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Rh Lady Mandeville evidently had no intention of being either consoling or confidential. She longed, yet dreaded, to be by herself—she felt as if another minute, and the throbbing head and beating heart could be subdued no longer. She left the room quiet and smiling. "Thank God!" exclaimed she, as she found herself in her own chamber, "I am alone." The proof that keen feelings are incompatible with happiness is shown in the fact, that the young commit suicide, the old never. The old have outlived that mental world we so misname in calling it a world of enjoyment;—they have outlived the feverish dreams which waste those keen hopes—the pelicans of the heart, feeding on the life-blood of their parent;—they have now no part in the excitement of success, whether in its desire or disappointment. Delicate food, the card-table, money, are the delights of old age; and do we, then, become content in proportion as our contentment becomes of "the earth, earthy?" Are the feelings that redeem, the aspirations that dignify our nature, only like the ancient tyrant's machine of torture, which, under the semblance of beauty, stabbed the bosom which clung to it? Who is there that has not, at some period or other, paused,