should wish one hour to succeed another, since not one of them could bring her aught, save restless nights and despairing days. One evening, she was informed that a female was earnestly requesting to see her: she consented; and the woman entered her presence dressed in black, and veiled, to conceal, as much as possible, a face deformed by the most frightful malady. Thus wronged by nature, she consoled herself by collecting alms for the poor; demanding them nobly, and with an affecting confidence of success. Corinne gave her a large sum, entreating her prayers in return. The poor being, resigned to her own fate, was astonished to behold a person so lovely, young, rich, and celebrated, a prey to sorrow. "My God, madame," she cried, "I would you were as calm as I!" What an address from such an object to the most brilliant woman in Italy! Alas! the power of love is too vast in souls like hers. Happy are they who consecrate to Heaven the sentiments no earthly ties can merit. That time was not yet come for poor Corinne; she still deceived herself, still sought for bliss; she prayed, indeed, but not submissively. Her peerless talents, the glory they had won, gave her too great an interest in herself. It is only by detaching our hearts from all the world that we can renounce the thing we love. Every other sacrifice must precede this: life may be long a desert ere the fire that made it so is quenched. At last, in the midst of this sad indecision, Corinne received a letter from Oswald, telling her that his regiment would embark in six weeks, and that, as its colonel, he could not profit by this delay to visit Venice without injuring his reputation. There was but just time for Corinne to reach England, ere he must leave it, perhaps forever. This thought decided her; she was not ignorant of her own rashness; she judged herself more severely than any one else could. Pity her, then! What woman has a right to "cast the first stone" at the unfortunate sister, who justifies not her fault, hopes for no pleasure, but flies from one misfortune to another, as if driven on by persecuting spirits? Her letter to Castel Forte thus concludes: "Adieu, my faithful protector! Adieu, my friends in Rome! with whom I passed such joyous, easy days. It is done--all is over. Fate has stricken me. I feel the wound is mortal. I struggle still, but soon shall fall. I must see _him_ again. I am not answerable for myself. A storm is in my breast such as I cannot govern; but I draw near the term at which all will cease. This is the last act of my history: it will end in penitence and death. Oh, wild confusion of the human heart! Even now, while I am obeying the will of passion, I see the shades of evening in the distance, I hear a voice divine that whispers me: 'Still these fond agitations, hapless wretch! the abode of endless rest awaits thee.' O God! grant me the presence of mine Oswald once more, but one last moment! The very memory of his features now is