CHAPTER XII.
LADY MARCHMONT'S JOURNAL.
Tis strange to think, if we could fling aside
The mask and mantle many wear from pride,
How much would be, we now so little guess,
Deep in each heart's undreamed, unsought recess!
The careless smile, like a bright banner borne:
The laughlike merriment; the lip of scorn;
And for a cloak, what is there that can be
So difficult to pierce as gaiety?
Too dazzling to be scanned, the gloomy brow
Seems to hide something it would not avow;
But mocking words, light laugh, and ready jest,
These are the bars, the curtains to the breast.
Of all habits, that of writing down your thoughts and feelings, is one of the most difficult to abandon. Henrietta soon found a terrible vacuum left, by the letters in which she used to pour forth every feeling and thought
