There is a pleasing sensation accompanies whatever exercises the mind without fatiguing it.

When bleeds the heart, as Genius blooms unknown,
When melts the eye o'er Virtue's mournful bier;
Not wealth, but Pity, swells the bursting groan,
Not Power, but whisp'ring Nature, prompts the tear.

THE human soul is susceptible of love and hatred, and it is by these passions that we are attached to what appears to be our good, while at the same time we refuse or fly from what seems to be the contrary. These are the two springs which put all our abilities in motion.

Hatred, and the passions which rise from it, are of necessity attended with a painful sensation, proceeding from the motion which we have of the evil which torments or threatens to afflict. The contagious poison is conveyed into our blood, and interrupting the course of perspiration, diffuses an offensive impression through the whole of the human body. Yet there is a sweetness which helps to alleviate this bitterness. The soul feels a gratification in those passions, which seem most adapted to her present condition, and appear to have a tendency to destroy whatever threatens her. Such are the most part of our sensations. Pleasure and pain, in conjunction, make up the composition which becomes pleasing

or unpleasant, in proportion as the former or latter is most prevalent.

There are, at the same time, certain cheerful pleasures which are brought forth in the bosom of hatred. The destruction of an enemy appears to be the most essential blessing. And there are some men in whose eyes no object appears so delightful as the ruin of their neighbour, whom they thought to be perfectly happy. In short, the prosperity of another encreases their misery, and they are greatly pleased when the object is removed that was displeasing to their sight. Yet, notwithstanding these malicious pleasures, there is a secret wretchedness which lies concealed, and which is only a little sof

tened, and the sensation for a time suspended. Thus every man, who is of an envious disposition, is naturally of a gloomy discontented turn of mind.

All other motions of the heart, those of fear or hatred excepted, are agreeable. Whatever we feel of commiseration, friendship, gratitude, liberality, or benevolence, yields a delightful sensation.

Here, wrapt in studious thought let fancy rove, And see where anguish nips the bloom of love.

The power of love and friendship is so great, that it even gives delight to sorrow. Has death snatched off the object of your neighbour's affection, if you have any respect for his happiness, do not trifle

with his grief. He would reject your immoderate consolation, and exclaim in the words of the poet

My sorrows please me and shall always do so, "Since to me it supplies the place of him

"Whom I lament."

It is then that the soul displays to herself, the imagination of the

person held dear, in the most striking colours. She sees, she enjoys, and this enjoyment, though ideal, affords her intrinsic delight. The love of ourselves being united to this concern helps to make the sorrow far more interesting. We love to recall those sensations which have flattered us, and we commend ourselves as having had merit sufficient to deserve them.