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.