SSION.

Along the deathly Campagna, a weary and desolate length of way,--through
a mean and squalid row of houses--you thread your course; and
behold--Tivoli bursts upon you!

"Look--look!" cried Constance, with enthusiasm, as she pointed to the
rushing torrent that, through matted trees and cragged precipices,
thundered on.

Astonished at the silence of Godolphin, whom scenery was usually so wont
to kindle and inspire, she turned hastily round, and her whole tide of
feeling was revulsed by the absorbed but intense dejection written on
his countenance. "Why," said she, after a short pause, and affecting
a playful smile, "why, how provoking is this! In general, not a common
patch of green with an old tree in the centre, not a common rivulet with
a willow hanging over it, escapes you. You insist upon our sharing your
raptures--you dilate on the picturesque--you rise into eloquence; nay,
you persuade us into your enthusiasm, or you quarrel with us for our
coldness; and now, with this divinest of earthly scenes around us,--when
even Lady Charlotte is excited, and Mr. Saville forgets himself, you
are stricken into silence and apathy! The reason--if it be not too
abstruse?"

"It is here!" said Godolphin, mournfully, and pressing his hand to his
heart.

Constance turned aside; she indulged herself with the hope that he
alluded to former scenes, and despaired of the future from their
remembrance. She connected his melancholy with herself, and knew that,
when referred to her, she could dispel it. Inspired by this idea, and
exhilarated by the beauty of the morning, and the wonderful magnificence
of nature, she indulged her spirits to overflowing. And as her brilliant
mind lighted up every subject it touched, now glowing over description,
now flashing into remark, Godolphin at one time forgot, and at another
more keenly felt, the magnitude of the sacrifice he was about to make.
But every one knows that feeling which, when we are unhappy, illumines
(if I may so speak) our outward seeming from the fierceness of our
inward despair,--that recklessness which is the intoxication of our
grief.

By degrees Godolphin broke from his reserve. He seemed to catch the
enthusiasm of Constance; he echoed back--he led into new and more
dazzling directions--the delighted remarks of his beautiful companion.
His mind, if not profoundly learned, at least irregularly rich, in
the treasures of old times, called up a spirit from every object. The