pleasure which it inspires: those slight sensations of cold and humidity are like a false note in a concert, and more or less distract your attention from what you behold; but in approaching Naples you experience the friendly smiles of nature, so perfectly and without alloy, that nothing abates the agreeable sensations which they cause you. All the relations of man in our climate are with society. Nature, in hot countries, puts us in relation with external objects, and our sentiments sweetly expand. Not but that the south has also its melancholy. In what part of the earth does not human destiny produce this impression? But in this melancholy there is neither discontent, anxiety, nor regret. In other countries it is life, which, such as it is, does not suffice for the faculties of the soul; here the faculties of the soul do not suffice for life, and the superabundance of sensation inspires a dreamy indolence, which we can hardly account for when oppressed with it.

During the night, flies of a shining hue fill the air; one would say that the mountain emitted sparks of fire, and that the burning earth had let loose some of its flames. These insects fly through the trees, sometimes repose on the leaves, and the wind blows these minute stars about, varying in a thousand ways their uncertain light. The sand also contained a great number of metallic stones, which sparkled on every side: it was the land of fire, still preserving in its bosom the traces of the sun, whose last rays had just warmed it. There is a life, and at the same time, a repose, in this nature, which entirely satisfies the various desires of human existence.

Corinne abandoned herself to the charms of this evening, and was penetrated with joy; nor could Oswald conceal the emotion they inspired—many times he pressed Corinne to his heart, many times he drew back from her, then returned, then drew back again out of respect to her who was to be the companion of his life. Corinne felt no alarm, for such was her esteem for Oswald, that if he had demanded the entire surrender of her being she would have considered that request as a solemn vow to espouse her; but she saw him triumph over himself, and this conquest was an honour paid her; whilst her heart felt that plenitude of happiness, and of love, which does not permit us to form another desire. Oswald was far from being so calm: he was fired with the charms of Corinne. Once he threw himself at her feet with violence, and seemed to have lost all empire over his passion; but Corinne regarded him with such an expression of sweetness and fear, she made him so sensible of his power while beseeching him not to abuse it, that this humble entreaty inspired him with more respect than any other could possibly have done.

They then perceived in the sea, the reflection of a torch carried by the unknown hand of one who traversed the shore, repairing secretly to a neighbouring house. "He is going to see the object of his love;" said Oswald.—"Yes," answered Corinne. "And my happiness, for to-day, is about to end,"—resumed Oswald. At this moment the looks of Corinne were lifted towards heaven, and her eyes suffused with tears. Oswald, fearing that he had offended her, fell on his knees to entreat her forgiveness for that love which had overpowered him. "No," said Corinne, stretching forth her hand to him, and inviting him to return with her. "No, Oswald, I feel no alarm: you will respect her who loves you: you know that a simple request from you would be all-powerful with me; it is therefore you who must be my security—you who would for ever reject me as your bride, if you had rendered me unworthy of being so." "Well," answered Oswald, "since you believe in this cruel empire of your will upon my heart, Corinne, whence arises your sadness?"—"Alas!" replied she, "I was saying to myself, that the moments which I have just passed with you were the happiest of my life, and as I turned my eyes in gratitude to heaven, I know not by what chance, a superstition of my childhood revived in my heart. The moon which I contemplated was covered with a cloud, and the aspect of that cloud was fatal. I have always found in the sky a countenance sometimes paternal and sometimes angry; and I tell you, Oswald, heaven has to-night condemned our love."—"My dear," answered Lord Nelville, "the only omens of the life of man, are his good or evil actions; and have I not this very evening, immolated my most ardent desires on the altar of virtue?"—"Well, so much the better if you are not included in this presage," replied Corinne; "it may be that this angry sky has only threatened me."

FOOTNOTE:

[32] There is a charming description of the Lake of Albano, in a collection of poems by Madame Brunn, nee Muenter, whose talent and imagination give her a first rank among the women of her country.



Chapter ii.

They arrived at Naples by day, in the midst of that immense population, at once so animated and so indolent. They first traversed the Via Toledo, and saw the Lazzaroni lying on the pavement, or in osier baskets which serve them for lodging, day and night. There is something extremely original in this state of savage existence, mingled with civilization. There are some among these men who do not even know their own name, and who go to confess anonymous sins; not being able to tell who it is that has committed them. There is a subterranean grotto at Naples where thousands of Lazzaroni pass their lives, only going out at noon to see the sun, and sleeping the rest of the day, whilst their wives spin. In climates where food and raiment are so easy of attainment it requires a very independent and active government to give sufficient emulation to a nation; for it is so easy for the people merely to subsist at Naples, that they can dispense with that industry which is necessary to procure a livelihood elsewhere. Laziness and ignorance combined with the volcanic air which is breathed in this spot, ought to produce ferocity when the passions are excited; but this people is not worse than any other. They possess imagination, which might become the principle of disinterested actions and give them a bias for virtue, if their religious and political institutions were good.

Calabrians are seen marching in a body to cultivate the earth with a fiddler at their head, and dancing from time to time, to rest themselves from walking. There is every year, near Naples, a festival consecrated to the madonna of the grotto, at which the girls dance to the sound of the tambourine and the castanets, and it is not uncommon for a condition to be inserted in the marriage contract, that the husband shall take his wife every year to this festival. There is on the stage at Naples, a performer eighty years old, who for sixty years has entertained the Neapolitans in their comic, national character of Polichinello. Can we imagine what the immortality of the soul may be to a man who thus employs his long life? The people of Naples have no other idea of happiness than pleasure; but the love of pleasure is still better than a barren egotism.

It is true that no people in the world are more fond of money than the Neapolitans: if you ask a man of the people in the street to show you your way, he stretches out his hand after having made you a sign, for they are more indolent in speech than in action; but their avidity for money is not methodical nor studied; they spend it as soon as they get it. They use money as savages would if it were introduced among them. But what this nation is most wanting in, is the sentiment of dignity. They perform generous and benevolent actions from a good heart rather than from principle; for their theory in every respect is good for nothing, and public opinion in this country has no force. But when men or women escape this moral anarchy their conduct is more remarkable in itself and more worthy of admiration than any where else, since there is nothing in external circumstances favourable to virtue. It is born entirely in the soul. Laws and manners neither reward nor punish it. He who is virtuous is so much the more heroic for not being on that account either more considered or more sought after.

With some honourable exceptions the higher classes pretty nearly resemble the lower: the mind of the one is seldom more cultivated than that of the other, and the practice of society is the only external difference between them. But in the midst of this ignorance there is such a natural intelligence in all ranks that it is impossible to foresee what a nation like this might become if all the energies of government were directed to the advancement of knowledge and morality. As there is little education at Naples, we find there, at present, more originality of character than of mind. But the remarkable men of this country, it is said, such as the Abbe Galiani, Caraccioli, &c., possessed the highest sense of humour, joined to the most profound reflection,—rare powers of the mind!—an union without which either pedantry or frivolity would hinder us from knowing the true value of things.

The Neapolitan people, in some respects, are not civilized at all; but their vulgarity does not at all resemble that of other nations. Their very rudeness interests the imagination. The African coast which borders the sea on the other side is almost perceptible; there is something Numidian in the savage cries which are heard in every part of the city. Those swarthy faces, those vestments formed of a few pieces of red or violet stuff whose deep colours attract the eye, even those very rags in which this artistic people drape themselves with grace, give to the populace a picturesque appearance, whilst in other countries they exhibit nothing but the miseries of civilization. A certain taste for finery and decoration is often found in Naples accompanied with an absolute lack of necessaries and conveniences. The shops are agreeably ornamented with flowers and fruit. Some have a festive appearance that has no relation to plenty nor to public felicity, but only to a lively imagination; they seek before every thing to please the eye. The mildness of the climate permits mechanics of every class to work in the streets. The tailors are seen making clothes, and the victuallers providing their repasts, and these domestic occupations going on out of doors, multiply action in a thousand ways. Singing, dancing, and noisy sports, are very suitable to this spectacle; and there is no country where we feel more clearly the difference between amusement and happiness. At length we quit the interior of the city, and arrive at the quays, whence we have a view of the sea and of Mount Vesuvius, and forget then all that we know of man.

Oswald and Corinne arrived at Naples, whilst the eruption of Mount Vesuvius yet lasted. By day nothing was seen but the black smoke which mixed with the clouds; but viewing it in the evening from the balcony of their abode it excited an entirely unexpected emotion. A river of fire descends towards the sea, and its burning waves, like the billows of the sea, express the rapid succession of continual and untiring motion. One would say that when nature transforms herself into various elements she nevertheless preserves some traces of a single and primal thought. The phenomenon of Vesuvius deeply impresses us. We are commonly so familiarised with external objects that we hardly perceive their existence; we scarcely ever feel a new emotion in the midst of our prosaic countries, but that astonishment which the universe ought to cause, is suddenly evoked at the aspect of an unknown wonder of creation: our whole being is shaken by this power of nature, in whose social combinations we have been so long absorbed; we feel that the greatest mysteries in this world do not all consist in man, and that he is threatened or protected by a force independent of himself, in obedience to laws which he cannot penetrate. Oswald and Corinne proposed to ascend Mount Vesuvius, and the peril of this enterprise gave an additional charm to a project which they were to execute together.



Chapter iii.

There was at that time in the port of Naples, an English man-of-war in which divine service was performed every Sunday. The captain, and all the English who were at Naples, invited Lord Nelville to come the following day; he consented without thinking at first whether he should take Corinne with him, and how he should present her to his fellow-countrymen. He was tormented by this disquietude the whole night. As he was walking with Corinne, on the following morning near the port and was about to advise her not to go on board, they saw an English long-boat rowed by ten sailors, clad in white, and wearing black velvet caps, on which was embroidered silver leopards. A young officer landed from it, and accosting Corinne by the name of Lady Nelville, begged to have the honour of conducting her to the ship. At the name of Lady Nelville Corinne was embarrassed—she blushed and cast down her eyes. Oswald appeared to hesitate a moment: then suddenly taking her hand, he said to her in English,—"Come, my dear,"—and she followed him.

The noise of the waves and the silence of the sailors, who neither moved nor spoke but in pursuance of their duty, and who rapidly conducted the bark over that sea which they had so often traversed, gave birth to reverie. Besides, Corinne dared not question Lord Nelville on what had just passed. She sought to conjecture his purpose, not thinking (which is however the more probable) that he had none, and that he yielded to each new circumstance. One moment she imagined that he was conducting her to divine service in order to espouse her, and this idea caused her at the time more fear than happiness: it appeared to her that she was going to quit Italy and return to England, where she had suffered so much. The severity of manners and customs in that country returned to her mind, and love itself could not entirely triumph over the bitterness of her recollections. But how astonished will she be in other circumstances at those thoughts, fleeting as they were! how she will abjure them!

Corinne ascended the ship, the interior of which presented a picture of the most studied cleanliness and order. Nothing was heard but the voice of the captain, which was prolonged and repeated from one end to the other by command and obedience. The subordination, regularity, silence, and serious deportment so remarkable on this ship, formed a system of social order rigid and free, in contrast with the city of Naples, so volatile, so passionate, and tumultuous. Oswald was occupied with Corinne and the impressions she received; but his attention was sometimes diverted from her by the pleasure he felt in finding himself in his native country. And indeed are not ships and the open sea a second country to an Englishman? Oswald walked the deck with the English on board to learn the news from England, and to discuss the politics of their country; during which time Corinne was with some English ladies who had come from Naples to attend divine worship. They were surrounded by their children, as beautiful as the day, but timid as their mothers; and not a word was spoken before a new acquaintance. This constraint, this silence, rendered Corinne very sad; she turned her eyes towards beautiful Naples, towards its flowery shores, its animated existence, and sighed. Fortunately for her Oswald did not perceive it; on the contrary, beholding her seated among English women, her dark eyelids cast down like their fair ones, and conforming in every respect to their manners, he felt a sensation of joy. In vain does an Englishman find pleasure in foreign manners; his heart always reverts to the first impressions of his life. If you ask Englishmen sailing at the extremity of the world whither they are going, they will answer you, home, if they are returning to England. Their wishes and their sentiments are always turned towards their native country, at whatever distance they may be from it.

They descended between decks to hear divine service, and Corinne soon perceived that her idea was without foundation, that Lord Nelville had not formed the solemn project she had at first supposed. She then reproached herself with having feared such an event, and the embarrassment of her present situation revived in her bosom; for all the company believed her to be the wife of Lord Nelville, and she had not the courage to say a word that might either destroy or confirm this idea. Oswald suffered as cruelly as she did; but in the midst of a thousand rare qualities, there was much weakness and irresolution in his character. These defects are unperceived by their possessor, and assume in his eyes a new form under every circumstance; he conceives it alternately to be prudence, sensibility, or delicacy, which defers the moment of adopting a resolution and prolongs a state of indecision; hardly ever does he feel that it is the same character which attaches this kind of inconvenience to every circumstance.

Corinne, however, notwithstanding the painful thoughts that occupied her, received a deep impression from the spectacle which she witnessed. Nothing, in truth, speaks more to the soul than divine service performed on board a ship; and the noble simplicity of the reformed worship seems particularly adapted to the sentiments which are then felt. A young man performed the functions of chaplain; he preached with a mild but firm voice, and his figure bespoke the rigid principles of a pure soul amidst the ardour of youth. That severity carries with it an idea of force, very suitable to a religion preached among the perils of war. At stated moments, the English minister delivered prayers, the last words of which all the assembly repeated with him. These confused but mild voices proceeding from various distances kept alive interest and emotion. The sailors, the officers, and the captain, knelt down several times, particularly at these words, "Lord, have mercy upon us!" The sword of the captain, which dragged on the deck whilst he was kneeling, called to mind that noble union of humility before God and intrepidity before man, which renders the devotion of warriors so affecting; and whilst these brave people besought the God of armies, the sea was seen through the port-holes, and sometimes the murmuring of the waves, at that moment tranquil, seemed to say, "your prayers are heard." The chaplain finished, the service by a prayer, peculiar to the English sailors. "May God," say they, "give us grace to defend our happy Constitution from without, and to find on our return domestic happiness at home!" How many fine sentiments are united in these simple words! The long and continued study which the navy requires and the austere life led in a ship, make it a military cloister in the midst of the waves; and the regularity of the most serious occupations is there only interrupted by perils and death. The sailors, in spite of their rough, hardy manners, often express themselves with much gentleness, and show a particular tenderness to women and children when they meet them on board. We are the more touched with these sentiments, because we know with what coolness they expose themselves to those terrible dangers of war and the sea, in the midst of which the presence of man has something of the supernatural.

Corinne and Lord Nelville returned to the boat which was to bring them ashore; they beheld the city of Naples, built in the form of an amphitheatre, as if to take part more commodiously in the festival of nature; and Corinne, in setting her foot again upon Italian ground, could not refrain from feeling a sentiment of joy. If Nelville had suspected this sentiment he would have been hurt at it, and perhaps with reason; yet he would have been unjust towards Corinne, who loved him passionately in spite of the painful impression caused by the remembrance of a country where cruel circumstances had rendered her so unhappy. Her imagination was lively; there was in her heart a great capacity for love; but talent, especially in a woman, begets a disposition to weariness, a want of something to divert the attention, which the most profound passion cannot make entirely disappear. The idea of a monotonous life, even in the midst of happiness, makes a mind which stands in need of variety, to shudder with fear. It is only when there is little wind in the sails, that we can keep close to shore; but the imagination roves at large, although affection be constant; it is so, at least, till the moment when misfortune makes every inconsistency disappear, and leaves but one thought and one grief in the mind.

Oswald attributed the reverie of Corinne solely to the embarrassment into which she had been thrown by hearing herself called Lady Nelville; and reproaching himself for not having released her from that embarrassment he feared she might suspect him of levity. He began therefore in order to arrive at the long-desired explanation by offering to relate to her his own history. "I will speak first," said he, "and your confidence will follow mine." "Yes, undoubtedly it must," answered Corinne, trembling; "but tell me at what day—at what hour? When you have spoken, I will tell you all."—"How agitated you are," answered Oswald; "what then, will you ever feel that fear of your friend, that mistrust of his heart?" "No," continued Corinne; "it is decided; I have committed it all to writing, and if you choose, to-morrow—" "To-morrow," said Lord Nelville, "we are to go together to Vesuvius; I wish to contemplate with you this astonishing wonder, to learn from you how to admire it; and in this very journey, if I have the strength, I will make you acquainted with the particulars of my past life. My heart is determined; thus my confidence will open the way to yours." "So you give me to-morrow," replied Corinne; "I thank you for this one day. Ah! who knows whether you will be the same for me when I have opened my soul to you? And how can I feel such a doubt without shuddering?"



Chapter iv.

The ruins of Pompei are near to Mount Vesuvius, and Corinne and Lord Neville began their excursion with these ruins. They were both silent; for the moment approached which was to decide their fate, and that vague hope they had so long enjoyed, and which accords so well with the indolence and reverie that the climate of Italy inspires, was to be replaced by a positive destiny. They visited Pompei together, the most curious ruin of antiquity. At Rome, seldom any thing is found but the remains of public monuments, and these monuments only retrace the political history of past ages; but at Pompei it is the private life of the ancients which offers itself to the view, such as it was. The Volcano, which has covered this city with ashes, has preserved it from the destroying hand of Time. Edifices, exposed to the air, never could have remained so perfect; but this hidden relic of antiquity was found entire. The paintings and bronzes were still in their pristine beauty; and every thing connected with domestic life is fearfully preserved. The amphorae are yet prepared for the festival of the following day; the flour which was to be kneaded is still to be seen; the remains of a woman, are still decorated with those ornaments which she wore on the holiday that the Volcano disturbed, and her calcined arms no longer fill the bracelets of precious stones which still surround them. Nowhere is to be seen so striking an image of the sudden interruption of life. The traces of the wheels are visible in the streets, and the stones on the brink of the wells bear the mark of the cord which has gradually furrowed them. On the walls of a guardhouse are still to be seen those misshapen characters, those figures rudely sketched, which the soldiers traced to pass away the time, while Time was hastily advancing to swallow them up.

When we place ourselves in the midst of the crossroads from which the city that remains standing almost entire is seen on all sides, it seems to us as if we were waiting for somebody, as if the master were coming; and even the appearance of life which this abode offers makes us feel more sadly its eternal silence. It is with petrified lava that the greater part of these houses are built, which are now swallowed up by other lava. Thus ruins are heaped upon ruins, and tombs upon tombs. This history of the world, where the epochs are counted from ruin to ruin, this picture of human life, which is only lighted up by the Volcanoes that have consumed it, fill the heart with a profound melancholy. How long man has existed! How long he has suffered and died! Where can we find his sentiments and his thoughts? Is the air that we breathe in these ruins impregnated with them, or are they for ever deposited in heaven where reigns immortality? Some burnt leaves of manuscripts, which have been found at Herculaneum, and Pompei, and which scholars at Portici are employed to decipher, are all that remain to give us information of those unhappy victims, whom the Volcano, that thunder-bolt of earth, has destroyed. But in passing near those ashes, which art has succeeded in reanimating, we are afraid to breathe lest a breath should carry away that dust where noble ideas are perhaps still imprinted.

The public edifices in the city itself of Pompei, which was one of the least important of Italy, are yet tolerably fine. The luxury of the ancients had almost ever some object of public interest for its aim. Their private houses are very small, and we do not see in them any studied magnificence, though we may remark a lively taste for the fine arts in their possessors. Almost the whole interior is adorned with the most agreeable paintings and mosaic pavements ingeniously worked. On many of these pavements is written the word Salve. This word is placed on the threshold of the door, and must not be simply considered as a polite expression, but as an invocation of hospitality. The rooms are singularly narrow, and badly lighted; the windows do not look on the street, but on a portico inside the house, as well as a marble court which it surrounds. In the midst of this court is a cistern, simply ornamented. It is evident from this kind of habitation that the ancients lived almost entirely in the open air, and that it was there they received their friends. Nothing gives us a more sweet and voluptuous idea of existence than this climate, which intimately unites man with nature; we should suppose that the character of their conversation and their society, ought, with such habits, to be different from those of a country where the rigour of the cold forces the inhabitants to shut themselves up in their houses. We understand better the Dialogues of Plato in contemplating those porches under which the ancients walked during one half of the day. They were incessantly animated by the spectacle of a beautiful sky: social order, according to their conceptions, was not the dry combination of calculation and force, but a happy assemblage of institutions, which stimulated the faculties, unfolded the soul, and directed man to the perfection of himself and his equals.

Antiquity inspires an insatiable curiosity. Those men of erudition who are occupied only in forming a collection of names which they call history, are certainly divested of all imagination. But to penetrate the remotest periods of the past, to interrogate the human heart through the intervening gloom of ages, to seize a fact by the help of a word, and by the aid of that fact to discover the character and manners of a nation; in effect, to go back to the remotest time, to figure to ourselves how the earth in its first youth appeared to the eyes of man, and in what manner the human race then supported the gift of existence which civilization has now rendered so complicated, is a continual effort of the imagination, which divines and discovers the finest secrets that reflection and study can reveal to us. This occupation of the mind Oswald found most fascinating, and often repeated to Corinne that if he had not been taken up with the noblest interests in his own country, he could only have found life supportable in those parts where the monuments of history supply the place of present existence. We must at least regret glory when it is no longer possible to obtain it. It is forgetfulness alone that debases the soul; but it may find an asylum in the past, when barren circumstances deprive actions of their aim.

On leaving Pompei and returning to Portici, Corinne and Lord Nelville were surrounded by the inhabitants, who cried to them loudly to come and see the mountain; so they call Vesuvius. Is it necessary to name it? It is the glory of the Neapolitans and the object of their patriotic feelings; their country is distinguished by this phenomenon. Oswald had Corinne carried in a kind of palanquin as far as the hermitage of St Salvador, which is half way up the mountain, and where travellers repose before they undertake to climb the summit. He rode by her side to watch those who carried her, and the more his heart was filled with the generous thoughts that nature and history inspire, the more he adored Corinne.

At the foot of Vesuvius the country is the most fertile and best cultivated that can be found in the kingdom of Naples, that is to say, in the country of Europe most favoured of heaven. The celebrated vine, whose wine is called Lacryma Christi, grows in this spot, and by the side of lands which have been laid waste by the lava. One would say that nature has made a last effort in this spot, so near the Volcano, and has decked herself in her richest attire before her death. In proportion as we ascend the mountain, we discover on turning round, Naples, and the beautiful country that surrounds it. The rays of the sun make the sea sparkle like precious stones; but all the splendour of the creation is extinguished by degrees as we approach the land of ashes and smoke which announces the vicinity of the Volcano. The ferruginous lava of preceding years has traced in the earth deep and sable furrows, and all around them is barren. At a certain height not a bird is seen to fly, at another, plants become very scarce, then even the insects find nothing to subsist on in the arid soil. At length every living thing disappears; you enter the empire of death, and the pulverised ashes alone roll beneath your uncertain feet.

Ne griggi ne armenti Guida bifolco, mai guida pastore

Neither flocks nor herds does the husbandman or the shepherd ever guide to this spot.

Here dwells a hermit on the confines of life and death. A tree, the last farewell of vegetation, grows before his door: and it is beneath the shadow of its pale foliage that travellers are accustomed to wait the approach of night, to continue their route; for during the day, the fires of Vesuvius are only perceived like a cloud of smoke, and the lava, so bright and burning in the night, appears black before the beams of the sun. This metamorphosis itself is a fine spectacle, which renews every evening that astonishment which the continuity of the same aspect might weaken. The impression of this spot and its profound solitude, gave Lord Nelville more resolution to reveal the secrets of his soul; and desiring to excite the confidence of Corinne, he said to her with the most lively emotion:—"You wish to read the inmost soul of your unhappy friend; well, I will tell you all: I feel my wounds are about to bleed afresh; but ought we, in this desolate scene of nature, to dread so much those sufferings which Time brings in its course?"



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THE END