CONCLUSION.

[CHAPTER I.]

Oswald now, for the first time, comprehended that Lucy was aware of his affection for her sister, and deemed that her coolness might have sprung from secret disquietude: yet now he feared an explanation as much as she had done; and now she would have told him all, had he required it; but it would have cost him too much to speak of Corinne, just as he was about to rejoin her, especially with a person whose character he so imperfectly knew. They crossed the Apennines, and regained the sweet climate of Italy. The sea-breeze, so glowing in summer, now spread a gentle heat. The turf was green, the autumn hardly over, and yet the spring already peeping forth. The markets teemed with oranges and pomegranates. The Tuscan tongue was audible; and all Oswald's dearest memories revived, though now unmixed with hope. The mild air would have rendered Lucy confiding, had he encouraged her. Had a Corinne been with them, she would soon have learned their secrets; but the more congenial they were, in natural and national reserve, the less easy was it for them to break the ice which kept their hearts asunder.

[CHAPTER II.]

As soon as they arrived in Florence, Nevil wrote to Castel Forte; and in a few minutes the Prince came to him. It was some time ere either spoke; at last Nevil asked for Corinne. "I have none but sad news for you," said her friend: "she grows weaker every day; sees no one but myself, and can scarce attempt any occupation; yet I think she has been calmer since we learned you were in Italy; though I cannot disguise from you, that at first her emotions on that intelligence caused her a relapse of fever. She has not told me her intentions, for I carefully avoid your name."—"Have the goodness, Prince," said Oswald, "to give her the letter I wrote you nearly five years since: it contained a detail of all the circumstances that prevented my hearing of her journey to Scotland before I married. When she has read it, ask her to receive me. I long to justify myself with her, if possible. Her esteem is essential to me, though I can no longer pretend to more."—"I will obey your desires, my Lord," said Castel Forte, "and wish that I may in any way be of service." Lady Nevil now entered the room. Oswald made her known to his friend. She met him coldly. He gazed on her with much attention, sighed, thought of Corinne, and took leave. Oswald followed him. "Lady Nevil is very beautiful," said the Prince: "so fresh and young! Alas! my poor love is no longer so; yet forget not, my Lord, that she was a brilliant creature when you saw her first."—"Forget!" exclaimed Oswald: "no, nor ever forgive myself." He could utter no more, and for the rest of the day was gloomily silent. Lucy sought not to disturb him: her forbearance was unlucky; for he only thought: "Had Corinne beheld me sad, she would have striven to console me." The next morning his anxiety early led him to Castel Forte. "Well!" he cried, "what says she?"—"That she will not see you," answered the Prince.—"And her motives?"—"I found her yesterday, in spite of her weakness, pacing the room all agitation, her paleness sometimes giving way to a vivid blush, that faded as suddenly as it rose. I told her your request: after some instants' silence, she said—if you exact from me her own words: 'That man has done me too much wrong already; but the foe who threw me into prison, banished and proscribed me has not yet brought my spirit quite so low as he may think. I have suffered more than woman ever endured beside—alternate fondness and indignation making thought a perpetual torture. Oswald should remember that I once told him it would cost me more to renounce my admiration than my love. He has despoiled the object of my worship: he deceived me, voluntarily or otherwise—no matter: he is not what I believed him. He sported for nearly a year with my affection; and, when he ought to have defended me, when his actions should have proved he had a heart, how did he treat me? Can he boast of having made one generous sacrifice? No! he is happy now, possessing all the advantages best appreciated by the world. I am dying, let him leave me in peace!'"—"These words are very harsh," sighed Oswald.—"She is changed by suffering," admitted Castel Forte; "yet I have often found her so charitable, that, let me own, she has defended you against me."—"You think me unpardonable, then?"—"If you permit me to say so. The injuries we may do women hurt not us in public opinion. The fragile idol of to-day may be broken to-morrow, without finding one protector; for that very reason do I respect the sex, whose moral welfare can find its safety but in our bosoms. A mortal stab is punished by the law; but breaking a tender heart is a theme for jest. I would forgive murder by poniard soonest."—"Believe me," cried Nevil, "I, too, have been wretched—that is my sole extenuation; but formerly she would have listened to it, now it avails me nothing; yet I will write to her: I still believe, in spite of all that parts us, she may yet understand me."—"I will bear your letter, my Lord; but I entreat you temper it well; you guess not what you are to her. Years can but deepen an impression, when no new idea has divided its empire. Would you know in what state she is at present? A fantasy, from which my prayers could not divert her, enables me to show you." He opened the door of another room; and Nevil first beheld a portrait of Corinne as she appeared in Juliet, on the night, of all others, when he felt most enamored of her. The confidence of happiness breathed from each feature. The memories of that festal time came back on Oswald's heart; but as he yielded to them, the Prince took his hand, drew aside a crape from another picture, and showed him Corinne, painted that same year, in the black dress, such as she had never abandoned since her return from England. Her lost lover recollected the figure which had passed him in the Park: but above all was he struck with the total change in her appearance. The long black lashes veiled her languid eyes, and threw a shadow over the tintless cheek: beneath was written this line, from the Pastor Fido:——

"A pena si pudò dir: 'Questa fu rosa!'"
"Scarcely can we now say: 'This was a rose!'"

"How!" cried Lord Nevil; "looks she like this?"—-"Within the last fortnight still worse," returned the Prince; and Oswald rushed from him, as if distracted.

[CHAPTER III.]

The unhappy man shut himself in his room. At the dinner hour, Lucy, leading Juliet by the hand, tapped gently at his door; he opened it, saying: "Think not the worse of me, my dear, for begging that I may be left to myself to-day." His wife raised her child in her arms, and retired without a word. He now looked at the letter he had written to Corinne, and, bursting into tears exclaimed: "Shall I, then, make poor Lucy wretched too? What is my life worth, if it serves but to render all who love me miserable?"

Letter from Lord Nevil to Corinne.

"Were you not the most generous of human beings, what could I say to you, who might weigh me so low by reproaches, or still lower by your griefs? I have done such ill to her I loved, that I almost believe myself a monster. Am I, Corinne? I suffer so much, that I cannot think myself an utter barbarian! You know, when first I met you, I was a prey to despair, that nearly brought me to the grave: I sought not happiness, but struggled long against your attraction; even when it triumphed, presentiments of misfortune lingered still. Sometimes I believed you destined by my father to make me once more feel myself as well beloved as I had been by him; then did I fear to disobey his will, in marrying a foreigner. On my return to England, this sentiment prevailed, sanctioned as it was by parental authority. Had he still lived, I should have felt a right to combat it; but the dead cannot hear us, and the irrevocable commands of those now powerless, possess a touching and a sacred force.—Once more surrounded by the ties of country, I met your sister, selected for me by my sire, and well according with my wish for a regular, a quiet life. My weakness makes me dread some kinds of agitation: my mind is easily seduced by new hopes; but my sick soul shrinks from resolves that interfere with its original habits or affections. Yet, Corinne, had I known you were in England, that proof of tenderness would have decided me. Ah! wherefore vaunt I what I would have done? Should we have been content? Am I capable of being so? Could I ever have chosen any one fate, without still pining after some other? When you restored my liberty, I fell into the common error, telling myself that so superior a woman might easily be estranged from me. Corinne, I have wounded your heart, I know; but I thought mine the only sacrifice: I deemed you would forget me. I cannot deny that Lucy is worthy of a still warmer attachment than I could give her; but since I learned your voyage to England, and the sorrow I had dealt you, my life has been a perpetual pain. I sought for death, certain that when you heard I was no more, you would forgive me. Doubtless, you can oppose to this years of fidelity and regret, such as my ingratitude ill merits; yet think—a thousand complicated circumstances invade the constancy of man. Imagine, if possible, that I have neither given nor received felicity; that my heart has been lonely since I left you, scarce daring even to commune with itself; that the mother of my child, who has so many titles to my love, is a stranger to my history and feelings; in truth, that my habitual sadness has reduced me to the state from which your cares, Corinne once extracted me. If I have returned to Italy, not for my health (you cannot suspect me of any love for life), but to bid you farewell, can you refuse to see me but once more? I wish it, because I think that it would benefit you; my own sufferings less prompt this desire. What use were it that I am miserable, that a dreadful weight presses upon my heart, if I came hither without obtaining pardon from you? I ought to be unhappy, and am sure of being so; but I feel certain that you would be solaced, if you could think upon me as your friend, and read, in Oswald's looks and accents, how dear you are to the criminal whose fate is far more altered than his heart. I respect the ties I have formed, and love your sister; but the human breast, wild and inconsistent as it is, can reconcile that tenderness with what I feel for you. I have nothing to say for myself that can be written; all I might explain would but condemn me; yet, if you saw me prostrate before you, through all my faults and duties, you would perceive what you are to me still, and that conversation would leave a balm for both. Our health is failing: Heaven may not accord us length of days. Let, then, whichever may be destined to precede the other, feel regretted by the dear friend left behind. The innocent alone deserve such joy: but may it not be granted to the guilty? Corinne, sublime soul! you who can read all hearts, guess what I cannot add, and comprehend me, as you used to do. Let me but see you; let my pallid lips touch your weak hand! It was not I alone who wrought this ruin. No; the same sentiment consumed us both: destiny struck two hearts, devoting one to crime; that one, Corinne, may not be the least pitiable."

Answer.

"If I required but to see and pardon you, I could not for an instant refuse. Why is it that I do not feel resentment, although the pangs you have caused me are so dreadful? I must still love you, not to hate. Religion alone would not disarm me thus. There have been moments when my reason has left me; others, far sweeter, when I hoped to die before the day could end; and some in which I have doubted even virtue: you were to me its image here below: there was no guide for either my thoughts or feelings, when the same blow struck both my admiration and my love. What would have become of me without Heaven's help? Everything in this world was poisoned by your image: one sole asylum was left, and God received me. My strength decays, but not that supporting enthusiasm. I joy to think that the best aim in life is to become worthy of eternity: our bliss, our bane, alike tend to this purpose: and you were chosen to uproot the too strong hold I had on earth. Yet, when I saw your handwriting, learned that you were but on the other side of the river, a fearful tumult rose within me: incessantly was I obliged to tell myself, 'My sister is his wife.' To see you again appeared felicity: I will not deny that my heart, inebriated afresh, preferred these indefinite raptures to an age of calm: but Providence has not abandoned me in this peril. Are you not the husband of another? What then have I to say to you? Is it for me to die in your arms? What would my conscience suffer, if I made no sacrifice? if I permitted myself another hour with you? I can only appear before my God with anything like confidence by renouncing it. This resolution may appease my soul. Such happiness as I felt while you loved me is not in harmony with our mortal state; it agitates us, because we feel its fleetness: but religious meditation, that aims at self-improvement, and refers every cause to duty, is a state of peace; and I know not what ravages the mere sound of your voice would make on the repose I believe I have regained. Why do you tell me that your health is impaired? Alas! I am no longer your nurse; but still, I suffer with you. May God bless and prolong your days, my Lord! Be happy, but be so through piety. A secret communion with Divinity gives us in ourselves the power of confiding to a being who consoles us: it makes two friends of one spirit. Do you still seek for what the world calls happiness? Where will you find more than my tenderness would have bestowed? Know you that in the deserts of the New World I should have blessed my lot had you permitted me to follow you? I could have served you like a slave, have knelt before you as a heavenly being, had you but loved me truly. What have you done with so much faith? You have changed it into an affliction peerless as itself. Outrage me not, then, by one hope of happiness, except in prayer: let our thoughts meet in heaven! Yet when I feel myself about to die, perhaps I will be taken somewhere whence I may behold you pass. Assuredly, when my failing eyes can see no more, your image will be with me; but might not a recent review of your features render it more distinct? Deities of old were never present at the hour of death, so I forbid you mine; but I should like to see you perfectly when Oswald, Oswald! behold how weak I am, when abandoned to your recollection! Why has not Lucy sought me? Though she is your wife, she is still my sister. I have some kind and even generous things to tell her. And your child—I ought not to meet you; but you are surrounded by my family. Do they disown me still? or fear ye that poor little Juliet would be scared at seeing me? Ghost as I look, I yet could smile upon your daughter. Adieu, my Lord, adieu! Remember that I might call you brother. At least you will mourn for me externally, and, as a kinsman, follow my remains to Rome: let them be borne by the road where my car passed; and pause upon the spot where you restored my crown. Yet no, I am wrong, Oswald: I could exact nothing that could afflict you, only one tear, and sometimes a fond look towards the heaven where I shall soon await you."

[CHAPTER IV.]

Many days elapsed ere Oswald could regain his composure: he avoided the presence of his wife, and passed whole hours on the banks of the river that separated him from Corinne; often tempted to plunge amid its waves, that they might bear his body to the abode he never must enter living. Amazed as he was at Corinne's wish to see her sister, he longed to gratify it; yet how introduce the subject? He saw that Lucy was hurt by his distress, and hoped that she would question him; but she forbore, merely expressing a desire to visit Rome or Naples: he always begged a brief delay, and Lucy, with cold dignity, was silent.

Oswald, at least, could secure Corinne the presence of his little daughter, and secretly bade the nurse take Juliet to her. He met them on their return, and asked the child how she had enjoyed her visit. She replied by an Italian phrase, and with an accent so resembling Corinne's that her father started. "Who taught you that, dear?" he asked.—"The lady," she replied.—"And how did she behave to you?"—"Oh, she kissed me, and cried; I don't know why; but it made her worse, for she looks very ill, papa."—"Do you love her, darling?"—"That I do. I'll go to her every day. She has promised to teach me all she knows; and says, that she will make me grow like Corinne: what's that, pa? the lady did not tell me." Lord Nevil could not answer: he withdrew, to conceal his agitation, but bade the nurse take Juliet daily to Corinne. Perhaps he erred in disposing of his child without her mother's consent; but in a few days the young pupil's progress was astonishing: her masters for Italian and music were all amazed. Nothing had ever pained Lucy more than her sister's influence over Juliet's education. The child informed her that, ill as the lady seemed, she took great pains with her. Lucy's heart would have melted, could she have seen in all this anything but a design to win Nevil back. She was divided between the natural wish of being sole directress for her daughter, and self-reproach at the idea of withholding her from such valuable instructions. One day Oswald came in as Juliet was practising a music lesson. She held a lyre proportioned to her size; and her pretty arms fell into Corinne's own attitude so perfectly, that he felt gazing on the miniature copy of a fine picture, with the added grace of childish innocence. He could not speak, but sank, trembling, on a seat. Juliet then played the Scotch air which he had heard at Tivoli, before the design from Ossian; he listened breathlessly. Lucy, unseen, stole behind him: as Juliet ceased, her father took her on his knee, and said: "The lady on the banks of the Arno taught you this, did she not?"—"Yes, papa; but it hurt her very much: she was so ill while she taught me, that I begged her to leave off, but she would not. She made me promise to play you that tune every year, on a particular day, I believe it was the 17th of November."—"My God!" cried Oswald bursting into tears. Lucy now stepped forward, and, taking Juliet by the hand, said, hastily: "My Lord, it is too much to rob me of my child's affection; that solace, at least, is due to my misfortunes." She retired. Oswald would have followed her, but was refused. At the dinner hour he was told that she had been out for some time, not saying where. He was fearfully alarmed at her absence; but she shortly returned, with a calm and gentle air, such as he little expected. He would now have confided in her, and gained her pardon by sincerity, but she replied: "Explanation, indeed, is needful to us both; yet, my dear Lord, permit me still to defer it: you will soon know my motives for this request." Her address, he perceived, was more animated than usual; and every day its warmth, its interest, increased. He could not understand this change: its cause is soon told. And that Lucy so long had hidden in her heart escaped in the brief reproach she made her husband; and, as usually happens to persons who suddenly break from their habitual character, she now ran into extremes, resolving to seek Corinne, and ask her if she had determined perpetually to disturb her wedded peace; but, as she arrived at her sister's door, her diffidence returned; nor would she have had courage to enter, had not the invalid, who saw her from a window, sent Thérésina to entreat her. Lucy ascended to the sick chamber, and all her anger vanished at sight of its occupant. The sisters embraced in tears. Corinne then set an example of frankness which it was impossible for Lucy not to follow. Such was that mind's ascendency over every one, that, in her presence, neither dissimulation nor constraint could be preserved. Pallor and weakness confirmed her assertion, that she had not long to live: this sad truth added weight to her counsels. All Castel Forte had told her, and all she had guessed from Oswald's letters, proved that reserve and coldness separated the Nevils from each other. She entered very simply on this delicate subject: her perfect knowledge of the husband's character enabled her to point out why he required to find spontaneously in those he loved the confidence which he could not solicit, and to be received with cheerfulness proportioned to his own susceptibility of discouragement. She described her past self impartially, as if speaking of another, and showed how agreeable it must be for a man to find, united with moral conduct, that desire to please which is often inspired by a wish to atone for the loss of virtue. "Many women," she said, "have been beloved, not merely in spite of, but for the sake of their very errors; because they strove to extort a pardon by being ever agreeable, and having so much need of indulgence dared impose no laws on others. Therefore, dear sister, pride not in your perfections; let your charms consist in seeming to forget them; be Corinne and Lucy in one: nor let your own worth excuse to you a moment's neglect of your graces, nor your self-respect render your manners repulsive. Were your dignity ill founded, it might wound him less; for an over-exertion of certain rights chills the heart more than do unjust pretensions. Love delights in paying more than is due, where nothing is exacted." Lucy thanked her sister with much tenderness for the interest thus generously evinced in her welfare; and Corinne resumed: "If I were doomed to live, I might not be capable of it; but now my only selfish wish is, that Oswald should find some traces of my influence in you and in his child; nor ever taste one rapture that reminds him not of Corinne." Lady Nevil returned to her every day, and with the most amiable delicacy, studied to resemble the being so dear to her Lord. His curiosity increased, as he remarked the fresh attractions she thus acquired: he knew that she must owe them to Corinne; yet Lucy having promised to keep the secret of their meetings, no explanation occurred. The sufferer proposed yet to see the wedded pair together, but not till she was assured that she had but a few moments to live; but she involved this plan in so much mystery, that Lucy knew not in what manner it was to be accomplished.

[CHAPTER V.]

Corinne desired to bid Nevil and Italy such a farewell as might recall the days on which her genius shone with its full splendor. A pardonable weakness. Love and glory were ever blended in her mind; and, at that moment when her heart was about to resign all earthly ties, she wished Oswald to feel, once more, that it was the greatest woman of her day he had destroyed—the woman who best knew how to love and think—whose brilliant success he had obscured in misery and death.

She had no longer the strength required by an improvisatrice; but in solitude, since Oswald's return, had resumed her zest for writing poetry; she therefore named a day for assembling in one of the galleries all who desired to hear her verses, begging Lucy to bring her husband; adding, "I feel I may demand this of you now." Oswald was fearfully agitated, wondering what subject she had chosen, and whether she would recite herself: the bare possibility of looking on her threw him into extreme confusion. The morning came, and winter frowned on it with all the sternness of the north: the wind howled, the rain beat violently against the windows, and by an eccentricity more frequent in Italy than elsewhere, the thunder added a sense of dread to all this gloom. Oswald could not speak: everything around him increased the desolation of his soul. He entered the hall with Lucy: it was immensely crowded. In an obscure recess was placed a sofa, whereon Corinne was to recline, being too ill to read her own verses. Dreading to show herself, changed as she was, she had chosen those means of seeing Oswald unseen. As soon as she knew that he was there, she veiled her face, and was supported to this couch; from time to time staying to take breath, as if that short space had been a painful journey: the last steps of life are ever slow and difficult. Seating herself, her eyes sought Oswald, found him, and involuntarily starting up, she spread her arms; but instantly fell back, turning away her face, like Dido when she met Æneas in a world which human passions should not penetrate. Castel Forte detained Lord Nevil, who now, utterly beside himself, would have flown to fall at her feet: the Prince reminded him of the respect he owed Corinne before the world.[1]

A young girl, dressed in white, and crowned with flowers, now appeared on the stage which had been erected. Her meek and peaceful face touchingly contrasting the sentiments she was about to breathe; it was Corinne's taste, which thus mingled something sweet with thoughts in themselves too dreary. Music nobly and affecting prepared the auditors. The hapless Oswald could not tear his eyes from Corinne: she was to him as an apparition that haunts a night of fever: it was through his own deep sighs that he heard the death-song of the swan, which the woman he had so much wronged addressed to his heart.

THE LAST SONG OF CORINNE.
Take ye my solemn farewell! O, my friends,
Already night is darkening on my eyes;—
But is not heaven most beautiful by night?
Thousands of stars shine in the kindling sky,
Which is an azure desert during day.
Thus do the gathering of eternal shades
Reveal innumerable thoughts, half lost
In the full daylight of prosperity.
But weaken'd is the voice which might instruct;
The soul retires within itself, and seeks
To gather round itself its failing fire.
From my first days of youth, my inward hope
Was to do honor to the Roman name;
That name at which the startled heart yet beats.
Ye have allow'd me fame, O generous land!
Ye banished not a woman from the shrine!
Ye do not sacrifice immortal gifts
To passing jealousies, Ye who still yield
Applause to Genius in its daring flight;
Victor without the vanquished—Conqueror,
Yet without spoil;—who, from eternity,
Draws riches for all time.
Nature and Life! with what deep confidence
Ye did inspire me! I deem'd all grief arose
For what we did not feel, or think enough:
And that we might, even on this our earth,
Beforehand taste that heavenly happiness,
Which is—but length in our enthusiasm,
But constancy in love.
No, I repent it not, this generous faith;
No, that caused not the bitter tears I've shed,
Watering the dust which doth await me now.
I had accomplish'd all my destiny—
I had been worthy all the gifts of Heaven,
If I had only vow'd my sounding lyre
To celebrate that goodness all divine,
Made manifest throughout the universe.
And thou, my God!—Oh, thou wilt not reject
The offering of the mind; for poetry,
Its homage is religious, and the wings
Of thought but serve to draw more near to thee.
Religion has no limits, and no bonds;—
The vast, the infinite, and the eternal,
Never from her may Genius separate.
Imagination from its earliest flight,
Past o'er the bounds of life: and the sublime
Is the reflection of divinity.
Alas! my God, had I loved only thee;[2]
If I had raised my head aloft in heaven—
From passionate affections shelter'd there,
I had not now been crush'd before my time—
Phantoms had not displaced my brilliant dreams
Unhappy one, if yet my genius lives,
I only know it by my strength of grief:
Under the features of an enemy
I recognize it now.
Farewell, my birthplace! farewell, my own land!
Farewell, remembrances of infancy,
Farewell! Ah, what have ye to do with death?
And ye who in my writings may have found
Feelings, whose echo was within your soul,
Oh, friends of mine—where'er ye be—farewell!
Corinne has suffer'd much—but suffer'd not
In an unworthy cause: she has not lost
At least her claim on pity.
Beautiful Italy! it is in vain
To promise me your loveliness; my heart
Is worn and wasted; what can ye avail?
"Would ye revive my hopes, to edge my griefs!
Would ye recall my happiness, and thus
Make me revolt against my fate?
Meekly I do submit myself. Oh, ye
Who may survive me—when the spring returns,
Remember how I loved its loveliness!
How oft I sung its perfume and its air.
I pray you sometimes to recall a line
From out my songs—my soul is written there:
But fatal Muses, love and misery,
Taught my best poetry.
When the designs of mighty Providence
Are work'd in us, internal music marks
The coming of the angel of the grave:
Nor fearful, nor yet terrible he spreads
His white wings; and, though compass'd by night,
A thousand omens tell of his approach.
If the wind murmurs, then they seem to hear
His voice; and when night falls, the shadows round
Seem the dark foldings of his sweeping robe.
At noon, when life sees only the clear sky,
Feels only the bright sun, the fated one
Whom Death hath called, upon the distance marks
The heavy shade is so soon to shroud
All nature from their eyes.
Youth, hope, emotions of the heart—ye all
Are now no more. Far from me—vain regrets;
If I can yet obtain some falling tears,
If I can yet believe myself beloved,
It is because I am about to die.
Could I recall my fleeting life—that life,
Soon would it turn upon me all its stings.
And Rome! Rome, where my ashes will be borne!
Thou who hast seen so many die, forgive,
If, with a trembling step, I join the shades,
The multitude of your illustrious dead!
Forgive me for my pity of myself.[3]
Feelings, and noble thoughts, such thoughts perchance
As might have yielded fruit—expire with me.
Of all the powers of mind which nature gave,
The power of suffering has been the sole one,
Which I have used to its extent.
It matters not.—I do obey.—Whate'er
May be the mighty mystery of death,
That mystery at least must give repose.
Ye do not answer me, ye silent tombs!
Merciful God, thou dost not answer me!
I made my choice on earth, and now my heart
Has no asylum. Ye decide for me,
And such a destiny is best.
L. E. L.

Thus ended the last song of Corinne. The hall resounded with deep, sad murmurs of applause. Lord Nevil could not support the violence of his emotion, but fell senseless to the ground. Corinne, beholding him in this condition, would have flown to him, but her strength failed as she attempted to rise. She was borne home, and from that hour no hopes were entertained of saving her. Lucy hastened to her, so afflicted by her husband's grief, that she threw herself at her sister's feet, imploring her to admit him; but Corinne refused. "I forgive him," she said, "for having broken my heart. Men know not what they do; society persuades them that it is sport to fill a heart with rapture, and then consign it to despair; but God's free grace has given me back composure. The sight of Oswald would revive sensations that ill befit a death-bed. Religion only possesses the secret clue through this terrific labyrinth. I pardon the being I so loved," she continued, with a failing voice; "may he be happy with you! but when in his turn he is called on to die, then may he recollect the poor Corinne. She will watch over him, if Heaven permits; for those never cease to love, whose love has had the strength to cost them life."

Oswald stood at her door, sometimes about to enter, spite her prohibition, sometimes motionless with sorrow. Lucy passed from one to the other, like an angel of peace, between despair and death. One evening Corinne appeared more easy, and the parents went for a short time to their child, whom they had not seen for three days. During their absence the dying woman performed all the duties of religion; then said to the reverend man who received her last solemn confession: "Now, father, you know my fate. Judge me! I have never taken vengeance on my foes; the griefs of others never asked my sympathy in vain; my faults sprung but from passions not guilty in themselves, though human pride and weakness led them to excess and error. Think you, my father—you who have so much longer experience than I—that God will pardon me?"—"Yes, child, I hope so; is not your heart now wholly his?"—"I believe it, father; take away this portrait, it is Oswald's; lay on my breast the image of Him who descended to this life—not for the powerful, nor the inspired, but for the sufferer, the dying; they need his mercy." She then perceived Castel Forte, who wept beside her bed, and holding out her hand to him, exclaimed: "My friend! you only are beside me now. I lived for love; yet, but for you, should die alone." Her tears fell as she spoke, yet she added: "There is no help for such a moment; friends can but follow us to the brink; there begin thoughts too deep, too troubled, to be confided." She begged they would remove her to a sofa, whence she could gaze upon the sky. Lucy now came to her side; and the unhappy Oswald, following his wife, fell at the feet of Corinne, who would have spoken to him, but her voice failed: she raised her eyes to Heaven; the moon was covered with just such a cloud as they had seen on their way to Naples. Corinne pointed to it with a dying hand—one sigh—and that hand sank powerless.

Oswald fell into such distraction that Lucy trembled for his life. He followed the funeral pomp to Rome; then retired to Tivoli, where he remained long, without seeing even his wife and child. At last, duty and affection restored him to them; they returned to England. Lord Nevil's domestic life became most exemplary: but did he ever pardon his past conduct? Could the approving world console him? After the fate he had enjoyed, could he content himself with common life? I know not: nor will I, on that head, either absolve or condemn him.

[1] Not a word of what he owed his wife.—TR.

[2] "Had I but served my God with half the zeal," &c.—Wolsey.(SHAKSPEARE.)

[3] "J'a pitié de moi-même."—CORNEILLE.

[THE END.]