calamity, the endurance of reproach! The philanthropist exploring the countries of classic story and art, yet but attracted thither, and interested there, by the squalor of the lazaretto, and the rigours of the dungeon: the patriot lifting up his intrepid voice against the tyrant, and hurling defiance at his power, though surrounded by all his courtiers and guards, from the cell and the scaffold: the martyr, meek and unyielding, amid the flames, with not a nerve that shrinks, with not a feature that quivers! This is sublime heroism: daring that shall be celebrated when every sanguinary achievement is forgotten. Fear, in the sense of cowardice, is universally stigmatised. It, as a mental quality, varies little from pusillanimity and irresolution. But, nevertheless, fear may be associated with sensitive delicacy, with much innocence just awaking to the discovery of its danger; it may not only be Falstaff's "better part of valour," but there can be nothing irrational and despicable in keeping the opposite side of the road when a lion is taking its promenade, or in getting as fast as possible out of the way of an earthquake. Fear is only unworthy, when the jeopardy is small, or when the peril is the necessary condition of attempting the great and the good: the man is a fool who does not fear the danger which he cannot, by any combination of auxiliary circumstances, mate and vanquish.

Joy is an emotion which, happily, we have all tasted. When it is constant we call it cheerfulness. An author, whom I have already quoted, shows how it may be redeemed from any disparagement, by pourtraying what he conceives to be its original condition and use. "It was not that which now often usurps its name; that trivial, vanishing, superficial thing, that only gilds the apprehension, and plays upon the surface of the soul. Joy was then a masculine and severe thing; the recreation of the judgment, the jubilee of reason. It was refreshing but composed, like the pleasantness of youth tempered with the gravity of age, or the mirth of a festival managed with the silence of contemplation." Sadness is treated by some wayward sentimentalists as most pleasant; but we must keep to a more sober definition of the term. "The Anatomy of Melancholy”

is certainly very intricate. In the beautiful dialogue of Ulysses with his mother, Anticleia, in Hades, he asks her flitting shade,

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Αμφοτέρω κρυεροιο τεταρπώμεσθα γοοῖο ;"

Andromache is described by the same bard,

(6 Δάκρυσεν γελασασα."

Ossian, too, sings the joy of grief. There is an easing of the mind in all communication. A self-satisfaction is not uncommonly felt in dwelling upon unmerited sorrows.-The whole range of affliction and vexation must be included under this head. But sadness is often nothing more than the depression of thick blood and broken nerve; and because the patient cannot well resist it, he is accounted pensive, poetic, and, all epithets in one, most interesting. He is said to indulge his woe. "chews the cud of bitter fancy."

"In sooth I know not why I am so sad,

It wearics me: you say it wearies you:

But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,

What stuff 't is made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn."

He

What soft

How deep
A most

Then how pale he is! Such a downcast eye! snatches of rhyme has he for Albums and Bazaars! be the sources of his tears! He is a very Werter! interesting man!! But there is a settled sadness which none can mock. It does not feign. It cannot act. It is a wreck, stranded beyond its native element, not even fretted by a billow, but mouldering by internal decay into pieces. The soul preys upon its own vitals, and is self-consumed.

Elation is a common sentiment of the mind, nearly allied to joy, and constituting its exultation. Such is triumph: "I have found it, I have found it!" "Alone I did it!" And the converse to this, though not its perfect, is pity,-not far estranged from sadness. We, in this passion, make another's woes our own, and, by the force of a sympathetic imagination, enter into his state, and reciprocate his grief. They who have drank most deeply of that cup will most keenly commiserate the

unhappy; and melancholy has a softening influence upon the mind which renders it congenial to pensive images, and suscep tible of bland sensibilities.

Gratitude disclaims any sympathy with a servile and obsequious temper; but while some, from a misapprehension of the social life and its thousand dependencies, appear to think that obligation is intolerable, and the acknowledgment of it degra ding, the truly noble mind never feels a more fervid glow of pleasure than when numbering up the benefits it has received, and the friends to whom it is bound. Gratus, therefore, among the Romans, signified at once thankful and pleasant. How sweet the eye-beam which rests on parent or deliverer! How blessed the fixed rapture of that look on heaven!

Anger is the sudden feeling which is connected with a sense of wrong. It may have nothing more of resentment and ill-will in it than the motion of a muscle or a nerve quivering beneath a stroke. To be angry need not be to sin; yet it, perhaps, will admit of doubt whether anger, however momentary, does not, as we are now affected, involve a wish to retaliate, whether it be not at least the involuntary shooting out of the sting. Anger sustained grows into revenge. When man can call this sweet, not only a single fury possesses him-his name is Legion.

Benevolence clearly advances on the assumption that we are social creatures. Kind thoughts, kind acts, compose it. It were cold and useless as the spring imprisoned in the rock, had it not fellow-men for its objects. Sympathy with inanimate and unreasoning nature is very pretty; but the bulbul, enamoured of the rose and serenading it, far exceeds any thing that we can do to the same purpose. There is an anti-social ruthlessness which has been brought into fashion by some disappointed men, though no mean poets. They attempt to write down their species. Theirs is a cold and poisonous smile, like an adder uncoiling itself. Unfit by affectation, or moody scorn of all, for the intercommunity of whatever is noble and generous in feeling, they whine that their attachment to woods and mountains and stars is too intense to leave room for human fellowship and love. I yield to no man in admiration of Byron; but I sicken when I

see him "the wandering outlaw of his own dark mind," deriding his own nature and race, breathing a misanthropy the most unprovoked, quarrelling with the image his Maker had stamped upon him though the copy of His own. Yet he wishes, in one place, to become the part of a hill; and in another, to mix with "the stars' eternal ray." Surely it is an outrage, not only on the fresh, warm, vigorous feelings of our nature, but on the plainest dictates of reason, when a man of his mighty mind, with its enchanted world of imagination and sweet poesy,-when a man of the rarest gifts that can fall to the share of the earthly creature-can employ such a strain as this:

"O that I were

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,
A living voice, a breathing harmony,
A bodiless enjoyment,-born and dying
With the blest tone that made me."

How far more dignified the man who lives for usefulness, whose gratitude to his Creator-Father is as an ever-warbling song, who displays a "daily beauty in his life;" who is beloved as parent, friend, neighbour, and citizen; who studies the plan of human improvement; whose luxury is in doing good; who asks no other epitaph but the benedictions of his kind. "Goodness and he fill up one monument." Enmity and cruelty are twin-dragons, and differ from anger and revenge, simply as being more gratuitous, the latter passions supposing an occasion of offence,—the former being not only the negations of benevolence, but seeking to find a pretext for their ravin.

Commiseration and congratulation, moving in such different spheres, belong to the same state and temper of mind. The first is more influential than the second, because it is more immediately necessary and beneficial to relieve suffering than to hail pleasure. Withal it is easier to sympathise in another's sorrow than really to rejoice in another's joy. I do believe (whatever it says against our nature) that we are more ready to weep with them who weep than to rejoice with them who rejoice. In the one case, there is scope for ostentatious condescension: in the other, envy may find room. Notwithstanding, true compassion

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is not a stranger to our earth. Thus Thomson, in his Castle of Indolence, describes the effort of the knight :

"This said, his powerful wand he waved anew;
Instant a glorious angel-train descends,

The Charities, to wit, of rosy hue,

Sweet Love their looks a gentle radiance lends,
And with seraphic flame compassion blends.
At once delighted to their charge they fly!

It was a worthy edifying sight,

And gives to human-kind peculiar grace,
To see kind hands attending day and night,

With tender ministry, from place to place."

Contentment is little sung by poets, or lauded by romancers, but it is a sentiment that can never be extolled too highly. Some may call her a common-place character, a close housewife, a milk-maid beauty: yet who can but love her unaffected manner and her never-failing smile? Submission and resignation are worthy of distinction in this calendar; for while contentment respects the possession of good, however moderate the portion, these unmurmuringly endure the visitations of trouble. This is true equanimity. Nor must patience be cashiered. It is an invaluable drudge. It may seem to be related more to evil than to good but it is the consciousness that its good preponderates over its evil, which forms its disposition. Sterne makes a droll remark about patience, viewed as bearing delays: "In waiting for any thing, curiosity governs the first moment; and the second moment is all œconomy to justify the expense of the first; and for the third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and so on to the end, 't is a point of honour.” Enry is the contrary of contentment,-it repines at another's welfare. Its evil eye is very baleful. It has many familiars,—distrust, insinuation, detraction. It drags a reptile length, and spits a serpent poison.

Pride may boast many defenders: and Pope entitles it, "The glorious fault of angels and of gods." The contrast is too commonly described as mean. But no affection of the mind is more sweetly beautiful. It consults and feels all high and