“To me, your life appears to have been dreary, grandfather,” replied his companion.  “I ask for happiness!” After a pause, he added with impetuosity, “If I am not to meet with the ardent happiness I dream of, and desire, I do not care to live.  What is the life which thousands 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 un-fortunate 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 caught the look of kindness upon that honoured face, and it fell warmly, upon his soul.