happiness; that our great mistake has been, the narrow circle to which we are content to limit good? Alas! there is a weight upon my spirits; my wings are of wax, they melt in the effort that would seek the heavens. But much of this originates in my own peculiar position: it is a hard one, and a false one!
I love Sir George Kingston; love him with all that is most tender in my feelings, most generous in my thoughts. I could be happy only to know his happiness. Had we met in earlier years, my existence would at once have found its object; there would not have been this perpetual struggle between myself and my circumstances. Too late do I find that affection is woman's only element; to love, to look up, is her destiny; and, if unfulfilled, nothing can supply its place. Life has no real business for her beyond the sweet beating of her own heart dwelling in the shadow of another's. She may crowd her days with gaiety, variety, and what are called amusements; she will do so only to find their insufficiency. She needs the strength of duty,
