VESUVIUS, AND THE CAMPAGNA OF NAPLES.
[CHAPTER I.]
Lord Nevil remained long exhausted after the trying recital which had thrilled him to the soul. Corinne gently strove to revive him. The river of flame which fell from Vesuvius fearfully excited his imagination. She availed herself of this, in order to draw him from his own recollections, and begged him to walk with her on the banks of once inflamed lava. The ground they crossed glowed beneath their steps, and seemed to warm them from a spot so hostile to all life. Man could not here call himself "lord of the creation;" it seemed escaping from his tyranny by suicide. The torrent of fire is of a dusky hue, yet when it lights a vine, or any other tree, it sends forth a clear bright blaze; but the lava itself is of that lurid tint, which might represent infernal fire; it rolls on with a crackling sound, that alarms the more from its slightness—cunning seems joined with strength; thus secretly steals the tiger to his prey. This cataract, though so deliberate, loses not a moment; if it encounter a high wall, or anything that opposes its progress, it heaps against the obstacle its black and bituminous flood, and buries it beneath burning waves. Its course is not so rapid but that men may fly before it; but like Time, it overtakes the old or the imprudent, who, from its silent approach, think to escape without exertion. Its brightness is such that earth is reflected in the sky, which appears lapped in perpetual lightning; this, too, is mirrored by the sea, and all nature clothed in their threefold fires. The wind is heard, and its effect perceived, as it forms a whirlpool of flame round the gulf whence the lava issues; one trembles to guess at what is passing in the bosom of the earth, whose fury shakes the ground beneath our steps. The rocks about the source of this flood are covered with pitch and sulphur, whose colors, indeed, might suit the home of fiends—a livid green, a tawny brown, and an ensanguined red, form just that dissonance to the eye of which the ear were sensible, if pierced by the harsh cries of witches, conjuring down the moon from heaven. All that is near the volcano bears so supernal an aspect, that doubtless the poets thence drew their portraitures of hell. There we may conceive how man was first persuaded that a power of evil existed to thwart the designs of Providence. Well may one ask, in such a scene, if mercy alone presides over the phenomena of creation; or if some hidden principle forces natures, like her sons, into ferocity? "Corinne," sighed Nevil, "is it not from hence that sorrow comes? Does the angel of death take wing from yon summit? If I beheld not thy heavenly face, I should lose all memory of the charms with which the Eternal has adorned the earth; yet this spectacle, frightful as it is, overawes me less than conscience. All perils may be braved; but how can the dead absolve us for the wrongs we did them living? Never, never. Ah, Corinne! what need of fires like these? The wheel that turns incessantly, the stream that tempts and flies, the stone that rolls back the more we would impel it on—these are but feeble images of that dread thought, the impossible, the irreparable!" A deep silence now reigned around Oswald and Corinne; their very guides were far behind; and near the crater naught was heard save the hissing of its fires; suddenly, however, one sound from the city reached even this region—the chime of bells, perhaps announcing a death, perhaps a birth, it mattered not—most welcome was it to our travellers. "Dear Oswald," said Corinne, "let us leave this desert, and return to the living world. Other mountains raise us above terrestrial life, and bring us nearer Heaven, but here nature seems treated as a criminal, and condemned no more to taste the beneficent breath of her Creator. This is no sojourn for the good—let us descend." An abundant shower fell as they sought the plain, threatening each instant to extinguish their torches: the Lazzaroni accompanied them with yells that might alarm any one who knew not that such was their constant custom. These men are sometimes agitated by a superfluity of life, with which they know not what to do, uniting equal degrees of violence and sloth. Their physiognomy, more marked, than their characters, seem to indicate a kind of vivacity in which neither mind nor heart are at all concerned. Oswald, uneasy lest the rain should hurt Corinne, and lest their lights should fail, was absorbed by this indefinite sense of her danger; and his tenderness by degrees restored that composure which had been disturbed by the confidence he had made to her. They regained their carriage at the foot of the mountain, and stopped not at the ruins of Herculaneum, which are, as it were, buried afresh beneath the buildings of Portici. They arrived at Naples near midnight, and Corinne promised Nevil, as they took leave, to give him the history of her life on the morrow.
[CHAPTER II.]
The next morning Corinne resolved to impose on herself the effort she had promised: the intimate knowledge of Oswald's character which she had acquired redoubled her inquietude. She left her chamber, carrying what she had written in a trembling yet determined hand. She entered the sitting-room of their hotel. Oswald was there: he had just received letters from England. One of them lay on the mantel-piece: its direction caught her eye, and, with inexpressible anxiety, she asked from whom it came. "From Lady Edgarmond," replied Nevil.—"Do you correspond with her?" added Corinne.—"Her late lord was my father's friend," he said; "and since chance has introduced the subject, I will not conceal from you that they thought it might one day suit me to marry the daughter, Lucy."—"Great God!" cried Corinne, and sank, half fainting, on a seat.—"What means this?" demanded Oswald; "Corinne, what can you fear from one who loves you to idolatry? Had my parent's dying command been my union with Miss Edgarmond, I certainly should not now be free, and would have flown from your resistless spells; but he merely advised the match, writing me word that he could form no judgment of Lucy's character, as she was still a child. I have seen her but once, when scarcely twelve years old. I made no arrangement with her mother; yet the indecision of my conduct, I own, has sprung solely from this wish of my father's. Ere I met you, I hoped for power to complete it, as a sort of expiation, and to prolong, beyond his death, the empire of his will; but you have triumphed over my whole being, and I now desire but your pardon for what must have appeared so weak and irresolute in my conduct. Corinne, we seldom entirely recover from such griefs as I have experienced: they blight our hopes, and instil a painful timidity of the future. Fate had so injured me, that even while she offered the greatest of earthly blessings I could not trust her: but these doubts are over, love: I am thine forever, assured that, had my father known thee, he would have chosen such a companion for my life."—"Hold!" wept forth Corinne: "I conjure you, speak not thus to me."—"Why," said Oswald, "why thus constantly oppose the pleasure I take in blending your image with his? thus wedding the two dearest and most sacred feelings of my heart?"—"You cannot," returned Corinne; "too well I know you cannot."—"Just Heaven! what have you to tell me, then? Give me that history of your life."—"I will; but let me beg a week's delay, only a week: what I have just learned obliges me to add a few particulars."—"How!" said Oswald, "what connection have you——"—"Do not exact my answer now," interrupted Corinne. "You will soon know all, and that, perhaps, will be the end, the dreaded end of my felicity; but ere it comes, let us explore together the Campagna of Naples, with minds still accessible to the charms of nature. In these fair scenes will I so celebrate the most solemn era of my life, that you must cherish some memory of Corinne, such as she was, and might have ever been, had she not loved you, Oswald."—"Corinne, what mean these hints? You can have nothing to disclose which ought to chill my tender admiration; why then prolong the mystery that raises barriers between us?"—"Dear Oswald, 'tis my will: pardon me this last act of power: soon you alone will decide for us both. I shall hear my sentence from your lips, unmurmuringly, even if it be cruel; for I have on this earth nor love nor duty condemning me to live when you are lost." She withdrew, gently repulsing Oswald, who would fain have followed her.
[CHAPTER III.]
Corinne decided on giving a fête, united as the idea was with melancholy associations. She knew she must be judged as a poet, as an artist, ere she could be pardoned for the sacrifice of her rank, her family, her name, to her enthusiasm. Lord Nevil was indeed capable of appreciating genius, but, in his opinion, the relations of social life overruled all others; and the highest destiny of woman, nay of man too, he thought was accomplished, not by the exercise of intellectual faculties, but by the fulfilment of domestic duties. Remorse, in driving him from the false path in which he had strayed, fortified the moral principles innately his. The manners and habits of England, a country where such respect for law and duty exists, held, in many respects, a strict control over him. Indeed, the discouragement deep sorrows inculcate, teaches men to love that natural order which requires no new resolves, no decision contrary to the circumstances marked for us by fate. Oswald's love for Corinne modified his every feeling; but love never wholly effaces the original character, which she perceived through the passion that now lorded over it; and, perhaps, his ruling charm consisted in the opposition of his character to his attachment, giving added value to every pledge of his love. But the hour drew nigh when the fleeting fears she had constantly banished, and which had but slightly disturbed her dream of joy, were to decide her fate. Her mind, formed for delight, accustomed to the various moods of poetry and talent, was wonder-struck at the sharp fixedness of grief; a shudder thrilled her heart, such as no woman long resigned to suffering ever knew. Yet, in the midst of the most torturing fears, she secretly prepared for the one more brilliant evening she might pass with Oswald. Fancy and feeling were thus romantically blended. She invited the English who were there, and some Neapolitans whose society pleased her. On the day chosen for this fête, whose morrow might destroy her happiness forever, a singular wildness animated her features, and lent them quite a new expression. Careless eyes might have mistaken it for that of joy; but her rapid and agitated movements, her looks that rested nowhere, proved but too plainly to Nevil the struggle in her heart. Vainly he strove to soothe her by tender protestations. "You shall repeat them two days hence, if you will," she said; "now these soft words but mock me." The carriages of Corinne's party arrived at the close of day, just as the sea-breeze refreshed the air, inviting man to the contemplation of nature. They went first to Virgil's tomb. It overlooks the bay of Naples; and such is the magnificent repose of this spot, that one is tempted to believe the bard himself must have selected it. These simple words from his Georgies might have served him for epitaph:——
"Illo Virgilium me tempore dulcis alebat Parthenope."
"Then did the soft Parthenope receive me."
His ashes here repose, and attract universal homage—all, all that man on earth can steal from death. Petrarch set a laurel beside them—like its planter, it is dead. He alone was worthy to have left a lasting trace near such a grave. One feels disgust at the crowd of ignoble names traced by strangers on the walls about the urn; they trouble the peace of this classic solitude. Its present visitants left it in silence, musing over the images immortalized by the Mantuan. Blest intercourse between the past and future! which the art of writing perpetually renews. Shadow of death, what art thou? Man's thoughts survive; can he then be no more? Such contradiction is impossible. "Oswald," said Corinne, "these impressions are strange preparatives for a fête; yet," she added, with wild sublimity, "how many fêtes are held thus near the grave!"—"My life," he said, "whence all this secret dread? Confide in me; for six months have I owed you everything; perhaps have shed some pleasure over your path. Who then can err so impiously against happiness as to dash down the supreme bliss of soothing such a soul? it is much to feel one's self of use to the most humble mortal; but Corinne! to be her comfort! trust me, is a glory too delicious to renounce."—"I believe your promises," she said; "yet there are moments when something strange and new seizes the heart, and hurries it thus sadly." They passed through the Grotto of Pausilipo by torchlight, as indeed would have been the case at noon; for it extends nearly a quarter of a league beneath the mountain; and in the centre, the light of day, admitted at either extremity, is scarcely visible. In this long vault the tramp of steeds and cries of their drivers resound so stunningly that they deaden all thought in the brain. Corinne's horses drew her carriage with astonishing rapidity; yet did she say: "Dear Nevil, how slowly we advance! pray hasten them."—"Why thus impatient?" he asked; "formerly, while we were together, you sought not to expedite time, but to enjoy it."—"Yet now," she said, "all must be decision; everything must come to an end; and I would hasten it, were it my death." On leaving the grotto, you feel a lively sensation at regaining daylight and the open country; such a country, too! What are so often missed in Italy, fine trees, here flourish in abundance. Italian earth is everywhere so spread with flowers that woods may better be dispensed with here than in most other lands. The heat at Naples is so great that, even in the shade, it is impossible to walk by day: but in the evening the sea and sky alike shed freshness through the transparent air; the mountains are so picturesque that painters love to select their landscapes from a country whose original charm can be explained by no comparison with other realms. "I lead ye," said Corinne, to those near her, "through the fair scene celebrated by the name of Baiæ; we will not pause there now, but gather its recollections into the moment when we reach the spot which sets them all before us." It was on the Cape of Micena that she had prepared her fête; nothing could be more tastefully arranged. Sailors, in habits of contrasted hues, and some Orientalists from a Levantine barque then in the port, danced with the peasant girls from Ischia and Procida, whose costume still preserves a Grecian grace; sweet voices were heard singing from a distance; and instrumental music answered from behind the rocks. It was like echo echoed by sounds that lost themselves in the sea. The softness of the air animated all around—even Corinne herself. She was entreated to dance among the rustics; at first, she consented with pleasure; but scarcely had she begun, ere her forebodings rendered all amusement odious to her, and she withdrew to the extreme verge of the cape; thither Oswald followed, with others, who now begged her to extemporize in this lovely scene; her emotions were such that she permitted them to lead her towards the elevation on which they had placed her lyre, without power to comprehend what they expected.
[CHAPTER IV.]
Still, Corinne desired that Oswald should once more hear her, as on the day at the Capitol. If the talent with which Heaven had gifted her was about to be extinguished forever, she wished its last rays to shine on him she loved: these very fears afforded her the inspiration she required. Her friends were impatient to hear her. Even the common people knew her fame; and, as imagination rendered them judges of poetry, they closed silently round, their eager faces expressing the deepest attention. The moon arose; but the last beams of day still paled her light. From the top of the small hill that, standing over the sea, forms the Cape of Micena, Vesuvius is plainly seen, and the bay and isles that stud its bosom. With one consent, the friends of Corinne begged her to sing the memories that scene recalled. She tuned her lyre, and began with a broken voice. Her look was beautiful; but one who knew her, as Oswald did, could there read the trouble of her soul. She strove, however, to restrain her feelings; and once more, if but for awhile, to soar above her personal situation.
CORINNE'S CHANT IN THE VICINITY OF NAPLES.
Ay, Nature, History, and Poesie,
Rival each other's greatness;—here the eye
Sweeps with a glance, all wonders and all time.
A dead volcano now, I see thy lake
Avernus, with the fear-inspiring waves,
Acheron, and Phlégeton boiling up
With subterranean flame: these are the streams
Of that old hell Æneas visited.
Fire, the devouring life which first creates
The world which it consumes, struck terror most
When least its laws were known.—Ah! Nature then
Reveal'd her secrets but to Poetry.
The town of Cuma and the Sibyl's cave,
The temple of Apollo mark'd this height;
Here is the wood where grew the bough of gold.
The country of the Æneid is around;
The fables genius consecrated here
Are memories whose traces still we seek.
A Triton has beneath these billows plunged
The daring Trojan, who in song defied
The sea divinities: still are the rocks
Hollow and sounding, such as Virgil told.
Imagination's truth is from its power:
Man's genius can create when nature's felt;
He copies when he deems that he invents.
Amid these masses, terrible and old,
Creation's witnesses, you see arise
A younger hill of the volcano born:
For here the earth is stormy as the sea,
But doth not, like the sea, peaceful return
Within its bounds: the heavy element,
Upshaken by the tremulous abyss,
Digs valleys, and rears mountains; while the waves,
Harden'd to stone, attest the storms which rend
Her depths; strike now upon the earth,
You hear the subterranean vault resound.
It is as if the ground on which we dwell
Were but a surface ready to unclose.
Naples! how doth thy country likeness bear
To human passions; fertile; sulphurous:
Its dangers and its pleasures both seem born
Of those inflamed volcanoes, which bestow
Upon the atmosphere so many charms,
Yet bid the thunder growl beneath our feet.
Pliny but studied nature that the more
He might love Italy; and call'd his land
The loveliest, when all other titles fail'd.
He sought for science as a warrior seeks
For conquest: it was from this very cape
He went to watch Vesuvius through the flames:
Those flames consumed him.
O Memory! noble power! thy reign is here.
Strange destiny, how thus, from age to age,
Doth man complain of that which he has lost.
Still do departed years, each in their turn,
Seem treasures of happiness gone by;
And while mind, joyful in its far advance,
Plunges amid the future, still the Soul
Seems to regret some other ancient home
To which it is drawn closer by the past.
We envy Roman grandeur—did they not
Envy their fathers' brave simplicity?
Once this voluptuous country they despised;
Its pleasures but subdued their enemies.
See, in the distance, Capua! she o'ercame
The warrior, whose firm soul resisted Rome
More time than did a world.
The Romans in their turn dwelt on these plains,
When strength of mind but only served to feel
More deeply shame and grief; effeminate
They sank without remorse. Yet Baiæ saw
The conquer'd sea give place to palaces:
Columns were dug from mountains rent in twain,
And the world's masters, now in their turn slaves,
Made nature subject to console themselves
That they were subject too.
And Cicero on this promontory died:
This Gaëta we see. Ah! no regard
Those triumvirs paid to posterity,
Robbing her of the thoughts yet unconceived
Of this great man: their crime continues still;
Committed against us was this offence.
Cicero 'neath the tyrant's dagger fell,
But Scipio, more unhappy, was exiled
With yet his country free. Beside this shore
He died; and still the ruins of his tomb
Retain the name, "Tower of my native land:"[1]
Touching allusion to the memory
Which haunted his great soul.
Marius found a refuge in yon marsh,[2]
to the Scipios' home. Thus in all time
Have nations persecuted their great men.
But they enskied them after death;[3] and heaven,
Where still the Romans deem'd they could command,
Received amid her planets Romulus,
Numa, and Cæsar; new and dazzling stars!
Mingling together in our erring gaze
The rays of glory and celestial light.
And not enough alone of misery,
The trace of crime is here. In yonder gulf behold
The isle of Capri, where at length old age
Disarm'd Tiberius; violent, yet worn;
Cruel, voluptuous; wearied e'en of crime,
He sought yet viler pleasures; as he were
Not low enough debased by tyranny.
And Agrippina's tomb is on these shores,
Facing the isle,[4] reared after Nero's death;
The murderer of his mother had proscribed
Even her ashes. Long at Baiæ he dwelt
Amid the memories of his many crimes.
What wretches fate here brings before our eyes!
Tiberius, Nero, on each other gaze.
The isles, volcano-born amid the sea,
Served at their birth the crimes of the old world.
The sorrowing exiles on these lonely rocks,
Watched 'mid the waves their native land afar,
Seeking to catch its perfumes in the air:
And often, a long exile worn away,
Sentence of sudden death arrived to show
They were remember'd by their enemies.
O Earth! all bathed with blood and tears, yet never
Hast thou ceased putting forth thy fruit and flowers;
And hast thou then no pity for mankind?
Can thy maternal breast receive again
Their dust, and yet not throb?
L. E. L.
Here Corinne paused for some moments. All her assembled hearers threw laurels and myrtle at her feet. The soft pure moonlight fell on her brow, and the breeze wantoned with her ringlets as if nature delighted to adorn her: she was so overpowered as she looked on the enchanting scene, and on Oswald, who shared this delicious eve with her, yet might not be thus near forever, that tears flowed from her eyes. Even the crowd, who had just applauded her so tumultuously, respected her emotion, and mutely awaited her words, which they trusted would make them participators in her feelings. She preluded for some time on her lyre, then, no longer dividing her song into stanzas, abandoned herself to the uninterrupted stream of verse.
Some memories of the heart, some women's manes
Yet ask your tears. 'Twas at this very place,
Massena,[5] that Cornelia kept till death
Her noble mourning; Agrippina too
Long wept Germanicus beside these shores.
At length the same assassin who deprived
Her of her husband found she was at last
Worthy to follow him. And yonder isle[6]
Saw Brutus and his Portia bid farewell.
Thus women loved of heroes have beheld
The object perish which they so adored.
Long time in vain they follow'd in their path;
There came the hour when they were forced to part.
Portia destroy'd herself; Cornelia clasp'd
The sacred urn which answer'd not her cries;
And Agrippina, for how many years!
Vainly her husband's murderer defied.
And wander'd here the wretched ones, like ghosts
On wasted shores of the eternal stream,
Sighing to reach the other far-off land.
Did they not ask in their long solitude
Of silence, of all nature, of the sky,
Star-shining?—and from the deep sea, one sound,
One only tone of the beloved voice
They never more might hear.
Mysterious enthusiasm, Love!
The heart's supremest power;—which doth combine
Within itself religion, poetry,
And heroism. Love, what may befall
When destiny has bade us separate
From him who has the secret of our soul;
Who gave us the heart's life, celestial life.
What may befall when absence, or when death
Isolate woman on this earth?—She pines,
She sinks. How often have these rocks
Offer'd their cold support to the forlorn!
Those once worn in the heart;—those once sustain'd
Upon a hero's arm
Before you is Sorrento:—dwelling there
Was Tasso's sister, when the pilgrim came
Asking asylum 'gainst the prince unjust
From humble friends: long grief had almost quench'd
Reason's clear light, but genius still was left.
Yet kept he knowledge of the things divine,
When earthly images were all obscured.
Thus shrinking from the desert spread around.
Doth Genius wander through the world, and finds
No likeness to itself; no echo given
By Nature; and the common crowd but hold
As madness that desire of the rapt soul,
Which finds not in this world enough of air—
Of high enthusiasm, or of hope.
For Destiny compels exalted minds;—
The poet, whose imagination draws
Its power from loving and from suffering—
They are the vanish'd from another sphere.
For the Almighty goodness might not frame
All for the few—th' elect or the proscribed.
Why spoke the ancients with such awe of Fate?
What had this terrible Fate to do with them,
The common and the quiet, who pursue
The seasons, and still follow timidly
The beaten track of ordinary life?
But she, the priestess of the oracle,
Shook with the presence of the cruel power.
I know not what the involuntary force
That plunges Genius into misery.
Genius doth catch the music of the spheres,
Which mortal ear was never meant to know.
Genius can penetrate the mysteries
Of feeling, all unknown to other hearts;
A power hath entered in the inmost soul,
Whose presence may not be contained.
Sublime Creator of this lovely world,
Protect us: our exertions have no strength;
Our hope's a lie. Tumultuous tyranny
Our passions exercise, and neither leave
Repose nor liberty. What we may do
To-morrow may perhaps decide our fate.
We may have said but yesterday some word
Which may not be recalled. Still, when our mind
Is elevate with noblest thoughts, we feel
As on the height of some great edifice,
Giddiness blending all things in our sight;
But even there, woe! terrible woe! appears.
Not lost amid the clouds, it pierces through;
It flings the shades asunder; O my God!
What doth it herald to us?"
L. E. L.
At these words, a mortal paleness overspread her countenance; her eyes closed; and she would have fallen to the earth, had not Oswald rushed to support her.
[1] "La tour de la patrie." Patrie can scarce be rendered by a single word: "native land" perhaps best expresses the ancientpatria.—L. E. L.
[2] Minturno.
[3] "Ils sont consolés par l'apothéose." This is the only instance in which I have not given, as nearly as possible, the English word that answered most exactly; but I confess one so long as "apotheosis" fairly baffled my efforts to get it into rhythm. It is curious to observe how many Pagan observances were grafted on the Roman Catholic worship. Canonization is but a Christian apotheosis, only the deceased turned into saints instead of gods.—L. E. L.
[4] Caprea.
[5] The retreat of Pompey
[6] Nisida.
[CHAPTER V.]
Corinne revived: the affecting interest of Oswald's look restored her to some composure. The Neapolitans were surprised at the gloomy character of her poetry, much as they admired it. They thought it the Muse's task to dissipate the cares of life, and not to explore their terrible secrets; but the English who were present seemed deeply touched. Their own melancholy, embellished by Italian imagination, delighted them. This lovely woman, whose features seemed designed to depict felicity—this child of the sun, a prey to hidden grief—was like a flower, still fresh and brilliant, but within whose leaves may be seen the first dark impress of that withering blight which soon shall lay it low. The party embarked to return: the glowing calm of the hour made it a luxury to be upon the sea. Goëthe has described, in a delicious romance, the passion felt in warm climates, for the water. A nymph of the flood boasts to the fisherman the charms of her abode; invites him to taste its refreshment, and, by degrees, allures him to his death. This magic of the tide resembles that of the basilisk, which fascinates by fear. The wave rising gently afar, swelling, and hurrying as it nears the shore, is but a type of passion, that dawns in softness, but soon grows invincible. Corinne put back her tresses, that she might better enjoy the air: her countenance was thus more beautiful than ever. The musicians, who followed in another boat, poured forth enchantments that harmonized with the stars, the sea, and the sweet intoxication of an Italian evening. "Oh, my heart's love!" whispered Oswald, "can I ever forget this day, or ever enjoy a happier?" His eyes filled with tears. One of his most seductive attributes was this ready yet restrained sensibility, which so oft, in spite of him, bedewed his lids: at such moments he was irresistible: sometimes even in the midst of an endearing pleasantry, a melting thrill stole on his mirth, and lent it a new, a noble charm. "Alas!" returned Corinne, "I hope not for another day like this; but be it blest, at least, as the last such of my life, if forbidden to prove the dawn of more endearing bliss."
[CHAPTER VI.]
The weather changed ere they reached Naples: the heavens darkened, and the coming storm, already felt in the air, convulsed the waves, as if the sea sympathized with the sky. Oswald preceded Corinne, that he might see the flambeaux borne the more steadily before her. As they neared the quay, he saw some Lazzaroni assembled, crying "Poor creature! he cannot save himself! we must be patient."—"Of whom speak ye?" cried Nevil, impetuously.—"An old man," they replied, "who was bathing below there, not far from the mole; but the storm has risen: he is too weak to struggle with it." Oswald's first impulse was to plunge into the water; then, reflecting on the alarm he should cause Corinne, when she came, he offered all the money he had with him, promising to double it, for the man who would swim to this unfortunate being's assistance; but the Lazzaroni all refused, saying: "It cannot be, the danger is too fearful." At that moment the old man sunk. Oswald could hesitate no longer: he threw off his coat, and sprang into the sea, spite of its waves, that dashed above his head: he buffeted them bravely; seized the sufferer, who must have perished had he been a moment later, and brought him to the land; but the sudden chill and violent exertion so overwhelmed Lord Nevil, that he had scarcely seen his charge in safety, when he fell on the earth insensible, and so pallid, that the bystanders believed him a corpse.[1] It was then that the unconscious Corinne beheld the crowd, heard them cry, "He is dead," and would have drawn back in terror; when she saw one of the Englishmen who had accompanied her, break eagerly through the people: she made some steps to follow him; and the first object which met her eye was a portion of Oswald's dress, lying on the bank. She seized it with desperation, believing it all that was left of her love; and when she saw him, lifeless as he appeared, she threw herself on his breast, in transport, and ardently pressed him to her heart: with what inexpressible rapture did she detect that his still beat, perhaps reanimated by her presence! "He lives!" she cried, "he lives!" and instantly regained a strength, a courage, such as his mere friends could scarcely equal. She sent for everything that could revive him: and herself applied these restoratives, supporting his fainting head upon her breast, and, though she wept over it, forgetting nothing, losing not a moment, nor permitting her grief to interrupt her cares. Oswald grew better, but resumed not yet the use of his senses. She had him carried to his hotel, and, kneeling beside him, bathed his brow with stimulating perfumes, calling on him in tones of impassioned tenderness that might have waked the dead. He opened his eyes, and pressed her hand. For the joy of such a moment might one not endure the tortures of demons? Poor human nature! We guess at infinitude but by suffering; and not a bliss in life can compensate the anguish of beholding those we love expire. "Cruel, cruel!" cried Corinne; "think what you have done!"—"Pardon," he replied, in a trembling voice. "Believe me, dearest, while I thought myself dying, I trembled but for thee." Exquisite expression of mutual love and confidence! Corinne, to her last day, could not recall those words without a fondness, which, while it lasted, taught her to forgive him all.
[1] Mr. Elliot saved the life of an old Neapolitan in the manner attributed to Lord Nevil.
[CHAPTER VII.]
Oswald's next impulse was to thrust his hand into his bosom for his father's portrait; it was still there; but the water had left it scarcely recognizable; he was bitterly afflicted by this loss. "My God!" he cried, "dost thou deny me even his image?" Corinne besought his permission to restore it: he consented, without much hope; what then was his amaze when, on the third morning she brought it to him, not only repaired, but more faithful than ever! "Yes," cried Oswald, "you have divined his features and his look. This heavenly miracle decides you for my life's companion, since to you is thus revealed the memory of one who must forever dispose my fate. Here is the ring my father gave his wife—the sacred bond sincerely offered by the noblest, and accepted by the most constant of hearts. Let me transfer it from my hand to thine, and, while thou keepest it, be no longer free. I take this solemn oath, not knowing to whom, but in thy soul I trust, that tells me all: the events of your life, if springing from yourself, must needs be lofty as your character. If you have been the victim to an unworthy fate, thank Heaven I can repair it; therefore, my own Corinne, you owe your secrets to one whose promises precede your confidence."—"Oswald," she answered, "this delirium is the result of a mistake. I cannot accept your ring till I have undeceived you. An inspiration of the heart, you think, taught me your father's features: I ought to tell you that I have seen him often."—"Seen him! how? when? where? O God! who are you, then?"—"Here is your ring," returned Corinne, in a smothered tone.—"No," cried Oswald, after a moment's pause; "I swear never to wed another till you send back that ring. Forgive the tumult you have raised within me; confused and half-forgotten thoughts afflict my mind."—"I see it," said Corinne; "and this shall end: already your accents and your words are changed. Perhaps when you have read my history, the horrid word adieu——"—"No, no," cried Nevil; "only from my death-bed—fear not that word till then." Corinne retired, and, in a few moments, Thérésina brought him the papers which he was now to read.