memory of the past? knowledge of the present? or were they cold, silent, insensible as those deserted scenes? how perishable is human happiness! what recollection has the mind of any former state? in the eye of a creator can a mite, scarce visible, be worth either solicitude or anger? "Vain the presumptuous hope," said Calantha to herself. "Our actions are unobserved by any but ourselves; let us enjoy what we can whilst we are here; death only returns us to the dust from whence we sprung; all hopes, all interests, all occupations, are vain: to forget is the first great science; and to enjoy, the only real object of life. What happiness is here below, but in love."
So reasoned the unhappy victim of a false judgment and strong passion. I was blest; I am so no more. The world is a wilderness to me; and all that is in it, vanity and vexation of spirit. . . . Whilst yet indulging these fallacious opinions—whilst gazing on the western
