[25] I have taken the liberty here to borrow some passages of the Discourse on Death, which is to be found in the Cours de Morale Religieuse, by M. Necker.  This work, which appeared in times when the attention was engrossed by political events, is sometimes confounded with another by the same author, called l’Importance des Opinions Religieuses, which has had the most brilliant success.  But I dare affirm, that the former is my father’s most eloquent work.  No minister of state, I believe, before him, ever composed works for the Christian pulpit; and that which ought to characterise this kind of writing from a man who has had so much dealings with his race, is a knowledge of the human heart, and the indulgence which this knowledge inspires:  it appears then, that considered in these two points of view, the Cours de Morale, is perfectly original.  Religious men in general do not mix in the world, and men of the world for the most part, are not religious:  where then would it be possible to find to such a degree, knowledge of life united to the elevation which detaches us from it?  I will assert without being afraid that my opinion will be attributed to my feelings, that this book ranks among the first of those which console the sensible being, and interest minds which reflect on the great questions that the soul incessantly agitates within us.

Chapter ii.

During those days which immediately followed the illness of Oswald, Corinne carefully avoided any thing that might lead to an explanation between them.  She wished to render life as calm as possible; but she would not yet confide her history to him.  All her remarks upon their different conversations, had only served to convince her too well of the impression he would receive in learning who she was, and what she had sacrificed; and nothing appeared more dreadful to her than this impression, which might detach him from her.

Returning then to the amiable artifice with which she had before prevented Oswald from abandoning himself to passionate disquietudes, she desired to interest his mind and his imagination anew, by the wonders of the fine arts which he had not yet seen, and by this means retard the moment when their fate should be cleared up and decided.  Such a situation would be insupportable, governed by any other sentiment than that of love; but so much is it in the power of love to sweeten every hour, to give a charm to every minute, that although it need an indefinite future, it becomes, intoxicated with the present, and is filled every day with such a multitude of emotions and ideas that it becomes an age of happiness or pain!

Undoubtedly it is love alone that can give an idea of eternity; it confounds every notion of time; it effaces every idea of beginning and end; we believe that we have always loved the object of our affection; so difficult is it to conceive that we have ever been able to live without him.  The more dreadful separation appears, the less it seems probable; it becomes, like death, a fear which is more spoken of than believed—­a future event which seems impossible, even at the very moment we know it to be inevitable.