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 closely, that the very atmosphere of life is darkened by these gathering clouds.

But this, it may again be urged, is an exaggerated picture, sketched by a poet's fancy, and shadowed by a poet's morbid feeling.

The wisest of men who had experimentally tried every possible source of gratification, and that, too, in the highest degree and widest latitude, turned from all, to record his conviction, attested by the seal of inspired truth—"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity!"

Ask the votary of Pleasure if he be happy? He will confess he is weary—weary of himself, and weary of the time that must elapse between one scene of excitement and another;—and then weary of the very scene for which he had craved.

Ask the Prosperous man if he be happy? He will tell you of anxious nights and toilsome days,—of ever-growing restlessness, and of ever-increasing dissatisfaction.

Ascend a step higher, and ask the individuals to whom Affection has become a world,—who have made one fellow-being the lode-star, the centre of their soul,—if they be happy? They will turn pale, as they tell you of the fear of separation, of the dread of losing the object who has become as the very life of their life.

Or go on to the lofty Intellectual natures who hold alone dominion far above their kind,—who would fain believe, and make others believe, that their imaginings and pursuits are self-sufficing,—if they be happy? Appeal to such an one,—not in the regal hour of inspiration, when his spirit evokes to minister around its throne all lovely and glorious forms,—not in the hour of gentler musing, when his whole being seems like a surgeless lake in its rich and radiant repose,—not when he is enchanted