words, without profundity of thought or novelty of imagery.  Poetry, like all the fine arts, captivates the senses, as much as the intellect.  I dare venture to say, however, that I have never improvised without feeling myself animated by some real emotion, some idea which I believed new, therefore I hope that I have trusted less than others to our bewitching language.  It is possible, if I may say so, to prelude at random, and convey a lively pleasure by the charm of rhythm and of harmony alone.”

“You believe then,” interrupted one of the friends of Corinne, “that the talent for improvisation injures our literature; I thought so once myself, but hearing you, madam, has made me entirely alter that opinion.”  “I have said,” replied Corinne, “that there resulted from this facility, this literary abundance, a quantity of inferior poetry; but I am as pleased with this fecundity, which exists in Italy, as I am with seeing our fields covered with a thousand superfluous products.  This liberality of nature makes me proud.  I am particularly pleased with the improvisations of the lower classes of the people; it discovers their imagination to us, which is concealed everywhere else, and is only developed amongst us.  They give a poetical character to the lowest orders of society, and spare us the contempt which we cannot help feeling for every thing that is vulgar.  When our Sicilians, conveying travellers in their vessels, so delicately and politely felicitate them in their pleasing dialect, and wish them in verse a sweet and long adieu, one would say the pure breeze of heaven and of the sea produces the same effect upon the imagination of men as the wind on the AEolian harp, and that poetry, like the chords of that instrument, is the echo of nature.  One thing makes me attach an additional value to our talent for improvisation, and that is, that it would be almost impossible in a society disposed to mockery.  It requires the good humour of the south, or rather of those countries where people love to amuse themselves without taking pleasure in criticising that which affords them amusement, to encourage poets to venture on so perilous an enterprise.  One jeering smile would be sufficient to destroy that presence of mind necessary for a sudden and uninterrupted composition:  your audience must become animated with you, and inspire you with their applause.”

“But madam,” said Oswald at last, who till then had kept silence without having for a moment ceased to behold Corinne, “to which of your poetical talents do you yourself give the preference?  To the work of inflection, or of momentary inspiration?” “My lord,” answered Corinne, with a look that expressed the highest interest and the most delicate sentiment of respectful consideration, “it is you that I would wish to make the judge of that; but if you ask me to examine my own thoughts upon this subject, I would say that improvisation is to me as an animated conversation.  I do not confine myself