eemed painfully fond of her son, "why
do you not go more into the world? You suffer your mind to prey upon
itself, till it destroys you. My dear, dear son, how very ill you seem."

Ellen, whose eyes swam in tears, as they gazed upon her brother, laid
her beautiful hand upon his, and said, "For my mother's sake, Reginald,
do take more care of yourself: you want air, and exercise, and
amusement."

"No," answered Glanville, "I want nothing but occupation, and thanks to
the Duke of--, I have now got it. I am chosen member for--."

"I am too happy," said the proud mother; "you will now be all I have
ever predicted for you;" and, in her joy at the moment, she forgot the
hectic of his cheek, and the hollowness of his eye.

"Do you remember," said Reginald, turning to his sister, "those
beautiful lines in my favourite Ford--

'"Glories Of human greatness are but pleasing dreams, And shadows soon
decaying. On the stage Of my mortality, my youth has acted Some scenes
of vanity, drawn out at length By varied pleasures--sweetened in the
mixture, But tragical in issue. Beauty, pomp, With every sensuality our
giddiness Doth frame an idol--are inconstant friends When any troubled
passion makes us halt On the unguarded castle of the mind.'"

"Your verses," said I, "are beautiful, even to me, who have no soul
for poetry, and never wrote a line in my life. But I love not their
philosophy. In all sentiments that are impregnated with melancholy, and
instil sadness as a moral, I question the wisdom, and dispute the truth.
There is no situation in life which we cannot sweeten, or embitter, at
will. If the past is gloomy, I do not see the necessity of dwelling upon
it. If the mind can make one vigorous exertion, it can another: the same
energy you put forth in acquiring knowledge, would also enable you
to baffle misfortune. Determine not to think upon what is painful;
resolutely turn away from every thing that recals it; bend all your
attention to some new and engrossing object; do this, and you defeat the
past. You smile, as if this were impossible; yet it is not an iota more
so, than to tear one's self from a favourite pursuit, and addict
one's self to an object unwelcome to one at first. This the mind does
continually through life: so can it also do the other, if you will but
make an equal exertion. Nor does it seem to me natural to the human
heart to look much to the past; all its plans, its projects, its
aspirations, are for the fu