ger there; and it would be impossible to collect together the
fragments. Prince Castel-Forte was little accustomed to domestic life:
though possessing a good share of intellect, he did not like the fatigue
of study; the whole day therefore would have been an insufferable weight
to him, if he had not come, morning and evening, to visit Corinne. She
was about to depart--he knew not what to do; however he promised himself
in secret to approach her as a friend, who indulged in no pretensions,
but who was ever at hand to offer his consolation in the moment of
misfortune; such a friend may be sure that his hour will come.

Corinne felt oppressed with melancholy in thus breaking all her former
connections; she had led for some years in Rome a manner of life that
pleased her. She was the centre of attraction to every artist and to
every enlightened man. A perfect independence of ideas and habits gave
many charms to her existence: what was to become of her now? If destined
to the happiness of espousing Oswald, he would take her to England, and
what would she be thought of there; how would she be able to confine
herself to a mode of existence so different from what she had known for
six years past! But these sentiments only passed through her mind, and
her passion for Oswald always obliterated every trace of them. She saw,
she heard him, and only counted the hours by his absence or his
presence. Who can dispute with happiness? Who does not welcome it when
it comes? Corinne was not possessed of much foresight--neither fear nor
hope existed for her; her faith in the future was vague, and in this
respect her imagination did her little good, and much harm.

On the morning of her departure, Prince Castel-Forte visited her, and
said with tears in his eyes: "Will you not return to Rome?" "Oh, _Mon
Dieu_, yes!" replied she, "we shall be back in a month."--"But if you
marry Lord Nelville you must leave Italy!" "Leave Italy!" said Corinne,
with a sigh.--"This country," continued Prince Castel-Forte, "where your
language is spoken, where you are so well known, where you are so warmly
admired, and your friends, Corinne--your friends! Where will you be
beloved as you are here? Where will you find that perfection of the
imagination and the fine arts, so congenial to your soul? Is then our
whole life composed of one sentiment? Is it not language, customs, and
manners, that compose the love of our country; that love which creates
a home sickness