Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Sidor ...
<< prev. page << föreg. sida << >> nästa sida >> next page >>
Below is the raw OCR text
from the above scanned image.
Do you see an error? Proofread the page now!
Här nedan syns maskintolkade texten från faksimilbilden ovan.
Ser du något fel? Korrekturläs sidan nu!
This page has never been proofread. / Denna sida har aldrig korrekturlästs.
344 SKETCHES.
she was not, for the road of duty, although it certainly
leads to happiness, as the working-days of the week lead to
the Sabbath, is yet not happiness itself. Ellina was no
longer merry, as formerly ; she felt that something living
and beautiful, which in days gone past was within her, was
gradually becoming buried under the weight of years and
petty cares. She found herself changing sadly. She had
imagined life in general, and her own life in particular,
as something quite different. Sometimes she felt an inde-
scribable longing to weep over herself.
It is thus with a great many women. They feel them-
selves born to conceive life and things in beautiful har-
mony. They believe themselves progressing in knowledge,
in love, in enjoyment of all that is good and beautiful, as
in an elevating metamorphosis. But life’s current comes
and bears them away to barren and desolate regions.
They are spun round by earthly anxieties ; are surrounded
by the trammels of petty cares, of trifles, of mean interests,
and upon these at last they themselves spin. Then life
loses by degrees its beauty, the mind its rosy tint, the, soul
becomes oppressed, their temper soured, and their horizon
becomes narrower and more dim. In some silent hour
perchance they look round now and then; look into their
own soul with melancholy surprise, and exclaim: “ Was
this to be the end of it? Is life nothing else? Was it
for nothing else that I was born?” And they recall the
illusions, the hopes of their youth. “ Dreams!” they say,
and they suppress a sigh, wipe away a tear, and weave
again the daily web, until they have woven their shroud,
and their earthly days are closed.
But such is the fate not only of many women, no, it is
the fate also of a great many men, with warm, rich souls.
At the yard-measure, at the needle, at the weighing-scales,
at the writing desk, under the withering influence of dead
figures from morning to night, they feel themselves gradu-
ally becoming blunted and like a stock; they feel the poesy,
<< prev. page << föreg. sida << >> nästa sida >> next page >>
