How many hearts are there in similar situations, whose gangrene wounds are festering at the core while the mask of pleasure is painted on the face! But there are few persons in the world who know us sufficiently, or think of us enough, to detect the assumed disguise; and thus the wretched are numbered with the happy. Some few, however, there are, who, mingling in this cheating crowd, have yet their hopes and hearts anchored in a far different sphere, and pass through the infected mass, themselves unspotted, like Milton's personification of Purity amid the crew of Comus. These, with deep commiseration of spirit, penetrate the paint and varnish of deceptive pleasure, and, shuddering, see what waste they make of life who never look beyond it--losing, for its shadow, the sum and substance of true happiness. But _such as these_ were not to be found in the circle in which Lord Albert moved. He had often, since his _entrainement_ in that delusive scheme of existence in which he was involved, exclaimed, "I was not made for this!" The nobler, truer purposes of existence were still the inmates of his breast, but they were under a spell which he had no power to break: they were dead letter, and were in peril of becoming obsolete. In this state of moral danger, had he confided to Lord Glenmore's ear the contradictory feelings by which he was alternately swayed, in him Lord Albert would have found a true friend; for he was not one of the many who pass by exultingly, in the ride, or indifference, or selfishness of their nature, and say, "You, too, are happy," careless of the reality, so long as the sunshine of their own amusement is not darkened by the sorrow they see another wear. No: Lord Glenmore would have not only commiserated, but counselled; not only counselled, but aided. Alas! we may suspect, that when we shrink from confiding our sorrows to a friend whom we know to be good and true, we are ourselves under some fatal delusion.