I cherish a very strong conviction, (as has been said,) that, at least in the case of educated people, happiness is a grand discipline for bringing out what is amiable and excellent.  You understand, of course, what I mean by happiness.  We all know, of course, that light-heartedness is not very familiar to grown-up people, who are doing the work of life, who feel its many cares, and who do not forget the many risks which hang over it.  I am not thinking of the kind of thing which is suggested to the minds of children, when they read, at the end of a tale, concerning its heroine and hero, that “they lived happily ever after.”  No, we don’t look for that.  By happiness I mean freedom from terrible anxiety and from pervading depression of spirits, the consciousness that we are filling our place in life with decent success and approbation, religious principle and character, fair physical health throughout the family, and moderate good temper and good sense.  And I hold, with Sydney Smith, and with that keen practical philosopher, Becky Sharpe, that happiness and success tend very greatly to make people passably good.  Well, I see an answer to the statement, as I do to most statements; but, at least, the beam is never subjected to the strain which would break it.  I have seen the gradual working of what I call happiness and success in ameliorating character.  I have known a man who, by necessity, by the pressure of poverty, was driven to write for the magazines,—­a kind of work for which he had no special talent or liking, and which he had never intended to attempt.  There was no more miserable, nervous, anxious, disappointed being on earth than he was, when he began his writing for the press.  And sure enough, his articles were bitter and ill-set to a high degree.  They were thoroughly ill-natured and bad.  They were not devoid of a certain cleverness; but they were the sour products of a soured nature.  But that man gradually got into comfortable circumstances:  and with equal step with his lot the tone of his writings mended, till, as a writer, he became conspicuous for the healthful, cheerful, and kindly nature of all he produced.  I remember seeing a portrait of an eminent author, taken a good many years ago, at a time when he was struggling into notice, and when he was being very severely handled by the critics.  That portrait was really truculent of aspect.  It was sour, and even ferocious-looking.  Years afterwards I saw that author, at a time when he had attained vast success, and was universally recognized as a great man.  How improved that face!  All the savage lines were gone; the bitter look was gone; the great man looked quite genial and amiable.  And I came to know that he really was all he looked.  Bitter judgments of men, imputations of evil motives, disbelief in anything noble or generous, a disposition to repeat tales to the prejudice of others, envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness,—­all these things may possibly come out of a bad heart;