that fear of your friend, that
mistrust of his heart?" "No," continued Corinne; "it is decided; I have
committed it all to writing, and if you choose, to-morrow--"
"To-morrow," said Lord Nelville, "we are to go together to Vesuvius; I
wish to contemplate with you this astonishing wonder, to learn from you
how to admire it; and in this very journey, if I have the strength, I
will make you acquainted with the particulars of my past life. My heart
is determined; thus my confidence will open the way to yours." "So you
give me to-morrow," replied Corinne; "I thank you for this one day. Ah!
who knows whether you will be the same for me when I have opened my soul
to you? And how can I feel such a doubt without shuddering?"

Chapter iv.

The ruins of Pompei are near to Mount Vesuvius, and Corinne and Lord
Neville began their excursion with these ruins. They were both silent;
for the moment approached which was to decide their fate, and that vague
hope they had so long enjoyed, and which accords so well with the
indolence and reverie that the climate of Italy inspires, was to be
replaced by a positive destiny. They visited Pompei together, the most
curious ruin of antiquity. At Rome, seldom any thing is found but the
remains of public monuments, and these monuments only retrace the
political history of past ages; but at Pompei it is the private life of
the ancients which offers itself to the view, such as it was. The
Volcano, which has covered this city with ashes, has preserved it from
the destroying hand of Time. Edifices, exposed to the air, never could
have remained so perfect; but this hidden relic of antiquity was found
entire. The paintings and bronzes were still in their pristine beauty;
and every thing connected with domestic life is fearfully preserved. The
amphorae are yet prepared for the festival of the following day; the
flour which was to be kneaded is still to be seen; the remains of a
woman, are still decorated with those ornaments which she wore on the
holiday that the Volcano disturbed, and her calcined arms no longer fill
the bracelets of precious stones which still surround them. Nowhere is
to be seen so striking an image of the sudden interruption of life. The
traces of the wheels are visible in the streets, and the stones on the
brink of the wells bear the mark of the cord which has gradually
furrowed them. On the walls of a guardhouse are still to be seen those
misshapen characters, those figures