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