"But it is all expended on herself," said Montague. "Her sensibility results in good to no one, for she has no _sympathy_. Her character used to interest me, until I saw it contrasted with one so much more valuable--so much more exalted!--It was you, my dearest wife, who first taught me the strong distinction betwixt _sympathy_ and _sensibility_,--and how utterly useless the latter is, when unaccompanied by the former. With Alice, it is not love for Gordon, but _self-love_ that is the cause of her thus pining. Let some other romantic looking knight appear, and sue for her hand, and her affections would be at once transformed. Should no such one appear, she will by degrees degenerate into a peevish, useless, discontented, burdensome old maid. And the best advice I could give to any young lady of great sensibility, and who would be either useful or happy, is--That she should strive to forget her own sorrows, whether _real_ or _imaginary_, and expend her sympathies on the afflictions and distresses of her fellow-creatures. By so doing, the benevolence of her heart would be constantly expanding, until she would on earth approximate to the character of an angel,--and when the summons came, would drop the garment of mortality, and shine a seraph in eternal day." S. H. There is little merit in the following lines besides that rare merit in poetry, _their truth_. They were written in the place of the writer's nativity, where he had at length settled down, after an absence of thirty years. They were written in a house just purchased, and from which the former owner had not yet removed his family, and were inserted in the Album of his daughter. She was young, beautiful, accomplished, newly married, and wealthy. Though confined to her room by bad health, she was preparing for a voyage to Europe, since happily accomplished. TO ------.