By contemplation, however, of noble works of art, it appeared to me frequently that the enigma of my inner self became clear to me.

When I observed the antique vestal, so calm, so assured, and yet so gentle--when I saw how she stood, self-possessed, firm, and serene--I had a foretaste of the life which I needed, and sought after, both outwardly and inwardly, and I wept tears of melancholy longing.
Tortured by the distorted circumstances (many of which I have not mentioned) under which I moved in my own family connexion, I began, as years advanced, to come in contact with the world in a manner which, for a temper like mine, was particularly dangerous.
We have heard of the daughters of the Husgafvel family, who grew old yawning over the spinning-wheel and the weaving-stool; but, better so to grow old, yes, better a thousand times to grow grey over the spinning-wheel and the ashes of the cooking-stove, than with artificial flowers--oh, how artificial!--in the hair, on the benches of the ball-room, or the seat of the supper-room, smiling over the world, which smiles over us no longer.

This was the case with me.
There are mild, unpretending beings, who bow themselves quietly under the yoke which they cannot break; move, year after year, through the social circle, without any other object than to fill a place there--to ornament or to disfigure a wall.

Peace to such patient souls! There, too, are joyous, fresh, ever youthful natures, who, even to old age, and under all circumstances, bring with them cheerfulness and new life into every circle in which they move.

These belong to social life, and are its blessings.