"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 to any particular subject, I yield entirely to the impression produced on me by the attention of my hearers, and it is to my friends, in this instance, that I owe the greatest part of my talent. Sometimes the impassioned interest with which I am inspired by a conversation in which we have spoken of some great and noble question that relates to the moral existence of man, his destiny, his end, his duties and his affections; sometimes this interest elevates me above my strength, makes me discover in nature, in my own heart, bold truths, expressions full of life, that solitary reflection would not have given birth to. I then believe myself acted upon by a supernatural enthusiasm, and feel that what is speaking within me is greater than myself. Often I quit the rhythm of poetry to express my thoughts in prose; sometimes I quote the finest verses of the different languages I am acquainted with. These divine verses, with which my soul is penetrated, have become my own. Sometimes also I finish upon my lyre by chords, by simple and national airs, the sentiments and thoughts which have escaped me in speaking. In a word, I feel myself a poet, not only when a happy choice of rhymes and harmonious syllables, or a happy combination of images dazzles my auditors, but when my soul is elevated to the highest degree and looks down with contempt upon every thing that is selfish and base: in short, when a noble action appears most easy to me, it is then that my poetry is in its greatest perfection. I am a poet when I admire, when I despise, when I hate, not from personal feeling, not on my own account, but for the dignity of human nature and the glory of the world." Corinne then perceiving how the conversation had carried her away, blushed a little, and turning towards Lord Nelville said to him, "you see, my lord, I cannot touch upon any of those subjects that affect me without experiencing that sort of shock which is the source of ideal beauty in the arts, of religion in solitary minds, of generosity in heroes, and of disinterestedness among men. Pardon me, my lord, although such a woman resemble but little those whom your nation approves." "Who could resemble you?" replied Lord Nelville; "can we make laws for one who is without her like?"