directly; but when compared with our present improved condition, it gives rise to pleasure. Reflection on years gone by is itself, however, of a melancholy nature, whether years of joy or of woe; for thus we are made aware that our earthly career is shortened, and that death is drawing near. So long as life goes on nearly in the same routine, we are scarcely sensible of the lapse of time, but when any sudden and remarkable change takes place, we instantly perceive that the past is really gone, and are afflicted accordingly. This painful feeling may arise, even though the event be itself of a joyful nature A visit to a favoured spot which we have not seen for years generally causes some melancholy, though the place seem as beautiful as ever; and even a great and happy event, such as marriage, or some high advancement, brings a dash of pain along with it, for our life seems now cut in two, and the present and future irrevocably severed from the past. We bid adieu to it as a friend from whom we separate for ever. And if even a fortunate occurrence often bring some regret, how much more a calamitous! We cannot doubt that a part of the grief which we feel on the death of friends arises from its forcibly suggesting the lapse of time, and the certainty of our own dissolution. There is but one reflection which can mitigate this sorrow for the past,-reflection on works performed.5 5 How natural and how instructive is the speech of Arviragus to Belarius! "What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we shall hear Thus, the impressions of the past are necessarily of a mixed nature, but rather inclining to melancholy, while anticipations of the future may be more purely delightful. Moreover, as the past is limited and unchangeable, and so gives us nothing to do, it therefore less fills the mind, and being perfectly known to us, it leaves no scope for the imagination; whereas, the future is a boundless and undiscovered country to be improved by our own assiduity. Hence this is the grand, the permanent object of human thought and emotion. But emotion which looks forward must be either desire or fear, one or other of which can occupy the mind more than aught beside; and as the former prevails over the latter, so, in a great degree, will be the sum of our happiness. Our experience of different characters confirms the above remarks, for are not the melancholy prone to look back, the gay and cheerful forward? This shows that the past has some connection with melancholy, the future with cheerfulness. The natural turn of mind inclines to these different views, and these views increasing the natural bent, they are dwelt upon accordingly. The rain and wind beat dark December, how, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you, That have a sharper known; well corresponding A cell of ignorance." Cymbeline, Act iii. Sc. 3. From what has been said above, we may learn the hollowness of the Epicurean maxim, “Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die;" for the above principles inform us that man cannot expel pain but by means of some better occupation, that neither the present nor the past can occupy him fully and agreeably, and therefore that he cannot enjoy to the utmost what the time being really affords, unless he have something beyond on which desire may rest. In vain would philosophers attempt to dissuade men from thinking of the future, for in so doing they go contrary to human nature; but if they could succeed, ennui or other ills would fill up the vacant mind. It would be easy to multiply instances of the above principles; but without entering more into detail, enough has probably been said to prove their comprehensiveness, and to enable the reader to apply them on fit occasions. 313 CHAPTER II. ON ACTIVITY. LOSELY connected with the above principle is CL that of Activity. If a leading desire be necessary to occupy us fully and agreeably, so likewise is activity; and moreover it is only by means of activity that a leading desire can agreeably fill the mind. Now, a strong desire generally produces activity, but not necessarily nor universally. He who has a stake in the lottery may eagerly desire a prize, but he can do nothing to obtain his object. The luckless traveller who is mounted on a lazy mule, endeavours at first to urge it to a quicker pace, but when the whip is of no avail, he must at last give up the contest, though he ardently wish to arrive at his journey's end. So, we may long for fine weather, but as we cannot change it, we remain inactive. A desire even of this sort may engage and amuse the mind not a little; but, not leading to action, it is too apt to terminate in that uneasy restless state called impatience, in which our eagerness for the future renders us discontented with the present. Here the desire, having no vent, feeds upon the mind too much, but when it gives birth to action, the ultimate object is occasionally lost sight of in the hurry and bustle of the pursuit. The former emotion may be compared to a fire of charcoal that corrupts the air, the other to the cheerful blaze which renews and purifies the atmosphere. As there are two kinds of desire, the active and the inactive, so are there two kinds of Hope. Having already analysed this state of mind, and in part shown how it acts as an element of human happiness, it only remains to observe that much of the effect commonly attributed to hope, is in reality due to the activity which it sets in motion. Hope alone is seldom sufficient agreeably to fill the mind, and when too long deferred, as Solomon saith, "It maketh the heart sick;" but when it gives rise to activity, it then is truly delightful. Activity, within certain bounds, is not only agreeable in itself, but is necessary to give a zest to all other enjoyments; while the languor which attends its absence is not merely itself unpleasant, but deadens the relish of every passing amusement. That activity is a real source of enjoyment is evident from the fact that the more active is any pursuit, the longer does it please; and that too, whether the end be great or small, frivolous or important. Objects the most insignificant may be followed up from year to year with unabated ardour, provided the chase be one of movement and difficulty. What proportion between the toil and danger of a fox-hunt and the petty prey in view? Here, it is evident, the pursuit is almost every thing, and it must be very agreeable, or it would not be undertaken for so very trifling an object. A steeple-chase is a still more remarkable instance, for here there appears hardly to be an object at all. The same observation applies to most kinds of sport. And be it remarked that in spite of the frivolity of the end, these pursuits often please to |