ne happy moment, Henry tasted hundreds.

That the state of the mind, and not outward circumstances, is the nice
point on which happiness depends is but a trite remark; but that
intellectual power should have the force to render a man discontented in
extraordinary prosperity, such as that of the present bishop, or
contented in his brother's extreme of adversity, requires illustration.

The first great affliction to Henry was his brother's ingratitude; but
reasoning on the frailty of man's nature, and the force of man's
temptations, he found excuses for William, which made him support the
treatment he had received with more tranquillity than William's proud
mind supported his brother's marriage.

Henry's indulgent disposition made him less angry with William than
William was with him.

The next affliction Henry suffered was the loss of his beloved wife. That
was a grief which time and change of objects gradually alleviated; while
William's wife was to him a permanent grief, her puerile mind, her
talking vanity, her affected virtues, soured his domestic comfort, and,
in time, he had suffered more painful moments from her society than his
brother had experienced, even from the death of her he loved.

In their children, indeed, William was the happier; his son was a pride
and pleasure to him, while Henry never thought upon _his_ without
lamenting his loss with bitterest anguish. But if the elder brother had
in one instance the advantage, still Henry had a resource to overbalance
this article. Henry, as he lay imprisoned in his dungeon, and when, his
punishment being remitted, he was again allowed to wander, and seek his
subsistence where he would, in all his tedious walks and solitary resting-
places, during all his lonely days and mournful nights, had _this
resource_ to console him--

"I never did an injury to any one; never was harsh, severe, unkind,
deceitful. I did not merely confine myself to do my neighbour no harm; I
strove to do him service."

This was the resource that cheered his sinking heart amidst gloomy
deserts and a barbarous people, lulled him to peaceful slumber in the hut
of a savage hunter, and in the hearing of the lion's roar, at times
impressed him with a sense of happiness, and made him contemplate with a
longing hope the retribution of a future world.

The bishop, with all his comforts, had no comfort like this; he had _his_
solitary reflections too, but they were of a tendency the reverse