A susceptibility to delicate attentions, a fine sense of the nameless and exquisite tenderness of manner and thought, constitute in the minds of its possessors the deepest under current of life: the felt and treasured, but unseen and inexpressible richness of affection. It is rarely found in the characters of men, but it outweighs, when it is, all grosser qualities. There are many who waste and lose affections by careless and, often, unconscious neglect. It is not a plant to grow untended; the breath of indifference, or rude touch, may destroy for ever its delicate texture. There is a daily attention to the slight courtesies of life, which can alone preserve the first freshness of passion. The easy surprises of pleasure, earnest cheerfulness of assent to slight wishes, the habitual respect to opinions, the polite abstinence from personal topics in the company of others, unwavering attention to his and her comfort, both abroad and at home, and above all, the careful preservation of those proprieties of conversation and manner which are sacred when before the world, are some of the secrets of that rare happiness which age and habit alike fail to impair or diminish. ❦ [Sidenote: The Pelhams.] John de Pelham, knighted by Edward III. was the person who first laid hold of the French King’s belt, when he surrendered at the battle of Poictiers; and it is from that circumstance the descendants of Sir John Pelham, and Dukes of Newcastle, who are lineally so, wear the buckle of a belt as a badge in their armorial bearings. ❦ _A Prayer on the Prospect of Death._ O Thou unknown, Almighty cause Of all my hope and fear! In whose dread presence in an hour Perhaps I must appear! If I have wandered in those paths Of life I ought to shun, As _something_ loudly in my breast Remonstrates I have done, Thou knew’st that thou hast framed me With passions wild and strong, And listening to their winning voice Has often led me wrong. Where human _weakness_ has run short, Or _frailty_ stept aside, Do thou, _All Good_, for such thou art, The shades of darkness hide. Where with _intention_ I have err’d, No other plea I have But _thou art good_, and goodness still Delighteth to forgive. ❦ L’experience du monde brise le cœur, ou, le bronze. ❦ [Sidenote: Whitehall.]