CHAPTER VI.

For two days they proceeded on the shore of the Adriatic; but this sea, on the Romagnan side, has not the effect of the ocean, nor even of the Mediterranean. The high road winds close to its waves, and grass grows on its banks: it is not thus that we would represent the mighty realm of tempests. At Rimini and Cesena, you quit the classic scenes of history: their latest remembrancer is the Rubicon, which Cæsar passed to become the lord of Rome. Not far from hence is the republic of St. Marino, the last weak vestige of liberty, besides the spot on which was resolved the destruction of the world's chief republic. By degrees, you now advance towards a country very opposite in aspect to the Papal State. Bologna, Lombardy, the environs of Ferrara and Rovigo, are remarkable for beauty and cultivation--how unlike the poetic barrenness and decay that announce an approach to Rome, and tell of the terrible events that have occurred there!

You then quit what Sabran calls "black pines, the summer's mourning, but the winter's bravery," and the conical cypresses that remind one of obelisks, mountains, and the sea. Nature, like the traveller, now parts from the southern rays. At first, the oranges are found no longer in the open air--they are succeeded by olives, whose pale and tender foliage might suit the bowers of the Elysian fields. Further on, even the olive disappears.

On entering Bologna's smiling plain, the vines garland the elms together, and the whole land is decked as for a festival. Corinne was sensible of the contrast between her present state of mind and the resplendent scene she now beheld.--"Ah, Oswald!" she sighed, "ought nature to spread such images of happiness before two friends perhaps about to lose each other?"--"No, Corinne--never! each day I feel less able to resign thee: that untiring gentleness unites the charm of habit with the love I bear thee. One lives as contentedly with you as if you were not the finest genius in the world, or, rather, because you are so; for real superiority confers a perfect goodness, that makes one's peace with one's self and all the world. What angry thoughts can live in such a presence?" They arrived at Ferrara, one of the saddest towns in Italy, vast and deserted. The few inhabitants found there, at distant intervals, loiter on slowly, as if secure of time for all they have to do. It is hard to conceive this the scene of that gay court sung both by Tasso and Ariosto; yet still are shown their manuscripts, with that also of the Pastor Fido. Ariosto knew how to live at ease here, amid courtiers; but the house is yet to be seen wherein they dared confine Tasso as a maniac. It is sad to read the various letters which he wrote, asking the death it was so long ere he obtained. Tasso was so peculiarly organised, that his talent became its owner's formidable foe. His genius dissected his own heart. He could not so have read the secrets of the soul if he had felt less sorrow. _The man who has not suffered_, says a prophet, _what does he know?_ In some respects, Corinne resembled him. She was more cheerful and more versatile, but her imagination required extreme government: far from assuaging any grief, it lent each pang fresh might. Nevil deceived himself if he believed her brilliant faculties could give her means of happiness apart from her affections. When genius is united with true feeling, our talents multiply our woes. We analyze, we make discoveries, and, the heart's urn of tears being exhaustless, the more we think the more we feel it flow.