It had one good effect; it summoned reason to my aid; and I asked
myself: Why was I not like him, with a soul incapable of sorrow? What
was there to cause me the agony I was enduring? I was young, and in
good health: why was I not happy? Because my mother had gone mad with
grief for the death of a wicked man? Surely that could be no cause for
the misery I myself suffered, or should not have been to a person of
proper sense? My mother had been guilty of folly, and was reaping its
reward. Why should I allow myself to be punished also? It could not
aid her: why should I give way to it?
"But your sister is also in sorrow," whispered some demon into the ear
of my spirit, "and how can you be happy?"
"So are thousands of others in sorrow, and ever will be," answered
reason. "Let those be happy who can. The fool who makes himself
wretched because others are, will ever meet misery, and ever deserve
it."
Selfish reason counselled in vain: for care had mounted my soul, and
could not be cast off.
Volume Two, Chapter XVIII.