enter to enlighten devotion.  What serenity!  What an air of festivity is remarkable in this edifice!  The Pagans have deified life, and the Christians have deified death.  Such is the spirit of the two worships, but the Roman Catholic religion here, however, is less sombre than in the northern countries.  You will observe it when we visit St Peter’s.  Inside the sanctuary of the Pantheon are the busts of our most celebrated artists, they adorn the niches where were placed the gods of the ancients.—­As, since the destruction of the empire of the Caesars, we have hardly ever had political independence in Italy, you do not find here either statesmen or great commanders.  It is the genius of imagination which constitutes our own glory; but do you not think, my lord, that a people who honour talents in this manner ought to merit a nobler fate?” “I am very severe towards nations,” answered Oswald; “I always believe that they deserve their fate let it be what it may.”  “That is hard,” replied Corinne; “perhaps after a longer residence in Italy you will experience a sentiment of compassion towards this unhappy country, which nature seems to have decorated as a victim; but, at least, you will remember that the dearest hope of us artists, of us lovers of glory, is to obtain a place here.  I have already fixed upon mine,” said she pointing to a niche still vacant.  “Oswald! who knows whether you will not come again to this same enclosure when my bust shall be placed there?  Then—­”

Oswald interrupted her quickly and said, “In the shining splendour of youth and beauty can you talk thus to one whom misfortune and suffering have already bent towards the grave?” “Ah!” replied Corinne, “the storm may in a moment snap asunder those flowers that now have their heads upreared in life and bloom.  Oswald, dear Oswald!” added she; “why should you not be happy?  Why—­” “Never interrogate me,” replied Lord Nelville, “you have your secrets—­I have mine, let us mutually respect each other’s silence.  No—­you know not what emotion I should feel were I obliged to relate my misfortunes.”  Corinne was silent, and her steps in leaving the temple were slower, and her looks more thoughtful.

She stopped beneath the portico:—­“There,” said she to Lord Nelville, “was a most beautiful urn of porphyry, now transferred to St John of Lateran; it contained the ashes of Agrippa, which were placed at the foot of the statue that he had raised to himself.  The ancients took so much care to soften the idea of dissolution that they knew how to strip it of every thing that was doleful and repulsive.  There was, besides, so much magnificence in their tombs that the contrast was less felt between the blank of death and the splendours of life.  It is true that the hope of another world being less vivid among the Pagans than amongst Christians, they endeavoured to dispute with death the future remembrance which we place, without fear, in the bosom of the Eternal.”

Oswald sighed and was silent.  Melancholy ideas have many charms when we have not been ourselves deeply wretched, but when grief in all its asperity has seized upon the soul, we no longer hear without shuddering certain words which formerly only excited in us reveries more or less pleasing.