How, said Eliza, can any one be unhappy who is not able to assign a definite cause of his unhappiness? I am happy from morning till night: and why should it be otherwise with you?

Let us change the subject of conversation, said Henry when after the lapse of years my disquietude shall have been removed, I may make you acquainted with my history.

No, said Eliza the present is ours; the future is distant and uncertain. There can be no real cause for your infelicity. You read too much, and visit too little. It is all but a little hypochondria. O the charming lines of a poet!

To be good is to be happy: angels

Are happier than we are, because they are better:
Guilt is the source of sorrow; 'tis the fiend,

The avenging fiend that follows us behind

With whips and stings: the blest know none of this,
But rest in everlasting peace of mind,

And find the height of all their heaven is goodness.

You are not guilty; you are innocent and good: you cannot be unhappy. But we must hear more. Indeed we must, said Maria: for the workings of the soul, the changes within the breast, only open to the eye of Him who made us, form the most interesting part of our history. The temporal changes and incidents of human life, the alternations of secular prosperity and adversity, are but of little moment, when compared with the formation of sentiments, and

the acquisition of moral habits, which give to the soul that complexion which stamps its character and fixes its condition for ever.

Henry looked on Maria with wonder and delight, as he heard her expressing herself with such solidity of thought and propriety of diction. He saw that she was one who could enter into all his thoughts and feelings. There is indeed, said he, no occasion for reserve: let us glance at the past. The loss of our dear mother, whose tenderness and affection, whose looks and voice and words, I shall never forget, in connexion with the studious manner in which I was educated, have happily rendered me but little fitted for the society of the thoughtless and the gay. When I was freed from the regular labours of my kind Tutor, you recollect how I mingled, or rather attempted to mingle, with those whom I then regarded as my future companions in life. I need not tell you the result: I was soon a solitary being; for a coalition grounded on compromise or hypocrisy is inconsistent with honour, and cannot be conducive to happiness.

I. never lamented your acting as you did, said Maria: I was afraid lest my father should have been displeased; but he forgot his own wishes in the desire of making you happy. We have learned to value knowledge, and to prefer what is calm and substantial to what is turbulent and vain. But why are you still unhappy?

That is not the point, said Henry. In the next place I rioted in intellectual pleasure; and as fancy and indiscretion predominate in youth, I wrote on a subject that would require the genius of a Homer or of a Milton. I afterwards amused myself with architecture and horticulture. In the last place, I entered with avidity on the study of theology. All my work is brought to a conclusion; direct me to a new object of pursuit, and I shall again be cheerful.

You are too reserved, said Maria: converse with your affectionate father; if he cannot suggest a remedy, yet he will give you salutary advice.

If my father, said Henry, should command me to mingle more with society, I should find obedience an irksome duty. Age has troubles of its own; why should I add to them the impertinences of youth?

We are born, said Maria, to sympathize with each other.

Selfishness does not belong to the Osbornes. My father is at times a little austere : but we cannot question his kindness. What, however, are your notions of happiness? There is a limit to reality, though there is none to fancy. If we are miserable because we cannot gain what is put beyond our reach, we cannot vindicate ourselves by any solid argument. He who meekly submits to the appointments of unerring Wisdom cannot long be wretched.

You are a most charming philosopher, said Henry: of happiness it is easy to speak so as to please the ear and charm the fancy; we may display learning

and ingenuity in the discussion; but who was ever made happy by a debate on happiness?

That is true, said Maria: but on whatever our happiness and misery essentially depend, they are materially affected by our opinions; for if these be ungrounded, we may be happy or miserable without

cause.

Since you speak of the subject, said Henry, with such fluency and discrimination, I may expect you to advance your idea of happiness without any hesitation.

I know not, said Maria, that happiness can be exactly defined, but it may not be difficult to enumerate the leading particulars which ensure to us the enjoyment of it.

We do not want, said Henry, Aristotelian refinement and precision in a conversation of this sort. I wish you to be more prolix than the poet, who summed up all the ingredients of happiness in three words" Health, peace, and competence."

Let a person, said Maria, have a sound mind and an honest heart, and let his conduct be upright; let him fear God, flee from vice, and delight in virtue ; let him be temperate as to himself and benevolent as to others; and surely he cannot be miserable: he ought to be happy.

I agree with you, said Eliza; creation is visible

goodness the whisper of the gale and the song of the bird, the shade of the tree and the beauty of the flower, the magnificence of the heavens and the love

liness of earth, and the subserviency of all things to the delight and welfare of man, prove the kind intentions of that Invisible Being whom I love to contemplate, but whom I tremble to name.

Let me answer Maria first, said Henry: she has enumerated the ingredients of happiness. Her doctrine is, that moral excellence is the ground of it; but then I would ask,-How is moral excellence to be obtained? We have all referred to an Invisible Being away with materialism: is not this the great question-How shall there be an indissoluble amity and union and intercourse between Him and us? As to your remark, Eliza, I do not question the goodness of the Creator; it is legible on all around us. But as you are fond of poetry, let me ask you for a comment on a verse from no inferior bard: perhaps it deserves the consideration of us all.

Darkness, the world, the flesh, spiritual sin
With such infectious stains thy soul defile,
No earthly spring can wash thy conscience clean,
The streams of Ganges, or the floods of Nile.
The secret source of what in thee is vile
Heaven's grace alone can fitly purge away;
Turn to thy Saviour then, in lowly style
Ask for forgiveness, all thy sins display,

Cling to the Cross in faith, weep, tremble, praise, and pray. Their conversation would have been prolonged, but they saw their father approaching them: they went to meet him, having engaged to resume the subject the first opportunity.