POPE

FOR many months Mary was doomed to experience all the vicissitudes of hope and fear, as she heard of battles and sieges in which her lover had a part.  He omitted no opportunity of writing to her; but scarcely had she received the assurance of his safety from himself when her apprehensions were again excited by rumours of fresh dangers he would have to encounter; and it required all her pious confidence and strength of mind to save her from yielding to the despondency of a naturally sensitive heart.  But in administering to the happiness of others she found the surest alleviation to the misfortune that threatened herself; and she often forgot her own cares in her benevolent exertions for the poor, the sick, and the desolate.  It was then she felt all the tenderness of that divine precept which enjoins love of the Creator as the engrossing principle of the soul.  For, oh! the unutterable anguish that heart must endure which lavishes all its best affections on a creature mutable and perishable as itself, from whom a thousand accidents may separate or estrange it, and from whom death must one day divide it!  Yet there is something so amiable, so exalting, in the fervour of a pure and generous attachment, that few have been able to resist its overwhelming influence; and it is only time and suffering that can teach us to comprehend the miseries that wait on the excess, even of our virtuous inclinations, where these virtues aspire not beyond this transitory scene.

Mary seldom heard from her mother or sister.  Their time was too precious to be wasted on dull country correspondents; but she saw their names frequently mentioned in the newspapers, and she flattered herself, from the eclat with whioh the Duchess seemed to be attended, that she had found happiness in those pleasures where she had been taught to expect it.  The Duchess was indeed surrounded with all that rank, wealth, and fashion could bestow.  She had the finest house, jewels, and equipages in London, but she was not happy.  She felt the draught bitter, even though the goblet that held it was of gold.  It is novelty only that can lend charms to things in themselves valueless; and when that wears off, the disenchanted baubles appear in all their native worthlessness.  There is even a satiety in the free indulgence of wealth, when that indulgence centres solely in self, and brings no general self-approving reflections along with it.  So it was with the Duchess of Altamont.  She sought, in the gratification of every expensive whim, to stimulate the languid sense of joy; and, by loading herself with jewels, she strove to still the restless inquietude of a dissatisfied heart.  But it is only the vulgar mind which can long find enjoyment in the mere attributes of wealth—­in the contemplation of silk hangings, and gilded chairs, and splendid dresses, and showy equipages.  Amidst all these the mind of any taste or refinement, “distrusting, asks if this be joy.”  And Adelaide possessed