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“Impossible–impossible!” interrupted Alfred, hastily, “I defy any person to turn from himself, and look upon the world with a more interested gaze than he casts upon his own heart. One may be philanthropic in his feelings and devoted to alleviating the distresses of less fortunate beings, but I hold it to be impossible that our individual selves will not always be first in interest. A sudden and powerful impulse may carry us away for a time, but after that rushing influence leaves us, we see yourselves again, and, find that we had only lost our equilibrium briefly. I say only what I sincerely think, and what thousands secretly know to be the case, even while advocating views quite opposite. There is no candour in the world!”

“Softly, my good friend,” said the grandfather, mildly smiling. “I also hold it to be impossible that we can lose either our individuality or our interest in ourselves, but I believe it possible that we may love others just as well, if not better than ourselves. I do not refer to one or two particular persons whom we may admire, but I speak of the mass of our fellow-creatures.”

“I cannot even conceive of such a love!” returned the young man, shaking his head. “I cannot see how I could love a person who possesses no attractive qualities whatever;–I always feel indifference, if not dislike. I think I could sacrifice my life to one I loved, if thrown into sudden and imminent danger; still, I think I might give pain to that same person many times, by gratifying myself. For instance, grandfather,–suppose you were to be led to the stake, to be burned to-morrow,–I would take your place to save you; yet I do not now do all I possible can, to add to your happiness. I gratify whims of my own; I idle away hours in the woods, or by some stream, when I fully know that it would be more pleasing to you, to see me bending patiently over my Greek and Latin.”

“Very true!” sighed the old man. “You prove your own position, which is that your ruling love is self-love.”

Alfred lifted up his eyebrows, as if he had heard an unwelcome fact. We are often willing to confess things, which we do not like to have old us. He fell into deep thought. Finally he said, “It is universally allowed that virtue is lovely; those who practise it, appear calm and resigned, and often happy–but, to tell the truth, such enjoyment seems rather tame and flat. I wish to be in freedom, to let my burning impulses rush on as they will, without a yoke. I love, and I hate, as my heart bids me, and I scorn control of any kind.”

“Yet you submit to a yoke, my son; one which is not of your own imposing either.”

“What kind of a yoke?”

“The yoke of society,–you bow to public opinion in a measure. You avoid a glaring act, often, more because it will not be approved, than because you have a real disinclination for it. Is not that the case sometimes?”

Alfred did not exceedingly relish this probing, but he was too candid to cover up his motives from himself. He answered a decided “yes!” but it was spoken, because he could not elbow himself out of the self-evident conviction forced upon him.

“Do you think it degrading for a man to conquer and govern the strongest, as well as the weakest impulses of his soul?” pursued his grandfather.

“Certainly not degrading,–it is in the highest degree worthy of praise. It is truly noble! I acknowledge it.”

“And yet you deem such enjoyment as would result from this government, tame and flat.”

“I beg pardon; when I spoke of virtue, I referred to that smooth kind which is current, and seems more passive than active,–that soft amiability which appears to deaden enthusiasm, and to shut up the soul in a set of opinions, instead of expanding it widely to everything noble and generous, wherever it may be found.”