A book must always resemble, more or less, its author.  It is the mind, or at least a portion of it, of the individual; and, however circumstances may operate on it, the natural quality must always prevail and peep forth in spite of every effort to conceal it.

Living much in society seldom fails to deteriorate the force and originality of superior minds; because, though unconsciously, the persons who possess them are prone to fall into the habits of thought of those with whom they pass a considerable portion of their time, and suffer themselves to degenerate into taking an interest in puerilities on which, in the privacy of their study, they would not bestow a single thought.  Hence, we are sometimes shocked at observing glaring inconsistencies in the works of writers, and find it difficult to imagine that the grave reflection which pervades some of the pages can emanate from the same mind that dictated the puerilities abounding in others.  The author’s profound thoughts were his own, the puerilities were the result of the friction of his mind with inferior ones:  at least this is my theory, and, as it is a charitable one, I like to indulge it.

A pleasant party at dinner yesterday.  Mr. W. Spencer, the poet, was among the guests, He was much more like the William Spencer of former days than when he dined here before, and was occasionally brilliant, though at intervals he relapsed into moodiness.  He told some good stories of John Kemble, and told them well; but it seemed an effort to him; and, while the listeners were still smiling at his excellent imitation of the great tragedian, he sank back in his chair with an air of utter abstraction.

I looked at him, and almost shuddered at marking the “change that had come o’er the spirit of his dream;” for whether the story touched a chord that awakened some painful reflection in his memory, or that the telling it had exhausted him, I know not, but his countenance for some minutes assumed a careworn and haggard expression, and he then glanced around at the guests with an air of surprise, like one awakened from slumber.

It is astonishing how little people observe each other in society!  This inattention, originating in a good breeding that proscribes personal observation, has degenerated into something that approaches very nearly to total indifference, and I am persuaded that a man might die at table seated between two others without their being aware of it, until he dropped from his chair.

Civilization has its disadvantages as well as its advantages, and I think the consciousness that one might expire between one’s neighbours at table without their noticing it, is hardly atoned for by knowing that they will not stare one out of countenance.  I often think, as I look around at a large dinner-party, how few present have the slightest knowledge of what is passing in the minds of the others.  The smile worn on many a face may be assumed to conceal a sadness which those who feel it are but too well aware would meet with little sympathy, for one of the effects of modern civilization is the disregard for the cares of others, which it engenders.