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strength, for the hidden soul knows there is that within which parts it from its kind, and perhaps triumphs even in such agonising consciousness. With such the spirits often seem buoyant without a cause—often too gay for the occasion. The truth is, that society is to them as a theatre; and what actor is there who does not occasionally over act his part? Few ever penetrate their dark and weary seclusion, for few ever look beyond the surface, unless actuated by some hope, fear, or love of their own, and then their feelings blind their judgment. Such motives turn all objects into mirrors, which reflect some likeness, even if distorted, of themselves. We conjecture, question, desire, anticipate—do everything but observe. And slight, indeed, are the tokens by which the seared heart betrays itself. But it has its signs; there is that real disregard of the pleasures in which it shares, half as a disguise, half to avoid the trouble of importunity. But the eye, however trained to attention, will wander; the set smile becomes absent—weariness is pleaded as an excuse—and lassitude serves as the cloak to indifference. Moreover, though almost unconsciously, the words have a biting and shrewd turn—the opinions are either harsh or given with undue levity—contradiction is almost