lead, worth? Nothing! I cannot sail monotonously down the
stream--the more I _think_, and thought devours me, the more
discontented do I become with everything I see. 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. Yet after I
have endeavoured to lighten the oppressive cares of some
unfortunate creature, a sort of peace has for a time descended upon
me, which has been infinitely soothing. It soon departs, and my
usual bitterness again sways me. I sought for friendship, and for
awhile I was relieved, but I cannot forbear glancing down into the
motives of my fellow men, and that involuntarily-searching spirit
has proved unfortunate to me. I met with selfishness in the form of
attachment, and then I turned to look upon the hollow heart of
society, and it was there."

"Alfred, you make me sad," said the old man, in a solemn and deeply
pained voice. "This is the first time I knew that your heart was
such a temple of bitterness."

"If I have saddened you, I wish I had not spoken: but the thoughts
rushed over me, your kind heart is always open, and I gave them
expression. You have lived long, and there is more sympathy in your
experience, than in the laughing jest of those near my own age.
Pardon me, grandfather, I will not pain you again!" Alfred turned
his eyes upon his aged friend; he c