"There is a grief which may darken a whole life, shut up the heart from every influence but its own, remain unchanged through every change of various fortune, flinging its own shadow over all that is fair, its own bitterness into all that is sweet; but that grief is the silent and the secret — it goes abroad with a smooth brow and a smiling lip — it knows not the relief of tears, and words it disdains. None have fathomed its depths, for its existence is denied; pride is mingled with its 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 guy 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 habitual — and the feelings, denied the resource of sympathy, take refuge in sarcasm."