as well as the perfection of education, that places a barrier between different classes of people.  But in Italy this distinction of rank is not very sensible; the country is more characterised by the natural talent and imagination of all, than by the extraordinary cultivation of the upper classes.  There is therefore, pending carnival, a complete confusion of ranks, of manners, and of sentiments:  the crowd, the cries, the wit, and the comfits with which they inundate without distinction the carriages as they pass along, confound every mortal together and set the nation pell-mell, as if social order no longer existed.

Corinne and Lord Nelville, both buried in thought, arrived in the midst of this tumult.  They were at first almost stunned; for nothing appears more singular than this activity of noisy pleasures, when the soul is entirely absorbed in itself.  They stopped at the Piazza del Popolo to ascend the amphitheatre near the obelisk, whence is seen the race course.  At the moment they got out of their calash, the Count d’Erfeuil perceived them and took Oswald aside to speak to him.

“It is not right,” said he, “to show yourself in this public manner, arriving from the country alone with Corinne; you will compromise her character, then what will you do?” “I do not think,” answered Nelville, “that I compromise the character of Corinne by showing the attachment she inspires me with.  But even were that true, I should be too happy if the devotion of my life—­” “As to your being happy,” interrupted the Count, “I do not believe it;” people can only be happy in acting becomingly.  Society, think as you may, has much influence “upon our happiness, and we should never do what it disapproves.”—­“We should then never be guided by our own thoughts and our own feelings, but live entirely for society,” replied Oswald.  “If it be so, if we are constantly to imitate one another, to what purpose was a soul and an understanding given to each?  Providence might have spared this superfluity.”—­“That is very well said,” replied the Count, “very philosophically thought; but people ruin themselves by these kind of maxims, and when love is gone, the censure of opinion remains.  I, who appear to possess levity, would never do any thing to draw upon me the disapprobation of the world.  We may indulge in trifling liberties, in agreeable pleasantries which announce an independent manner of thinking, provided we do not carry it into action; for when it becomes serious—­” “But the serious consequences are love and happiness,” answered Lord Nelville.—­“No, no;” interrupted the Count d’Erfeuil, “that is not what I wish to say; there are certain established rules of propriety, which one must not brave, on pain of passing for an eccentric man, a man—­in fact, you understand me—­for a man who is not like others.”—­Lord Nelville smiled, and without being in the least vexed; for he was by no means pained with these remarks; he rallied the Count upon his frivolous severity; he felt with secret