Chapter V: Part 5

The Thermæ and the Circuses are the only kind of buildings appropriated to public amusements of which there remain any relics at Rome. There is no theatre except that of Marcellus whose ruins still exist. Pliny relates that there were three hundred and sixty pillars of marble, and three thousand statues employed in a theatre, which was only to last a few days. Sometimes the Romans raised fabrics so strong that they resisted the shock of earthquakes; at others they took pleasure in devoting immense labour to buildings which they themselves destroyed as soon as their feasts were over; thus they sported with time in every shape. Besides, the Romans were not like the Greeks--influenced by a passion for dramatic representations. It was by Grecian work, and Grecian artists, that the fine arts flourished at Rome, and Roman greatness expressed itself rather by the colossal magnificence of architecture than by the masterpieces of the imagination. This gigantic luxury, these wonders of riches, possess great and characteristic dignity, which, though not the dignity of liberty, is that of power. The monuments appropriated for public baths, were called provinces; in them were united all the divers productions and divers establishments which a whole country can produce. The circus (called _Circus Maximus_) of which the remains are still to be seen, was so near the palace of the Cæsars that Nero could from his windows give the signal for the games. The circus was large enough to contain three hundred thousand persons. The nation almost in its entirety was amused at the same moment, and these immense festivals might be considered as a kind of popular institution, which united every man in the cause of pleasure as they were formerly united in the cause of glory.

Mount Quirinal and Mount Viminal are so near each other that it is difficult to distinguish them: it was here that the houses of Sallust and of Pompey, formerly stood; it is here also that the Pope has now fixed his abode. We cannot take one step in Rome without bringing the present near to the past, and different periods of the past near to each other. But we learn to reconcile ourselves to the events of our own time, in beholding the eternal mutability of the history of man; and we feel ashamed of letting our own lot disturb us in the presence of so many ages, which have all overthrown the work of the preceding ones.

By the side of the Seven Hills, on their declivities or on their summits, are seen a multitude of steeples, and of obelisks; Trajan's column, the column of Antoninus, the Tower of Conti (whence it is said Nero beheld the conflagration of Rome), and the Dome of St Peter's, whose commanding grandeur eclipses that of every other object. It appears as if the air were peopled with all these monuments, which extend towards Heaven, and as if an aerial city were majestically hovering over the terrestrial one.

On entering Rome again Corinne made Oswald pass under the portico of Octavia, she who loved so well, and suffered so much; then they traversed the _Path of Infamy_, by which the infamous Tullia passed, trampling her father's corpse beneath the feet of her horses. At a distance from this spot is seen the temple raised by Agrippina in honour of Claudius whom she caused to be poisoned. And lastly we pass the tomb of Augustus, whose enclosure now serves as an amphitheatre for the combats of beasts.

"I have caused you to run over very rapidly," said Corinne to Lord Nelville, "some traces of ancient history; but you will comprehend the pleasure to be found in these researches, at once learned and poetic, which speak to the imagination as well as to the mind. There are in Rome many distinguished men whose only occupation is to discover some new relation between history and the ruins." "I know no study that would more captivate and interest me," replied Lord Nelville, "if I felt sufficiently at rest to give my mind to it: this species of erudition is much more animated than that which is acquired from books: one would say that we make what we discover to live again, and that the past re-appears from beneath the dust in which it has been buried." "Undoubtedly," said Corinne, "this passion for antiquity is not a vain prejudice. We live in an age when personal interest seems to be the only principle of all the actions of men, and what sympathy, what emotion, what enthusiasm, can ever result from such a principle? It is sweeter to dream of those days of devotion, of personal sacrifice and heroism, which however, have existed, and of which the earth still bears some honourable testimonies."

FOOTNOTE:

[16] Augustus died at Nola, on his way to the waters of Brindisi, which had been prescribed him; but he left Rome in a dying state.

Chapter vi.

Corinne flattered herself in secret with having captivated the heart of Oswald, but as she knew his reserve and his severity, she had not dared make known to him all the interest he had excited in her heart, though she was disposed, by character, to conceal nothing that she felt. Perhaps also she believed that even in speaking on subjects foreign to their growing passion there was a tenderness of accent in their voice, which betrayed their mutual affection, and that a secret avowal of love was painted in their looks, and in that melancholy and veiled language which penetrates so deeply into the soul.

One morning, when Corinne was getting ready to continue her walks with Oswald, she received a note from him, somewhat ceremonious, informing her that the bad state of his health would confine him at home for some days. A painful disquietude seized upon the heart of Corinne: she at first feared he might be dangerously ill, but the Count d'Erfeuil, whom she saw at night, told her it was one of those melancholy fits to which he was very much subject and, during which he would not speak to anybody.--"He will not see _even me_," said the Count d'Erfeuil, "when he is so."--This _even me_ was highly displeasing to Corinne, but she was upon her guard not to betray any symptoms of that displeasure to the only man who might be able to give her news of Lord Nelville. She interrogated him, flattering herself that a man of so much apparent levity would tell her all he knew. But on a sudden, whether he wished to conceal from her by an air of mystery that Oswald had confided nothing to him, or whether he believed it more honourable to refuse what was asked of him than to grant it, he opposed an invincible silence to the ardent curiosity of Corinne. She who had always had an ascendency over those with whom she conversed, could not comprehend why all her means of persuasion were without effect upon the Count d'Erfeuil: did she not know that there is nothing in the world so inflexible as self-love?

What resource remained then to Corinne to know what was passing in the heart of Oswald! should she write to him? The formality it would require was too foreign to her open disposition. Three days glided away, during which she did not see Lord Nelville, and was tormented by the most cruel agitation.--"What have I done then," said she, "to drive him from me? I have not told him that I loved him.--I have not been guilty of that crime, so terrible in England, but so pardonable in Italy. Has he guessed it? But why should he esteem me the less for it?" Oswald had only absented himself from Corinne because he felt the power of her charms becoming too strong to resist. Though he had not given his word to espouse Lucilia Edgermond, he knew it was his father's wish that she should become his wife, and to that wish he desired to conform. Besides, Corinne was not known by her real name, and had, for several years, led a life much too independent. Such a marriage, Lord Nelville believed would not have obtained the approbation of his father, and he felt that it was not thus he could expiate the transgressions he had been guilty of towards him. Such were his motives for removing himself from the presence of Corinne. He had formed the project of writing to her on quitting Rome, stating the motives that condemned him to this resolution; but as he could not find strength to do that, he contented himself with abstaining from visiting her, and even this sacrifice became almost too painful to bear from the second day of his absence.

Corinne was struck with an idea that she should never behold Oswald again; that he would go away without bidding her adieu. She expected every instant to receive the news of his departure, and this fear so increased the agony of her feelings that she felt herself all of a sudden seized by passion, that vulture beneath whose talons happiness and independence sink. Unable to endure the house that Lord Nelville no longer visited, she frequently wandered in the gardens of Rome, hoping to meet with him. The hours so spent were the least insupportable, since they afforded some chance of seeing the object of her wanderings. The ardent imagination of Corinne was the source of her talents; but, unfortunately for her, it was united to her natural sensibility, which often rendered it extremely painful to her.

On the evening of the fourth day of this cruel absence, the moon shone beautifully bright, and the silence of the night gives Rome a fine effect: it seems then to be inhabited by the shades of its illustrious ancients. Corinne, returning from the house of a female friend, oppressed with grief, quitted her carriage, to sit for a few moments near the fountain of Trevi; before that abundant cascade, which, falling in the midst of Rome, seems like the vital principle of this tranquil abode. When this cascade ceases to play for some days, one would say that Rome is struck with stupor. It is the noise of carriages that we expect to hear in other capitals; but at Rome, it is the murmuring of this immense fountain, which seems to be an accompaniment necessary to the pensive life people lead there: the image of Corinne was painted in this stream, so pure, that for several centuries past it has borne the name of the _Virgin Spring_. Oswald, who had stopped in the same place a few moments afterwards, beheld the charming features of his love reflected in the water. He was seized with so lively an emotion, that he did not know, at first, whether it was not his imagination which presented to him the shadow of Corinne, as it had so often done that of his father; he bent towards the fountain to observe more distinctly, when his own countenance was reflected by the side of Corinne's. She knew him, uttered a cry, and darting towards him rapidly, seized his arm as if she were afraid he would leave her again; but hardly had she yielded to this impetuous emotion than recollecting the character of Nelville, she blushed at having given him this lively testimony of her feelings, and letting fall the hand which held Oswald, she covered her face with the other to conceal her tears.

"Corinne!" said Oswald, "dear Corinne! my absence has then rendered you unhappy!" "Oh yes," answered she, "you were sure of that! Why then pain me! have I deserved to suffer at your hand?" "No, certainly," cried Nelville, "but if I do not think myself free; if I feel in my heart a storm of grief, why should I associate you with such a torture of sentiment and dread?"--"It is too late," interrupted Corinne, "it is too late, grief has already seized upon my bosom--spare me."--"Do you mention grief?" replied Oswald, "in the midst of so brilliant a career, of such renown, and possessing so lively an imagination?"--"Hold," said Corinne, "you do not know me; of all the faculties I possess, the most powerful is that of suffering. I am born for happiness, my disposition is open, my imagination animated; but pain excites in me a certain impetuosity, powerful enough to disturb my reason or bring me to my grave; therefore I beseech you, spare me. My gaiety and mobility are only superficial; but there are in my soul abysses of sadness, which I can only escape by guarding against love."

Corinne pronounced these words with an expression that deeply affected Oswald.--"I will come and see you to-morrow morning," said he. "Do you swear it?" said she, with a disquietude which she vainly endeavoured to conceal. "Yes, I swear it," cried Lord Nelville, and disappeared.

Book v.

THE TOMBS, THE CHURCHES, AND THE PALACES.

Chapter i.

The next day, Oswald and Corinne felt much embarrassed at meeting each other. Corinne was no longer confident of the love which she inspired. Oswald was dissatisfied with himself; he knew there was a weakness in his character which sometimes made him feel irritated at his own sentiments as at a species of tyranny; and both endeavoured to avoid speaking of their mutual affection. "I have to propose to-day," said Corinne, "rather a solemn walk; but one that will certainly prove highly interesting: let us go and see the tombs, let us go and see the last asylum of those who inhabited the monuments whose ruins we have contemplated."--"Yes," answered Oswald, "you have conjectured what will suit the present disposition of my soul;" and he pronounced these words in so dolorous an accent, that Corinne was silent some moments, not daring to speak to him. But the desire of affording consolation to Oswald, and the lively interest she took in every thing they were to see together, inspired her with courage, and she said to him: "You know my lord, that, among the ancients, so far was the aspect of the tombs from dispiriting the living, that they endeavoured to excite a new emulation by placing these tombs on the public roads, in order that by recalling to young people the remembrance of illustrious men, they might silently admonish them to follow their example." "Ah! how I envy all those," said Oswald, "whose grief is not mingled with remorse!" "Do you talk of remorse," cried Corinne; "you whose only failings, if they may be so called, are an excess of virtue, a scrupulosity of heart, an exalted delicacy--" "Corinne, Corinne, do not approach that subject," interrupted Oswald, "in your happy country, sombre thoughts disappear before the lustre of a brilliant sky; but that grief which has penetrated to the depths of our soul, must for ever sap the foundation of our existence." "You form an erroneous judgment of me," replied Corinne; "I have already told you, that though I am formed by the nature of my character, for lively enjoyment, I should suffer more exquisitely than you if--" She did not conclude; but changed the discourse.--"My only desire, my lord, is to divert your attention for a moment; I hope for nothing more." The sweetness of this reply moved Lord Nelville, and seeing a melancholy expression in the looks of Corinne, naturally so interesting and so full of fire, he reproached himself for having afflicted a woman, born for the most tender and lively sensations, and endeavoured to atone for it. But the disquietude which Corinne experienced with regard to the future intentions of Oswald, and the possibility of his departure, entirely disturbed her accustomed serenity.

She conducted Lord Nelville outside the gates of the city, where are to be seen the ancient vestiges of the Appian way. These vestiges are indicated in the midst of the Campagna, by the tombs to the right and to the left, which extend out of sight for several miles beyond the walls. The Romans would not permit their dead to be buried inside the city: the emperors alone were allowed that privilege. One private citizen, however, named Publius Bibulus, obtained this favour in reward of his obscure virtues.--Cotemporaries are always more willing to honour virtues of that description than any other.

It is the gate of St Sebastian, formerly called _Capene_, that conducts to the Appian way. Cicero tells us, that the first tombs we meet after passing this gate, are those of the Metelli, the Scipios, and the Servilii. The family tomb of the Scipios has been found in this very spot and since transplanted to the Vatican. It is almost a sacrilege to displace the ashes of the dead or to change the aspect of ruins. Imagination is more closely connected with morality than is generally believed, and should not be offended. Among so many tombs which strike our sight, names are ascribed to some without any positive certainty; but even the emotion which this uncertainty inspires will not permit us to contemplate any of these monuments with indifference. There are some in which houses for the peasantry are built; for the Romans consecrated an extensive space and vast edifices to the funereal urns of their friends or their illustrious fellow-citizens. They were not influenced by that dry principle of utility which fertilized a few corners of the earth, while blasting with sterility the vast domain of sentiment and of thought.

At some distance from the Appian way is seen a temple, raised by the republic to Honour and Virtue; another to the god who caused Hannibal to turn back, and also the fountain of Egeria, where Numa went to consult the god of all good men,--conscience interrogated in solitude. It seems that about these tombs no traces but those of virtue have subsisted. No monument of the ages of crime is to be found by the side of those where repose the illustrious dead; they are surrounded by an honourable space, where the noblest memories may preserve their reign undisturbed.

The aspect of the country about Rome has something in it singularly remarkable: undoubtedly it is a desert, for it contains neither trees nor habitation; but the earth is covered with wild plants which the energy of vegetation incessantly renews. These parasitic plants glide among the tombs, adorn the ruins, and seem only there to honour the dead. One would say, that proud Nature has rejected all the labours of man, since Cincinnatus no longer guided the plough which furrowed her bosom. She produces plants by chance, without permitting the living to make use of her riches. These uncultivated plains must be displeasing to the agriculturist, to administrators, to all those who speculate upon the earth, and who would lay it under contribution to supply the wants of man. But pensive minds, which are occupied as much by death as by life, take pleasure in contemplating this Roman Campagna upon which the present age has imprinted no trace; this land which cherishes its dead, and covers them lovingly with useless flowers, with useless plants which creep upon the earth, and never rise sufficiently to separate themselves from the ashes which they appear to caress.

Oswald agreed that in this spot the mind felt more calm than it possibly could any where else; besides, here the soul does not suffer so much from the images that grief presents to it; one seems still to share with those who are no more, the charms of that air, of that sun, and of that verdure. Corinne observed the impression that Lord Nelville received, and conceived some hopes from it: she did not flatter herself with being able to console Oswald; she had not even wished to efface from his heart the just regret he must feel at the loss of his father; but there is, even in this regret, something tender and harmonious, which we must endeavour to make known to those who have hitherto only felt its bitterness; it is the only benefit we can confer upon them.

"Let us stop here," said Corinne, "opposite this tomb, the only one which remains yet almost whole: it is not the tomb of a celebrated Roman, it is that of Cecilia Metella, a young maiden to whom her father has raised this monument." "Happy!" said Oswald, "happy are the children who die in the arms of their father and receive death in the bosom of him who gave them life; death itself then loses its sting." "Yes," said Corinne; "happy are those not doomed to the wretched lot of orphans. See, arms have been sculptured on this tomb, though it belongs to a woman: but the daughters of heroes may have their monuments adorned with the trophies of their fathers; what a beautiful union is that of innocence and valour! There is an elegy of Propertius which paints better than any other writing of antiquity, this dignity of woman among the Romans, more imposing, more pure than the worship paid to them during the age of chivalry. Cornelia, dying in her youth, addresses to her husband the most affecting consolations and adieus, in which we feel at every word, all that is respectable and sacred in family ties. The noble pride of an unspotted life is painted in this majestic poetry of the Latins, this poetry, noble and severe as the masters of the world[17]. '_Yes_,' says Cornelia, '_no stain has sullied my life from the nuptial bed to the funeral pyre; I have lived pure between the two torches._' What an admirable expression" cried Corinne; "What a sublime image! How worthy of envy is the lot of that woman who has been able to preserve the most perfect unity in her destiny and carries but one recollection to the grave: it is enough for a life!"

In finishing these words, the eyes of Corinne were filled with tears; a cruel sentiment, a painful suspicion seized upon the heart of Oswald.--"Corinne," cried he, "Corinne, has your delicate soul nothing to reproach itself with? If I were able to dispose of myself, if I could offer myself to you, should I have no rival in the past? Should I have reason to be proud of my choice? Would no cruel jealousy disturb my happiness?"--"I am free, and I love you as I never loved man before!" answered Corinne--"What would you have more?--Must I be condemned to an avowal, that before I have known you I have been deceived by my imagination as to the interest which another excited in me? Is there not in the heart of man a divine pity for the errors which sentiment, or rather the illusion of sentiment, may have led us to commit?" In finishing these words a modest blush covered her face. Oswald was startled; but remained silent. There was in Corinne's look an expression of repentance and timidity which did not permit him to judge with rigour--a ray from heaven seemed to descend upon, and absolve her! He took her hand, pressed it against his heart, and knelt before her, without uttering anything, without promising anything; but contemplated her with a look of love which gave the utmost latitude to hope.

"Believe me," said Corinne, to Lord Nelville--"let us form no plan for the years to come. The most happy moments are those which a bountiful chance gives us. Is it here then, is it in the midst of the tombs that we should think of future days?"--"No," cried Lord Nelville, "I can think of no future day that would be likely to part us! these four days of absence have taught me too well that I now no longer exist but in you!"--Corinne made no reply to these sweet expressions; but she treasured them religiously in her heart; she was always fearful that in prolonging the conversation upon that subject most interesting to her, she might draw from Oswald a declaration of his future intentions, before a longer acquaintance might render separation impossible. She often, even designedly, turned his attention towards external objects--like that Sultana in the Arabian Tales, who sought by a thousand different recitals to awaken the interest of him she loved, in order to postpone the decision of her fate till her charms and her wit had completed their conquest.

FOOTNOTE:

[17]
"Viximus insignes inter utramque facem."
PROPERTIUS.

Chapter ii.

Not far from the Appian way, Oswald and Corinne visited the _Columbarium_, where slaves are united with their masters; where are seen in the same tomb, all who lived under the protection of one man or one woman. The women of Livia, for example, they who, appointed to the care of her beauty, struggled for its preservation against the power of time and disputed with the years some one of her charms, are placed by her side in little urns. We fancy that we see an assemblage of the obscure dead round one of the illustrious departed, not less silent than his train. At a little distance from here, is perceived the field where vestals, unfaithful to their vows, were buried alive; a singular instance of fanaticism in a religion naturally tolerant.

"I will not conduct you to the catacombs," said Corinne to Lord Nelville, "though, by a singular chance, they are under this Appian way; tombs thus having their abode beneath tombs; but this asylum of the persecuted Christians has something so gloomy, and so terrible in it, that I cannot find resolution to return thither. It does not inspire the same affecting melancholy as more open situations; it is like a dungeon adjoining a sepulchre; the torment of life accompanied with the horrors of death. Undoubtedly, we feel penetrated with admiration of men who, by the power of enthusiasm alone, have been able to support this subterraneous existence; separating themselves from the sun and from nature; but the mind is so ill at ease in this abode that it is incapable of receiving any improvement. Man is a part of the creation; he must find his moral harmony in the whole system of the universe, in the usual order of destiny, and certain violent and formidable exceptions may astonish the mind; but they are so terrifying to the imagination that the habitual disposition of the soul cannot benefit by them. Let us rather," continued Corinne, "go and see the pyramid of Cestius: the Protestants who die here are all buried around this pyramid, which affords them a mild, tolerant, and liberal asylum." "Yes," answered Oswald, "it is there that several of my fellow-countrymen have found their last retreat. Let us go thither; and thus, at least, it may happen that I shall never quit you."--Corinne shuddered at these words, and her hand trembled as she supported herself upon the arm of Lord Nelville--"I am better, much better," said he, "since I have known you."--The countenance of Corinne was lighted up anew with that sweet and tender joy which it was accustomed to express.

Cestius presided over the Roman games. His name is not to be found in history; but it is rendered illustrious by his tomb. The massive pyramid which encloses his ashes, defends his death from that oblivion which has entirely effaced his life. Aurelian, fearing that this pyramid might be employed as a fortress to attack Rome, has caused it to be enclosed within the walls which are yet standing, not as useless ruins, but as the actual enclosure of the modern city. It is said that the form of the pyramid is in imitation of the flame which ascends from a funeral pyre. It is certain that this mysterious form attracts the eye and gives a picturesque aspect to every perspective of which it forms a part. Opposite this pyramid is Mount Testaceo, under which there are extremely cool grottos where feasts are given in summer. The festivals of Rome are not disturbed at the sight of tombs. The pines and the cypresses which are perceived at various distances in the smiling country of Italy, are also pregnant with solemn remembrances; and this contrast produces the same effect as the verses of Horace,

----moriture Delli
------------------------------------------
Linquenda tellus, et domus, et placens
Uxor,[18]

in the midst of poetry consecrated to every enjoyment upon earth. The ancients have always felt that the idea of death has its pleasures: it is recalled by love and by festivals, and the most lively emotion of joy seems to increase even from the idea of the shortness of life.

Corinne and Nelville returned from the walk among the tombs, along the banks of the Tiber.--Once it was covered with vessels and bordered with palaces; once even its inundations were regarded as presages; it was the prophetic river, the tutelary Deity of Rome[19]. At present, one would say that it rolled its tide through a land of shadows; so solitary does it seem, so livid do its waters appear. The finest monuments of the arts, the most admirable statues have been thrown into the Tiber, and are concealed beneath its waves. Who knows whether, in order to find them, the river will not one day be turned from its bed? But when we think that the masterpieces of human genius are perhaps there before us, and that a more piercing eye would behold them through the waves--we feel that indescribable emotion which incessantly arises at Rome, under various forms, and creates a society for the mind in physical objects which every where else are dumb.

FOOTNOTES:

[18]
Dellius thou must die---------------------
Thou must quit thy land, thy home, and thy beloved wife.

[19] PLIN. _Hist. Natur._ L. iii. Tiberis ... quamlibet magnorum navium ex Italo mari capax, rerum in toto orbe nascentium mercator placidissimus, pluribus probe solus quam ceteri in omnibus terris amnes accolitur aspiciturque villis. Nullique fluviorum minus licet, inclusis utrinque lateribus: nec tamen ipse pugnat, quamquam creber ac subitis incrementis, et nusquam magis aquis quam in ipsa urbe stagnantibus. Quin imo vates intelligitur potius ac monitor auctu semper religiosus verius quam sævus.

Chapter iii.

Raphael has said that modern Rome was almost entirely built with the ruins of the ancient city, and it is certain that we cannot take a step here without being struck by some relics of antiquity. We perceive the _eternal walls_, to use the expression of Pliny, through the work of the later centuries; the Roman edifices almost all bear a historical stamp; in them may be remarked, if we may so express it, the physiognomy of ages. From the Etruscans to our days, from that people, more ancient than the Romans themselves, and who resembled the Egyptians by the solidity of their works and the fantastical nature of their designs, from that people to Chevalier Bernini, an artist whose style resembles that of the Italian poets of the seventeenth century, we may observe the human mind at Rome, in the different characters of the arts, the edifices and the ruins. The middle ages, and the brilliant century of the Medici, re-appear before our eyes in their works, and this study of the past in objects present to our sight, penetrates us with the genius of the times. It was believed that Rome had formerly a mysterious name which was only known to a few adepts; it seems that it is yet necessary to be initiated into the secret of this city. It is not simply an assemblage of habitations, it is the history of the world, figured by divers emblems and represented under various forms.

Corinne agreed with Lord Nelville that they should go and visit together, the edifices of modern Rome, and reserve for another opportunity the admirable collections of pictures and statues which it contains. Perhaps, without accounting for it to herself, she desired to put off till the most distant day possible, those objects which people cannot dispense with seeing at Rome; for who has ever quitted it without having contemplated the Apollo Belvedere and the pictures of Raphael? This guarantee, weak as it was, that Oswald should not leave her, pleased her imagination. Is there not an element of pride some one will ask, in endeavouring to retain the object of our love by any other means than the real sentiment itself? I really do not know; but the more we love, the less we trust to the sentiment we inspire; and whatever may be the cause which secures the presence of the object who is dear to us, we always embrace it joyfully. There is often much vanity in a certain species of boldness, and if charms, generally admired, like those of Corinne, possess a real advantage, it is because they permit us to place our pride to the account of the sentiment we feel rather than to that which we inspire.

Corinne and Nelville began their observations by the most remarkable of the numerous churches of Rome--they are all decorated with ancient magnificence; but something gloomy and fantastical is mingled with that beautiful marble and those festival ornaments which have been taken from the Pagan temples. Pillars of porphyry and granite were so numerous in Rome that they have lavishly distributed them, scarcely considering them of any value. At St John Lateran, that church so famous for the councils that have been held in it, are found such a quantity of marble pillars that many of them have been covered with a cement of plaster to make pilasters, so indifferent have they become to these riches from their multitude.

Some of these pillars were in the tomb of Adrian, others at the Capitol; these latter still bear on their capitals the figures of the geese which saved the Roman people. Some of these pillars support Gothic, and others Arabian ornaments. The urn of Agrippa conceals the ashes of a Pope; for even the dead have yielded place to other dead, and the tombs have almost as often changed their masters as the abodes of the living.

Near St John Lateran is the holy stair-case, transported, it is said, from Jerusalem to Rome. It may only be ascended kneeling. Cæsar himself, and Claudius also, mounted on their knees the stair-case which conducted to the Temple of the Capitoline Jove. On one side of St John Lateran is the font where it is said that Constantine was baptised.--In the middle of the square is seen an obelisk, which is perhaps the most ancient monument in the world--an obelisk cotemporary with the Trojan war!--an obelisk which the barbarous Cambyses respected so much that in honour of it he put a stop to the conflagration of a city!--an obelisk for which a king pledged the life of his only son!--The Romans have, miraculously, brought this pillar to Italy from the lowest part of Egypt.--They turned the Nile from its course in order that it might seek it, and transport it to the sea. This obelisk is still covered with hieroglyphics which have preserved their secret during so many ages, and which to this day defy the most learned researches. The Indians, the Egyptians, the antiquity of antiquity, might perhaps be revealed to us by these signs.--The wonderful charm of Rome is not only the real beauty of its monuments; but the interest which it inspires by exciting thought; and this kind of interest increases every day with each new study.

One of the most singular churches of Rome, is that of St Paul: its exterior is like a badly built barn, and the interior is ornamented with eighty pillars of so fine a marble and so exquisite a make, that one would believe they belonged to an Athenian temple described by Pausanias. Cicero said--_We are surrounded by the vestiges of history_,--if he said so then, what shall we say now?

The pillars, the statues, the bas-reliefs of ancient Rome, are so lavished in the churches of the modern city, that there is one (St Agnes) where bas-reliefs, turned, serve for the steps of a stair-case, without any one having taken the trouble to examine what they represented. What an astonishing aspect would ancient Rome offer now, if the marble pillars and the statues had been left in the same place where they were found! The ancient city would still have remained standing almost entire--but would the men of our day dare to walk in it?

The palaces of the great lords are extremely vast, of an architecture often very fine, and always imposing: but the interior ornaments are rarely tasteful; we do not find in them even an idea of those elegant apartments which the finished enjoyments of social life have given rise to elsewhere. These vast abodes of the Roman princes are empty and silent; the lazy inhabitants of these superb palaces retire into a few small chambers unperceived, and leave strangers to survey their magnificent galleries where the finest pictures of the age of Leo X. are collected together. The great Roman lords of the present day, are as unacquainted with the pompous luxury of their ancestors, as these ancestors themselves were with the austere virtues of the Roman republic. The country houses convey still more the idea of this solitude, of this indifference of the possessors in the midst of the most admirable abodes in the world. People may walk in these immense gardens without suspecting that they have a master. The grass grows in the middle of the walks, and in these very walks are trees fantastically cut according to the ancient taste that prevailed in France.--What a singular whimsicality is this neglect of the necessary, and affectation of the useless!--But one is often surprised at Rome, and in the greater part of the other cities of Italy, at the taste of the Italians for extravagant ornaments,--they who have incessantly before their eyes the noble simplicity of the antique. They love what is brilliant, much better than what is elegant and commodious. They have in every instance, the advantages and the inconveniences of not living habitually in society. Their luxury is rather that of the imagination, than the luxury of actual enjoyment;--isolated as they are among themselves, they cannot dread the spirit of ridicule, which seldom penetrates at Rome into domestic secrecy; and often, in contrasting the interior with the exterior of their palaces, one would say, that the greater part of the Italian nobility arrange their dwellings more to dazzle the passers-by than to receive their friends.

After having surveyed the churches and the palaces, Corinne conducted Oswald to the villa Mellini, a solitary garden, without any other ornament than its magnificent trees. From here is seen, at a distance, the chain of the Appenines; the transparency of the air colours these mountains and throws them forward in the perspective, giving them a most picturesque appearance. Oswald and Corinne remained in this spot to enjoy the charms of the sky and the tranquillity of nature. It is impossible to form an idea of this singular tranquillity without having lived in Southern countries. On a hot day there is not felt the lightest breath of wind. The feeblest blade of grass is perfectly still, and the animals themselves partake of the indolence which the fine weather inspires: in the middle of the day, you neither hear the hum of flies, the chirping of grasshoppers, nor the song of birds; no object fatigues itself with useless and trifling agitation; all sleep till storm or the passions awaken the vehemence of nature, who then rushes with impetuosity from her profound repose.

There are in the gardens of Rome, a great number of trees clad in perennial green, which heighten the illusion produced by the mildness of the climate during winter. Pines, of a particular elegance, large, tufted towards the top, and interwoven with one another, form a kind of plain in the air, whose effect is charming when we mount sufficiently high to perceive it. The lower trees are placed beneath the shelter of this verdant vault. Two palm trees only are found in Rome which are both planted in the gardens of the monks; one of them, placed upon an eminence, serves as a landmark, and a particular pleasure must always be felt in perceiving and retracing in the various perspectives of Rome, this deputy of Africa, this type of a Southern climate more burning still than that of Italy, and which awakens so many new ideas and sensations.

"Do you not find," said Corinne, contemplating with Oswald the country surrounding them; "that nature in Italy disposes us more to reverie than any where else?--It might be said, that she is here more in affinity with man, and that the Creator uses her as a medium of interpretation between his creature and himself." "Undoubtedly," replied Oswald, "I think so; but who knows whether it may not be the deep feelings of tenderness which you excite in my heart, that render me sensible to all I see?--You reveal to me the emotions and thoughts, which external objects can give birth to. I existed but in my heart; you have awakened my imagination. But this magic of the universe, which you teach me to know, will never present me with any thing more lovely than your look, more moving than your voice." "May the sentiment I now inspire you with, last as long as my life," said Corinne, "or at least, may my life never survive the power of inspiring it!"

Oswald and Corinne terminated their tour of Rome by the Borghese villa. Of all the Roman gardens and palaces, here the splendours of nature and the arts, are assembled with the greatest taste and brilliancy. Here are seen trees of every kind, and magnificent fountains; an incredible number of statues, vases, and antique sarcophagi, mingled with the freshness of the youthful nature of the South. The ancient mythology here seems revived; the naiades are placed on the borders of rivers, the nymphs in woods worthy of them, the tombs beneath Elysian shades, and the statue of Esculapius in the middle of an isle, while that of Venus appears to rise out of the waters: Ovid and Virgil might walk in this enchanting spot, and still believe themselves in the Augustan age. The masterpieces of sculpture which the palace contains, give it a magnificence ever new. At a distance, through the trees, is perceived the city of Rome and St Peter's, the Campagna, and those long arches, the wrecks of aqueducts, which conveyed the springs from the mountains into ancient Rome. Everything is there that can excite thought, delight the imagination, and foster reverie. The most pure sensations are confounded with the pleasures of the soul, and give an idea of perfect happiness; but when we ask why this charming abode is not inhabited? they answer you that the malaria (_la cattiva aria_) will not permit any one to live here during summer.

This malaria, in a manner, lays siege to Rome; it advances every year some steps farther, and they are obliged to abandon the most charming habitations to its empire: undoubtedly, the absence of trees in the country about the city, is one of the causes of it; and it is perhaps, on that account, that the ancient Romans consecrated the woods to goddesses, in order to make them respected by the people. At present, forests without number have been cut down;--can there indeed exist, in our days, any place so sanctified, that the avidity of man will spare it from the work of devastation? The malaria is the scourge of the inhabitants of Rome, and threatens the city with an entire depopulation; but perhaps it increases the effect produced by the superb gardens which are seen within the walls of Rome. The malign influence is not felt by any external sign; you breathe an air which seems pure, and is very agreeable; the earth is smiling and fertile; a delicious coolness refreshes you in the evening after the burning heat of the day; and all this is death!

"I love," said Oswald to Corinne, "this mysterious, invisible danger, this danger under the form of the sweetest impressions. If death be only, what I believe it to be, a summons to a happier existence, why should not the perfume of flowers, the umbrage of fine trees, and the refreshing breath of the evening breeze, be the bearers of that summons? Undoubtedly, governments ought to watch in every way over the preservation of human life; but there are secrets in nature which the imagination alone can penetrate; and I easily conceive that neither the inhabitants nor the strangers who visit it, are disgusted with Rome, by the species of peril to which they are exposed there during the most beautiful seasons of the year."

Book vi.

THE MANNERS AND CHARACTER OF THE ITALIANS.

Chapter i.

The indecision of Oswald's character, increased by his misfortunes, led him to dread forming any irrevocable resolve. He had not even dared, in his state of irresolution, to ask of Corinne the secret of her name and destiny; nevertheless, his love acquired every day new strength; he never beheld her without emotion; in company he could hardly quit, even for an instant, the place where she was seated; she did not speak a word that he felt not; nor did she experience one moment's sadness or gaiety, that was not reflected in his countenance. But in the midst of his admiration and of his love for Corinne, he recollected how little such a woman agreed with the English manner of living; how much she differed from the idea which his father had formed of her whom it would be proper for him to espouse; and all that he said to Corinne partook of the trouble and constraint which these reflections caused him.

Corinne perceived this too well; but it would have cost her so much to break off with Lord Nelville, that she herself endeavoured to avoid, as much as he, a decisive explanation; and as she was not possessed of much foresight she was happy with the present, such as it was, although it was impossible for her to know what would be the issue of it.

She had become entirely divided from the world, in order to devote herself entirely to her passion for Oswald. But at length, so much affected was she at his silence with regard to the future, that she resolved to accept an invitation for a ball to which she had been pressingly solicited. Nothing is more common at Rome than to leave society and to appear in it again, alternately, just as the parties feel it agreeable to themselves: it is the country where people trouble their minds the least with what is elsewhere called _gossip_; each one does as he pleases, without any person enquiring about it, or at least, without finding in others any obstacle either to his love or his ambition. The Romans are as inattentive to the conduct of their fellow-countrymen, as to that of strangers, who pass and repass through their city, the rendezvous of Europeans. When Lord Nelville knew that Corinne was going to the ball, he was vexed at it. He thought he had perceived in her for some time a melancholy disposition in sympathy with his own: all on a sudden she appeared to him to be taken up with dancing, an art in which she excelled; and her imagination seemed fired at the approach of a _féte_. Corinne was not frivolous by character; but she felt herself every day more and more enslaved by her love for Oswald, and she would fain endeavour to weaken its force. She knew by experience, that reflection and sacrifices have less effect upon passionate characters than dissipation, and she thought that reason did not consist in conquering ourselves according to rules, but by doing so how we can.

"I must," said she to Lord Nelville, who reproached her with her intention of going to the ball, "I must know, however, if there be only you in the world who can fill the void of my life; if that which pleased me formerly may not still have the power to amuse me; and if the sentiment you have inspired me with must absorb every other interest, every other idea."--"You would then cease to love me?" replied Oswald.--"No;" answered Corinne, "but it is only in domestic life that it could be pleasing to me to feel thus governed by a single affection. To me who need my talents, my mind, and my imagination, to support the lustre of that kind of life which I have adopted, it must be painful--extremely painful to love as I love you."--"You would not sacrifice to me then," said Oswald to her, "this homage and this glory."--"Of what importance can it be to you," said Corinne, "to know whether or not I would sacrifice them to you? Since we are not absolutely destined for one another, it would not be prudent to let that happiness with which I must be satisfied, wither for ever."--Lord Nelville made no answer, because it was necessary, in expressing his sentiments, to avow also the purpose they inspired, and of this his own heart was still in ignorance. He was silent therefore, and sighing, followed Corinne to the ball, whither he went with much reluctance.

It was the first time since his calamity that he had seen a large assembly; and the tumult of a _féte_ caused him such an impression of sadness that he remained a long time in a room contiguous to that appropriated for the ball, his head supported on his hand, not even curious to behold Corinne dance. He listened to the festive music, which like every other music, produces reverie, though only intended to inspire joy. The Count d'Erfeuil arrived, quite enchanted at the sight of a ball, which produced in him some recollections of France.--"I have tried all I could," said he to Lord Nelville, "to discover something interesting in these ruins of which they talk so much, and I can really find no charm in them. It must be the effect of a very great prejudice to admire those heaps of rubbish covered with thorns. I shall speak my mind of them when I return to Paris, for it is time that this Italian delusion should cease. There is not a monument now standing whole in any part of Europe, that I would not sooner see than those old stumps of pillars, those bas-reliefs, all black with time, which can only be admired by dint of erudition. A pleasure which must be bought with so much study, does not appear to me very lively in itself--to be charmed with the sights of Paris, nobody need grow pale over books." Lord Nelville made no reply.--The Count interrogated him afresh, as to the impression that Rome produced on him. "In the midst of a ball," said Oswald, "is not the most proper time for serious conversation on this subject; and you know that I am incapable of any other."--"Well and good:" replied the Count d'Erfeuil, "I am more gay than you I admit; but who knows whether I am not also the more wise of the two? Believe me, there is much philosophy in my apparent levity: it is the way we should take life."--"You are perhaps in the right," answered Oswald, "but it is from nature, and not from reflection, that you acquire that way of thinking; and that is why your manner of taking life may only suit yourself."

The Count d'Erfeuil heard the name of Corinne mentioned in the ball room, and entered it to know what was going forward. Lord Nelville advanced as far as the door, and beheld the Prince Amalfi, a Neapolitan of the most handsome figure, who besought Corinne to dance with him the _Tarantula_, a Neapolitan dance full of grace and originality. The friends of Corinne besought her also to comply with his request. She yielded to their desire without waiting to be asked frequently, which astonished the Count d'Erfeuil, accustomed as he was to the refusals with which it is customary to precede consenting to a request of this nature. But in Italy, these kind of graces are unknown, and all believe they please most in society by showing an eagerness to do what is asked of them. Corinne would have invented this natural behaviour if she were not already accustomed to it. The dress she had chosen for the ball was elegant and light; her hair was gathered up in a fillet of silk, after the Italian fashion; and her eyes expressed a lively pleasure, which rendered her more seductive than ever. Oswald was disturbed at this; he warred against himself; he was indignant at being captivated with charms which he ought to lament, since, far from thinking to please him, it was to escape his empire that Corinne appeared so attractive.--But who could resist the seductions of a grace like hers? Were she even disdainful, she would be still more omnipotent; and that certainly was not the disposition of Corinne. She perceived Lord Nelville, and blushed, while there was in her eyes as she looked upon him, a most enchanting softness.