Tombstone weekly epitaph., 1882-09-16
HAPPINESS.

serve how much happiness is talked Of and how little it is understood. Ail are in pursuit of it, but every one is flying in a different direction after it. Every one wants it-every one longs for it. Still no one has caught it yet. Each thinks he dis covers it in others, and wonders why he cannot gain it himself. They try to follow the very same course; still 1t eludes them, and they begin to think it is myth. A myth! how many hopeless souls have come to that conclusion. They have pursued happiness, and like a "will O the wisp," or a "Jack O lantern" 1t has led them astray or escaped them al- together. But life is made up of such disappointments. We have them to bear, and those who bear them the most meekly and with the least murmuring, are most surely the ones to meet with their reward. If you bear the cross you will most surely win the crown. The truth is, shere is no such thing as perfect and unadulterated happiness. Human life forbids it. There Is always some- thing in the past that forbids it, or else there is something in the future that we look to longingly and fever ishly, and yet doubt that we will ever attain it. So altogether human hap piness is very doubtful and uncer- tain thing. We think when we are young that life is full of pleasure, but it is not pleasure, really. We might with as much req son expectsthe world to be carpeted with flowers, one continuous carpet of lovely flowers, or the sky one broad, unbroken sheet of light, so that the long length of years which constitute an existence should be ceaselessly swe etened with joy. But no, the flowers bloom on an earth varied with deserts, and rocks, and gloomy caves. The stars sparkle and scintillate in shadowy sky, chequered with clouds and often rent with storms, and all our delights only serve to relieve that consciousness of being, in which pain and pleasure, hope and fear, love and hatred, are mingled most strangely together. We, who are the most interested act ors in the drama of life, are too much occupied in the contemplation of our own fates, to observe, or at least, to be much amused by the gro- tesque appearance or attitudes of those around us. But could we be disentangled from the tolls of inter- est, freed from the intoxicating inhu- ence of hope and the weakening dis ease of fear, thousand Judi crous incidents would solicit our attention. If, as some of the ancient philosophers contend, there are spirits whose amusement it is to watch the ways of the world, they must find in the various mel dents of human life, in the fruitless endeavors to render earth and heav- on, and the sometimes successful ef- forts to impart to it resemblance to different place, an exhaustless oource of delight, though not unmix. ed with sorrow. As it is with happi- ness, so it is with honor. Something that all men talk about, but few un- derstand.
 Perhaps it IS even less substantial and distinct than even happiness it. self. All of us enjoy happiness at times which, though feeting, sheds the magic of memory over the past and the future, that none of us would willingly forego. We all think lov- inglY of the pleasures we have had in the past, and would not be with cut those memories for all this world could give.
 A great writer has said that we do not sec the things as they really are that we judge things superfcially. The farmer supposes that the city must be the dwelling place of happi- ness, because there he sees magniG- cent houses elegantly furnished, people handsomely dressed, he hears beautiful music, and he thinks these people must be happy. On the con- trary, the denizens of the city envy those who live outside of the city's