wept for vain hopes, for regret, but for shame more than all. Shame is the worst pang of unrequited affection. Heavens! to be forced to ask ourselves what right we had to love.
One of our most celebrated authors (a lady, by the question,) once asked, how is it that women in the utmost depths of grief never forget to curl their hair?—Vanity was the cause assigned; but I say, shame. We shrink from shewing outward sign of sorrow, if that sorrow be in aught connected with the feelings; and the reason of this must be sought in some theory of innate ideas not yet discovered.
Emily the next morning appeared with the usual grape-like curls, and her cheek no paler than fatigue might authorise.
"'Ah, the day of my destiny's over,'"
said Lorraine; "and, a fair exchange being no robbery, I quote the next line a little varied,
'The star of my fate is on high.'
Listen to the importance of yesterday:—'Yesterday Lady Walsingham's splendid villa was thrown open to the fashionable world, which crowded to enjoy all that taste could invent, or luxury supply,—breakfast was laid for two hun-
