Why is an
overpowering desire for happiness planted within the human breast,
if it is so very rarely to be gratified? My childhood was sometimes
gay, but as often, it was clouded by disappointments which are great
to children. I have never seen even the moment, since I have been
old enough to reflect, when I could say that I was as happy as I was
capable of being. I have even felt the consciousness that my soul's
depths were not filled to the brim with joy. I could always ask for
more. In my happiest hours, the eager question rushes upon me,
involuntarily, 'Am I entirely content?' And the response that rises
up, is ever 'No.' I am young, and this soft air steals over a brow
of health--I can appreciate the beautiful and exquisite. I can drink
in the deep poetry of noble minds--I can idly revel in voluptuous
music, and dream away my soul, but with that bewitching dream, there
is still a yearning for its realization. I cannot abate the
restlessness that presses upon me--I look around, and young faces
are bright and smiling with cheerful gayety. I endeavour to catch
the buoyant spirit, but I succeed rarely,--if I do, it floats on the
surface, leaving the under-current unbroken in its flow.
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