On their way to Tivoli, they passed the ruins of Adrian's palace, and the immense garden that surrounded it. Here were collected the rarest productions of the realms conquered by Rome. There are still seen the scattered stones called Egypt, India, and Asia. Further off is the retreat where Zenobia ended her days. The queen of Palmyra sustained not, in adversity, the greatness of her doom: she knew neither how to die for glory, like a man; nor how, like a woman, to die rather than betray her friend. At last they beheld Tivoli, once the abode of Brutus, Augustus, Mæcenas, Catullus, but, above all, Horace, whose verses have immortalized these scenes. Corinne's villa stood near the loud cascade of Teverone. On the top of the hill, facing her garden, was the Sibyl's temple. The ancients, by building these fanes on heights like this, suggested the due superiority of religion over all other pursuits. They bid you "look from nature up to nature's God," and tell of the gratitude that successive generations have paid to Heaven. The landscape, seen from whatever point, includes this its central ornament. Such ruins remind one not of the work of man. They harmonize with the fair trees and lonely torrent, that emblem of the years which have made them what they are. The most beauteous land, that awoke no memory of great events, were uninteresting, compared with every spot that history sanctifies. What place could more appropriately have been selected as the home of Corinne than that consecrated to the Sibyl, a woman divinely inspired? The house was charming; decked in all the elegance of modern taste, yet evidently by a classic hand. You saw that its mistress understood felicity in its highest signification; that which implies all that can ennoble, while it excites our minds. A sighing melody now stole on Oswald's ear, as if the nodding flowers and waving shrubs thus lent a voice to nature. Corinne informed him that it proceeded from the Eolian harps, which she had hung in her grottos, adding music to the perfume of the air. Her lover was entranced. "Corinne," he cried, throwing himself at her feet, "till to-day I have censured mine own bliss beside thee; but now I feel as if the prayers of mine offended parent had won me all this favor; the chaste repose I here enjoy tells me that I am pardoned. Fearlessly, then, unite thy fate with mine; there is no danger now!"--"Well," she replied, "let us not disturb this peace by naming Fate. Why strive to gain more than she ever grants? Why seek for change while we are happy?" He was hurt by this reply. He thought she should have understood his readiness to confide, to promise, all. This evasion, then, offended and afflicted him: he appreciated not the delicacy which forbade Corinne to profit by his weakness. Where we really love, we often dread more than we desire the solemn moment that exchanges hope for certainty. Oswald, however, concluded that, much as she loved him, she preferred her independence,