"Racine's Phedra forms the fourth picture. Hippolitus, in all the beauty of youth and innocence, repulses the perfidious accusations of his step-mother. The heroic Theseus still protects his guilty wife, whom his conquering arms surround. Phedra's visage is agitated by impulses that we freeze to look on; and her remorseless nurse encourages her in guilt. Hippolitus is here even more lovely than in Racine; more like to Meleager, as no love for Aricia here seems to mingle with his tameless virtue. But could Phedra have supported her falsehood in such a presence? No, she must have fallen at his feet; a vindictive woman may injure him she loves in absence, but, while she looks on him, that love must triumph. The poet never brings them together after she has slandered him. The painter was obliged to oppose them to each other; but is not the distinction between the picturesque and the poetical proved by the fact, that verses copied from paintings are worth all the paintings that have imitated poetry? Fancy must ever precede reason, as it does in the growth of the human mind."
While Corinne spoke thus, she had frequently paused, hoping that Oswald would add his remarks; but, as she made any feeling observation, he would merely sigh and turn away his head, to conceal his present disposition towards sadness. Corinne, at last discouraged by this silence, sat down and hid her face in her hands. Oswald hastily paced the apartment, and was just about to give way to his emotions, when, with a sudden check of pride, he turned towards the pictures, as if expecting her to finish the account of them. She had great hope in the last; and making an effort to compose herself, rose, saying: "My Lord, there remain but three landscapes for me to show you; two possess some interest. I do not like rural scenes that bear no allusion to fable or history; they are insipid as the idols of our poets. I prefer Salvator Rosa's style here, which gives you rocks, torrents, and trees, with not even the wing of a bird visible to remind you of life! The absence of man, in the midst of nature, excites profound reflections. What is this deserted scene, so vainly beautiful, whose mysterious charms address but the eye of their Creator? Here, on the contrary, history and poesy are happily united in a landscape.[2] This represents the moment when Cincinnatus is invited by the consuls to quit his plough, and take command of the Roman armies. All the luxury of the south is seen in this picture--abundant vegetation, burning sky, and an universal air of joy, that pervades even the aspects of the plants. See what a contrast is beside it. The son of Cairbar sleep upon his father's tomb. Three nights he awaited the bard, who comes to honor the dead. His form is beheld afar, he descends the mountain's side. On the cloud floats the shade of the chief. The land is hoary with ice; and the trees, as the rude winds war on their lifeless and withered arms, strew their sear leaves to the gale, and herald the course of the storm." Oswald, till now, had cherished his resentment; but at the sight of this picture, the tomb of his father, the mountains of Scotland rose to his view, and his eyes filled with tears. Corinne took her harp, and sung one of those simple Scotch ballads whose notes seem fit to be borne on the wailing breeze. It was the soldier's farewell to his country and his love, in which recurred that most melodious and expressive of English phrases, "No more."[3] Corinne pronounced it so touchingly, that Oswald could resist no longer; and they wept together. "Ah, Corinne!" he cried, "does then my country affect your heart? Could you go with me to the land peopled by my recollections? Would you there be the worthy partner of my life, as you are here its enchantress?"--"I believe I could," she answered, "for I love you."--"In the name of love and piety then, have no more secrets from me."--"Your will shall be obeyed, Oswald; I promise it on one condition, that you ask not its fulfilment before the termination of our approaching religious solemnities. Is not the support of Heaven more than ever necessary at the moment which must decide my fate?"--"Corinne," he said, "if thy fate depends on me it shall no longer be a sad one."--"You think so," she rejoined; "but I have no such confidence, therefore indulge my weakness." Oswald sighed, without granting or refusing the delay she asked. "Let us return to Rome now," she added. "I should tell you all in this solitude; and if what I have to say must drive you from me--need it be so soon? Come, Oswald; you may revisit this scene when my ashes repose here." Melted and agitated, he obeyed.