"Once more, my Lord, pardon this love for my country, which makes me long to know it beloved by a man like yourself; and do not judge with English severity the pledges of good-will that an Italian believes it her right to bestow, without losing anything in her own eyes or in yours.
"CORINNE."
In vain would Oswald have concealed from himself his ecstasy at receiving this letter; it opened to him glimpses of a future all peace and joy, enthusiasm, love and wisdom;—all that is most divine in the soul of man seemed blended in the enchanting project of exploring Rome with Corinne. He considered—he hesitated no more; but instantly started for her house, and, on his way, looked up to heaven, basking in its rays, for life was no longer a burden. Regret and fear were lost behind the golden clouds of hope; his heart so long oppressed with sadness, throbbed and bounded with delight; he knew that such a state could not last; but even his sense of its fleetness lent this fever of felicity but a more active force.
"You are come!" cried Corinne, as he entered. "Ah, thank you!" She offered her hand: he pressed it to his lips, with a tenderness unqualified by that afflicting tremor which so often mingled with his happiness, and embittered the presence of those he loved the most. An intimacy had commenced between them since they had last parted, established by the letter of Corinne; both were content, and felt towards one another the sweetest gratitude. "This morning, then," said Corinne, "I will show you the Pantheon and St. Peter's. I trusted," she added, smilingly, "that you would not refuse to make the tour of Rome with me; so my horses are ready. I expected you—you are here—all is well—let us go."—"Wondrous creature!" exclaimed Oswald. "Who then are you? Whence do you derive charms so contrasted, that each might well exclude the others?—feeling gayety, depth, wildness, modesty! Art thou an illusion? an unearthly blessing for those who meet thee?"—"Ah! if I have but power to do you any service," she answered, "believe not that I will ever renounce it."—"Take heed," replied he, seizing her hand with emotion; "be careful of what benefit you confer on me. For two years an iron grasp has pressed upon my heart. If I feel some relief while breathing your sweet air, what will become of me when thrown back on mine own fate? What shall I be then?"—"Let us leave that to time and chance," interrupted Corinne: "They will decide whether the impression of an hour shall last beyond its day. If our souls commune, our mutual affection will not be fugitive: be that as it may, let us admire together all that can elevate our minds; we shall thus, at least, secure some happy moments." So saying, she descended. Nevil followed her, astonished at her reply: it seemed that she admitted the possibility of a momentary liking for him, yet he fancied that he perceived a fickleness in her manner, which piqued him even to pain; and Corinne, as if she guessed this, said, when they were seated in her carriage, "I do not think the heart is so constituted that it must either feel no love at all, or the most unconquerable passion. There are early symptoms which may vanish before self-examination. We flatter, we deceive ourselves; and the very enthusiasm of which we are susceptible, if it renders the enchantment more rapid, may also bring the reaction promptly."—"You have reflected much upon this sentiment, madame," observed Oswald, with bitterness. Corinne blushed, and was silent for some moments, then said, with a striking union of frankness and dignity, "I suppose no woman of heart ever reached the age of twenty-six without having known the illusions of love; but if never to have been happy, never to have met an object worthy of her full affection, is a claim on sympathy, I have a right to yours." The words, the accent of Corinne, somewhat dispersed the clouds that gathered over Nevil's thoughts; yet he said to himself: "She is a most seducing creature, but—an Italian. This is not a shrinking, innocent heart, even to itself unknown such as, I doubt not, beats in the bosom of the English girl to whom my father destined me."
Lucy Edgarmond was the daughter of his parent's best friend; but too young, when he left England, for him to marry her, or even foresee what she might one day become.[1]
CHAPTER II.
Oswald and Corinne went first to the Pantheon, now called Santa Maria of the Rotunda. Throughout Italy the Catholic hath been the Pagan's heir; but this is the only antique temple in Rome which has been preserved entire; the only one wherein we may behold, unimpaired, the architecture of the ancients, and the peculiar character of their worship.
Here they paused to admire the portico and its supporting columns. Corinne bade Oswald to observe that this building was constructed in such a manner as made it appear much larger than it was. "St. Peter's," she said, "produces an opposite effect: you will, at first, think it less vast than it is in reality. The deception, so favorable to the Pantheon, proceeds, it is conceived, from the great space between the pillars, and from the air playing so freely within; but still more from the absence of ornament, with which St. Peter's is overcharged. Even thus did antique poetry design but the massive features of a theme, leaving the reader's fancy to supply the detail: in all affairs we moderns say and do too much. This fane was consecrated by Agrippa, the favourite of Augustus, to his friend, or rather, his master, who, however, had the humility to refuse this dedication; and Agrippa was reduced to the necessity of devoting it to all the gods of Olympus, and of substituting their power for that of one earthly idol. On the top of the Pantheon stood a car, in which were placed the statues of Augustus and Agrippa. On each side of the portico similar effigies were displayed, in other attitudes; and over the front of the temple is still legible: "Consecrated by Agrippa." Augustus gave his name to the age in which he lived, by rendering it an era in the progress of human intellect. From the chefs-d'œuvres of his cotemporaries emanated the rays that formed a circling halo round his brow. He knew how to honor men of letters in his own day; and posterity, therefore, honors him. Let us enter the temple: it is said that the light which streams in from above was considered the emblem of a divinity superior to the highest divinities. The heathens ever loved symbolical images; our language, indeed, seems to accord better with religion, than with common parlance. The rain often falls on the marbles of this court, but the sunshine succeeds to efface it. What a serene, yet festal air is here! The Pagans deified life, as the Christians sanctify death; such is the distinction between the two faiths; but Catholicism here is far less gloomy than in the north, as you will observe when we visit St. Peter's. In the sanctuary of the Pantheon the busts of our most celebrated artists decorate the niches once filled by ideal gods. Since the empire of the Cæsars, we have scarce ever boasted any political independence; consequently, you will find no statesmen, no heroes here. Genius constitutes our only fame; but do you not think, my Lord, that a people, who thus revere the talents still left amongst them, must deserve a nobler destiny?"—"I believe," replied Oswald, "that nations generally deserve their own fates, be they what they will."—"That is severe! but, perhaps, by living in Italy, your heart may soften towards the fair land which nature has adorned like a victim for sacrifice. At least remember, that the dearest hope the lovers of glory cherish is that of obtaining a place here. I have already chosen mine," she added, pointing to a niche, still vacant. "Oswald, who knows but you may one day return to this spot, when my bust——". "Hold!" interrupted he; "can you, resplendent in youth and beauty, talk thus to one whom misfortune even now is bending towards the grave?"—"Ah!" exclaimed Corinne, "the storm may in a moment dash down flowers that yet shall raise their heads again. Oswald, dear Oswald! why are you not happy?"—"Never ask me," he replied; "you have your secrets, and I mine: let us respect our mutual silence. You know not what I should suffer, if forced to relate my distresses." Corinne said no more; but her steps, as she left the temple, became slow, and her looks more pensive.
She paused beneath the portico. "There," she said, "stood a porphyry urn of great beauty, now removed to St. John Lateran; it contained the ashes of Agrippa, which were deposited at the foot of the statue he had erected to himself. The ancients lavished such art on sweetening the idea of destruction, that they succeeded in banishing all its most dreary and alarming traits. There was such magnificence in their tombs, that the contrast between the nothingness of death and the splendors of life was less felt. It is certain, too, that the hope of another world was far less vivid amongst them than it is with Christians. They were obliged to contest with death, the principal which we fearlessly confide to the bosom of our eternal Father."
Oswald sighed,