The
most delicate and cherishing attentions were paid her by families
of wealth and distinction. She was led into society, and they
tried by all kinds of occupation and amusement to dissipate her
grief, and wean her from the tragical story of her loves. But it
was all in vain. There are some strokes of calamity that scathe
and scorch the soul--which penetrate to the vital seat of
happiness--and blast it, never again to put forth bud or blossom.
She never objected to frequent the haunts of pleasure, but was as
much alone there as in the depths of solitude; walking about in a
sad revery, apparently unconscious of the world around her. She
carried with her an inward woe that mocked at all the
blandishments of friendship, and "heeded not the song of the
charmer, charm he never so wisely."
The person who told me her story had seen her at a masquerade.
There can be no exhibition of far-gone wretchedness more striking
and painful than to meet it in such a scene. To find it wandering
like a spectre, lonely and joyless, where all around is gay--to
see it dressed out in the trappings of mirth, and looking so wan
and woe-begone, as if it had tried in vain to cheat the poor
heart into momentary forgetfulness of sorrow.
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