That life is but a dream is the opinion of many; it is mine. When I see
the narrow limits which confine the penetrating, active genius of man;
when I see that all his powers are directed to satisfy mere necessities,
the only end of which is to prolong a precarious or painful existence;
that his greatest care, with regard to certain inquiries, is but a blind
resignation; and that we only amuse ourselves with painting brilliant
figures and smiling landscapes on the walls of our prison, whilst we see
on all sides the boundary which confines us; when I consider these
things I am silent: I examine myself; and what do I find? Alas! more
vague desires, presages, and visions, than conviction, truth, and
reality.
The happiest are those, who, like children, think not of the morrow,
amuse themselves with playthings, dress and undress their dolls, watch
with great respect before the cupboard where mamma keeps the sweetmeats,
and when they get any, eat them directly, and cry for more; these are
certainly happy beings. Many also are to be envied, who dignify their
paltry employments, sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles;
and who represent themselves to mankind as beings of a superior order,
whose occupation it is to promote their welfare and glory. But the man
who in all humility acknowledges the vanity of these things; observes
with what pleasure the wealthy citizen transforms his little garden into
a paradise; with what patience the poor man bears his burden; and that
all wish equally to behold the sun yet a little longer; he too may be at
peace. He creates a world of his own, is happy also because he is a man;
and, however limited his sphere, he preserves in his bosom the idea of
liberty.
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