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