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How often, in this cold and bitter world, Is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; We wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness: Harsh-judging, narrow-minded, stern and chill In measuring every action but our own. How small are some men's motives, and how mean! There are who never knew one generous thought; Whose heart-pulse never quickened with the joy Of kind endeavour, or sweet sympathy— There are too many such!

is rather alarming, in a conjugal tête-à-tête, when your husband tells you he only comes to complain of your conduct, and Lord Marchmont's severity of aspect was quite awful; however, Henrietta only gave him a look of inquiry, and he went on:— "It was full three days ago that I told you how I hated the sight of black, yet you