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Between the disputed pleasures of memory and anticipation, I do not hesitate to give a decided preference to the first. One presents a vivid picture of the future; the other a faithful transcript of the past. The brilliancy of the first attracts for a time, but reason perceives it to be drawn by the mutable pencil of fancy, that the curtain of futurity rests upon it, and involves it in darkness. She looks on the tablet of memory; its traces are less glaring, but more perfect; they dazzle less, but are not fictitious. One charms us while we are under the sway of fancy, the other while we are controlled by reason; and we are taught to feel those to be the highest pleasures, which are tasted by a mind rational and serene. On this part of the subject, I will borrow the beautiful expressions of a poet:
"Lighter than air, hope's summer visions fly,
"If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky,
"If but a beam of sober reason play,
"Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts away.
"But can the wile of art, the grasp of power,
"Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour?
"These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight,
"Pour round her path a stream of living light,
"And gild those pure and perfect realms of rust,
"Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest."
