At Palermo there is a very numerous, if not good society, made up of shreds and patches of the staple manufacture of all nations, but principally of the English produce. You know, it is my practice to profit, when abroad, by that of whatever country I may happen to be in, as our own is to be had better and at a cheaper rate at home. Impressed with this idea, I procured some introductions to the principal nobility of this enchanting place, where, I understood, there was a delightful native society, and the gentlemanly amusements of drinking and gambling (the only ones to be found at Palermo and Messina) were nearly superseded by those afforded by music, dancing, and literary conversation. I have not been disappointed; and if you should ever come to Sicily, I advise you to take up your abode here, and I will introduce you to all my acquaintance, with _one_ exception. About four months ago, I found myself, one evening, at the Marchese Di Rosalba's, listening to some exquisite music: I was as melancholy as a poet in love, for "I am never merry when I hear sweet music;" when my eyes happened to rest on a lady, whose image will never leave my mind. From the looks of the gentleman who accompanied her, I soon discovered that the fair creature, who rested on his arm, was his daughter. In his face was a strangely mingled expression of habitual care, and present pleasure; his forehead was furrowed in a thousand wrinkles, and the feverish glare of his eye spoke a mind ill at ease: but when he turned to his daughter, to point out to her notice, in the tacit language of the eye, any beautiful passage in the music, he looked like a saint raised from his penance by a vision of celestial nature. Her countenance formed the most perfect contrast to his; it was the abode of peace, which seemed to repose in her eye; her whole outline of face and form was so perfect, that a sculptor might have taken her as a model for the statue that Pygmalion worshipped; and, like him, I longed to see the beauteous image waken to incipient thought--I was not long ungratified--its apparent absence was only the effect of the music, which, to use her own expression "_fait tout rÍver et ne rien penser_." When she joined in conversation her ever varying countenance resembled a mirror, which transmits to our eye every passing image, (though the polished surface is itself unmasked by any), and, like it, owing its animation to the strong reflecting power gained from within. I could not decide then, and I cannot tell you even now, whether I most admire the angelic placidity of her countenance when silent, or its luminous brilliancy, when her ideas and feelings are called forth in interesting conversation. At such moments the brightness