The next day Oswald and Corinne met in great embarrassment. She could no longer depend on the love she had inspired. He was dissatisfied with himself, and felt his own weakness rebel against the tyranny of his sentiments. Both sought to avoid the subject of their mutual affection. "To-day," said Corinne, "I proposed a somewhat solemn excursion, but one which will be sure to interest you; let us visit the last asylums of those who lived among the edifices we have seen in ruins."—"You have guessed what would most suit my present disposition," said Oswald, in so sad a tone, that she dared not speak again for some moments; then gaining courage from her desire to soothe and entertain him, she added: "You know, my Lord, that among the ancients, far from the sight of tombs discouraging the living, they were placed in the high road, to kindle emulation; the young were thus constantly reminded of the illustrious dead, who seemed silently to bid them imitate their glories."—"Ah!" sighed Oswald, "how I envy those whose regrets are unstained by remorse."—"Talk you of remorse?" she cried; "then it is but one virtue the more, the scruples of a heart whose exalted delicacy——" He interrupted her. "Corinne! Corinne! do not approach that theme; in your blest land gloomy thoughts are exhaled by the brightness of heaven; but with us grief buries itself in the depths of the soul, and shatters its strength forever."—"You do me injustice," she replied. "I have told you that, capable as I am of enjoyment, I should suffer more than you, if——" she paused, and changed the subject; continuing, "My only wish, my Lord, is to divert your mind for awhile. I ask no more." The meekness of this reply touched Oswald's heart; and, as he marked the melancholy beauty of those eyes, usually so full of fire, he reproached himself with having thus depressed a spirit so framed for sweet and joyous impressions; he would fain have restored them; but Corinne's uncertainty of his intentions, as to his stay or departure, entirely disordered her accustomed serenity.
She led him through the gates to the old Appian Way, whose traces are marked in the heart of the country by ruins on the right and left, for many miles beyond the walls. The Romans did not permit the dead to be buried within the city. None but the emperors were there interred, except one citizen named Publius Biblius, who was thus recompensed for his humble virtues; such as, indeed, his contemporaries were most inclined to honor.
To reach the Appian Way you leave Rome by the gate of St. Sebastian, formerly called the Capena Gate. The first tombs you then find, Cicero assures us, are those of Metellus, of Scipio, and Servilius. The tomb of the Scipio family was found here, and afterwards removed to the Vatican. It is almost sacrilege to displace such ashes. Imagination is more nearly allied to morality than is believed, and ought not to be offended. Among so many tombs names must be strewn at random; there is no way of deciding to which such or such title belongs; but this very uncertainty prevents our looking on any of them with indifference. It was in such that the peasants made their homes; for the Romans consecrated quite space enough to the urns of their illustrious fellow-citizens. They had not that principle of utility which, for the sake of cultivating a few feet of ground the more, lays waste the vast domain of feeling and of thought. At some distance from the Appian Way is a temple raised by the republic to Honor and to Virtue; another to the god who caused the return of Hannibal. There, too, is the fountain of Egeria; where in solitude Numa conversed with Conscience, the divinity of the good. No monument of guilt invades the repose of these great beings; the earth around is sacred to the memory of worth. The noblest thoughts may reign there undisturbed. The aspect of the country near Rome is remarkably peculiar; it is but a desert, as boasting neither trees nor houses; but the ground is covered with wild shrubs ceaselessly renewed by energetic vegetation. The parasitic tribes creep round the tombs, and decorate the ruins, as if in honor of their dead. Proud nature, conscious that no Cincinnatus now guides the plough that furrows her breast, there repulses the care of man, and produces plants which she permits not to serve the living. These uncultivated plains may, indeed, displease those who speculate on the earth's capacity for supplying human wants; but the pensive mind, more occupied by thoughts of death than of life, loves to contemplate the Campagna, on which present time has imprinted no trace; it cherishes the dead, and fondly covers them with useless flowers, that bask beneath the sun, but never aspire above the ashes which they appear to caress. Oswald admitted that in such a scene a calm might be regained that could be enjoyed nowhere beside. The soul is there less wounded by images of sorrow; it seems to partake, with those now no more, the charm of that air, that sunlight, and that verdure. Corinne drew some hope from observing the effect thus taken on him; she wished not to efface the just regret owed to the loss of his father; but regret itself is capable of sweets, with which we should try to familiarize those who have tasted but its bitterness, for that is the only blessing we can confer on them.
"Let us rest," said Corinne, "before this tomb, which remains almost entire: it is not that of a celebrated man, but of a young girl, Cecilia Metella, to whom her father raised it."—"Happy the children," sighed Oswald, "who die on the bosom that gave them life: for them even death must lose its sting."—"Ay," replied Corinne, with emotion, "happy those who are not orphans. But look! arms are sculptured here: the daughters of heroes had a right to bear the trophies of their sires: fair union of innocence and valor! There is an elegy, by Propertius, which, better than any other writing of antiquity, describes the dignity of woman among the Romans; a dignity more pure and more commanding than even that which she enjoyed during the age of chivalry. Cornelia, dying in her youth, addresses to her husband a consolatory farewell, whose every word breathes her tender respect for all that is sacred in the ties of nature. The noble pride of a blameless life is well depicted in the majestic Latin; in poetry august and severe as the masters of the world. 'Yes,' says Cornelia, 'no stain has sullied my career, from the hour when Hymen's torch was kindled, even to that which lights my funeral pyre. I have lived spotless between two flames.'[1] What an admirable expression! what a sublime image! How enviable the woman who preserves this perfect unity in her fate, and carries but one remembrance to the grave! That were enough for one life." As she ceased, her eyes filled with tears. A cruel suspicion seized the heart of Oswald. "Corinne," he cried, "has your delicate mind aught with which to reproach you? If I could offer you myself, should I not have rivals in the past? Could I pride in my choice? Might not jealousy disturb my delight?"—"I am free," replied Corinne, "and love you as I never loved before. What would you have? Must I confess, that, ere I knew you, I might have deceived myself as to the interest with which others inspired me? Is there no divinity in man's heart for the errors which, beneath such illusions, might have been committed?" A modest glow overspread her face. Oswald shuddered, but was silent. There was such timid penitence in the looks of Corinne, that he could not rigorously judge one whom a ray from heaven seemed descending to absolve. He pressed her hand to his heart, and knelt before her, without uttering a promise, indeed, but with a glance of love which left her all to hope. "Let us form no plan for years to come," she said: "the happiest hours of life are those benevolently granted us by chance: it is not here, in the midst of tombs, that we should trust much to the future."—"No," cried Nevil; "I believe in no future that can part us: four days of absence have but too well convinced me that I now exist but for you." Corinne made no reply, but religiously hoarded these precious words in her heart: she always feared, in prolonging a conversation on the only subject of her thoughts, lest Oswald should declare his intentions before a longer habit of being with her rendered separation impossible. She often designedly directed his attention to exterior objects, like the sultana in the Arabian tales, who sought by a thousand varied stories to captivate her beloved, and defer his decision of her fate, till certain that her wit must prove victorious.
[1] Viximus insignes inter utramque facem. PROPERTIUS.
[CHAPTER II.]
Not far from the Appian Way is seen the Columbarium, where slaves are buried with their lords; where the same tomb contains all who dwelt beneath the protection of one master or mistress. The women devoted to the care of Livia's beauty, who contended with time for the preservation of her charms, are placed in small urns beside her. The noble and ignoble there repose in equal silence. At a little distance is the field wherein vestals, unfaithful to their vows were interred alive; a singular example of fanaticism in a religion naturally so tolerant.
"I shall not take you to the catacombs," said Corinne, "though, by a strange chance, they lie beneath the Appian Way, tombs upon tombs! But that asylum of persecuted Christians is so gloomy and terrible, that I cannot resolve to revisit it. It has not the touching melancholy which one breathes in open wilds; it is a dungeon near a sepulchre—the tortures of existence beside the horrors of death. Doubtless one must admire men who, by the mere force of enthusiasm, could support that subterranean life—forever banished from the sun; but the soul is too ill at ease in such a scene to be benefited by it. Man is a part of creation, and finds his own moral harmony in that of the universe; in the habitual order of fate, violent exceptions may astonish, but they create too much terror to be of service. Let us rather seek the pyramid of Cestius, around which all Protestants who die here find charitable graves."—"Yes," returned Oswald, "many a countryman of mine is amongst them. Let us go there; in one sense at least, perhaps, I shall never leave you." Corinne's hand trembled on his arm. He continued, "Yet I am much better since I have known you." Her countenance resumed its wonted air of tender joy.