ture; it is for the future, and in the
future, that we live. Our very passions, when most agitated, are most
anticipative. Revenge, avarice, ambition, love, the desire of good and
evil, are all fixed and pointed to some distant goal; to look backwards,
is like walking backwards--against our proper formation; the mind does
not readily adopt the habit, and when once adopted, it will readily
return to its natural bias. Oblivion is, therefore, an easier obtained
boon than we imagine. Forgetfulness of the past is purchased by
increasing our anxiety for the future."

I paused for a moment, but Glanville did not answer me; and, encouraged
by a look from Ellen, I continued--"You remember that, according to an
old creed, if we were given memory as a curse, we were also given hope
as a blessing. Counteract the one by the other. In my own life, I have
committed many weak, many wicked actions; I have chased away their
remembrance, though I have transplanted their warning to the future. As
the body involuntarily avoids what is hurtful to it, without tracing the
association to its first experience, so the mind insensibly shuns
what has formerly afflicted it, even without palpably recalling the
remembrance of the affliction. The Roman philosopher placed the secret
of human happiness in the one maxim--'not to admire.' I never could
exactly comprehend the sense of the moral: my maxim for the same object
would be--'never to regret.'"

"Alas! my dear friend," said Glanville--"we are great philosophers to
each other, but not to ourselves; the moment we begin to feel sorrow, we
cease to reflect on its wisdom. Time is the only comforter; your maxims
are very true, but they confirm me in my opinion--that it is in vain for
us to lay down fixed precepts for the regulation of the mind, so long
as it is dependent upon the body. Happiness and its reverse are
constitutional in many persons, and it is then only that they are
independent of circumstances. Make the health, the frames of all men
alike--make their nerves of the same susceptibility--their memories of
the same bluntness, or acuteness--and I will then allow, that you can
give rules adapted to all men; till then, your maxim, 'never to regret,'
is as idle as Horace's 'never to admire.' It may be wise to you--it is
impossible to me!"

With these last words, Glanville's voice faltered, and I felt averse to
push the argument further. Ellen's eye caught mine, and gave me a look
so kind, and a