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The harm it must do him is very apparent. It must ruffle his temper, make him less agreeable to his friends, difturb his reason, and unfit him for discharging the duties of life in a becoming manner. By only diminishing his paffion, he may letsen, but cannot remove the evil; for the only way to get clear of the one, is by entirely dismissing the other.

How then will anger be so useful to him, as to make it worth his while to retain it in any degree? He may defend his own rights; aslift an injured friend; prosecute and punifh a villain ; I say, his prudence and friendship, his public spirit and calm resolution, will enable him to do all : this, and to do it in a much more safe, proper, and effectual manner, without the allilance of anger, than with it. He will be despised and neglected, you say, if he appears to have no resentment. You should rather say, if he appears to bave no fedate w.isdom and courage ; for these qualities will be sufficient of themselves to secure him from contempt, and maintain him in the possession of his just authority. Nor does any thing conimonly leffen us more in the eyes of others, than our own passion. It often exposeth us to the contempt and derision of those, who are not in our power; and if it makes us feared, it also makes us proportionably hated, by our inferiors and dependants. Let the influence it gives us be ever so great, that man must pay very dear for his power, who procures it at the expence of his own tranquillity and peace.

Belides, the imitation of anger, which is easily formed, will produce the same effect upon others, as if the paflion was real. If therefore to quicken the flow, to rouse the inattentive, and restrain the fierce, it is sometimes expedient that they believe you are moved, you may put on the outs ward appearance of resentment. Thus you may obtain the end of anger, without the danger and vexation that attends it; and may preserve your authority, without forfeiting the peace of your mind.

However manly and vigorous anger may be thought, it is in fact but a weak principle, compared with the fedate resolution of a wife and virtuous man. The one is uniform and permanent like the strength of a perfon in perfect health; the other, like a force which proceedeth from a fever, is violent for a time, but it soon leaves the mind more feeble than before. To him therefore who is armed with a proper firmness of foul, no degree of passion can be useful in any respect. And to say it can ever be laudable and virtuous, is indeed a sufficiently bold affertion. For the most part we blame it in others, and though we are apt“ to be indulgent enough to our own faults, we are often afhamed of it in ourselves. Hence it is common to hear men excusing themselves, änd feriously declaring, they were not angry, when they have given unquestionable proofs to the contrary. But do we not commend him, who resents the injuries done to a friend or innocent pero fon? Yes, we commend him; yet not for his passion, but for that generosity and friendihip of which it is the evidence. For let any one impartially confider, which of these characters he esteems the better; his, who interefts himfelf in the injuries of his friend, and zealously defends him with perfect calmness and ferenity of temper; or his, who pursues the same conduct under the influence of refentment.

If anger then is neither useful nor commendable, it is certainly the part of wisdom to fupprefs it entirely. We should rather confine it, you tell us, within certain bounds. But how shall we ascertain the limits, to which it may, and beyond which it ought not to pass ? When we receive a manifeft injury, it feems we may refent it, provided we do it with moderation. When we suffer a worfe abuse, our anger, I suppose, may rise somewhat higher. Now as the degrees of injaftice are infinite, if our anger must

always be proportioned to the occasion, it may posibly proceed to the utmost extravagance. Shall we fet bounds to our resentment while we are yet calm ? How can we be alsured, that being once let loose, it will not carry us beyond them? Or thall we give pallion the reigns, imagining we can resume them at pleasure, or trufling it will tire or stop itself, as soon as it has run to its proper length ? Is. well might we think of giving laws to a tempeít ; as well might we endeavour to run mad by rule and method.

In reality, it is much easier to keep ourielves void of resentment, than to restrain it from excess, when it has gained admision: for if reason, while her Itrength is yet entire, is not able to preserve her dominion, what can the do when her enemy has in part prevailed and weakened her force? To use the illustration of an excellent author, we can prevent the beginnings of some things, whose progress afterwards we cannot hinder : we can forbear to cast ourselves down from a precipice, but if once we have taken the fatal leap, we must descend, whether we will or np. Thus the mind, if duly cautious, may fi'and firm on the rock of tranquillity; but if the rafhly forsakes the summit, she can scarce recover herself, but is hurried away downwards by her own paffion, with increasing violence.

Do not say that we exhort you to attempt that wKich is impossible. Nature has put it in our power to resist the motions of anger. We only plead inability, when we want an excuse for our own negligence. Was a passionate man to forfeit a hundred pounds, as often as he was angry, or was he sure he must die the next moment after the firit sally of his passion, we should find, he had a great command of his temper whenever he could prevail upon himself to exercise a proper attention about it. And fall we not esteem it worthy of equal attention, worthy of our utmost care and pains, to obtain that immovable tranquil. lity of mind, without which we cannot relish either life

itself, or any of its enjoyments ?-Upon the whole, then, we both may and ought, not merely to restrain, but extirpate anger. It is impatient of rule; in proportion as it prevails, it will difquiet our minds; it has nothing commendable in itfelf, nor will it answer any valuable purpofe in life.

HOLLAND.

CHAPTER II.

VIRTUE OUR HIGHEST INTEREST.

I FIND myself existing upon a little spot, surrounded every way by an immenfe unknown expansion --Where am I? What sort of place do I inhabit? It is exaclly accommodated, in every instance, to my convenience? Is there no excess of cold, none of heat, to offend me? Am I never annoyed by animals, either of my own kind, or a diffierent? Is every thing fubfervient to me, as though I had ordered all myself?--No-nothing like it--the farthest from it possible. The world appears not then originally made for the private convenience of me alone?-It does not.-But is it not possible fo to accommodate it, by my own particular industry?-If to accommodate man and beast, heaven and earth; if this be beyond me, 'tis not possible:-What consequence then follows? Or can there be any other than this. If I seek an interest of my own, detached from that of others; I seek an intereft which is chimerical, and can never have existence.

How then must I determine? Have I no interest at all? -If I have not, I am a fool for staying here.'Tis a {moky house, and the sooner out of it the better. But why no interest !--Can I be contented with none, but one separate and detached !--Is a social intereft joined with others such an absurdity, as not to be admitted? The bee,

the beaver, and the tribes of herding animals, are enough to convince me, that the thing is, somewhere at least posfible. How then am I assured, that 'tis not equally true of man?-Admit it; and what follows? If so, then hopour and justice are my interest-then the whole train of moral virtues are my interelt; without some portion of which, not even thieves can maintain society.

But farther till stop not here-l pursue this social interest, as far as I can trace my several relations. I pafs from my own stock, my own neighbourhood, my own nation, to the whole race of mankind, as dispersed throughout the earth.--Am I not related to them all, by the mus tual aids of commerce; by the general intercourse of arts and leiters; by that common nature, of which we all participate ? - gain-I must have food and clothingWithout a proper genial warmth I instalitly perish-Am I not related, in this view, to the very earth itself? To the distant fun, from whose beams. I derive vigour? To that stupendous course and order of the infinite host of hea. ven, by which the times and seasons ever uniformly pass on?-Were this order once confounded, I could not probably survive a moment; so absolutely do 1 depend on this common general welfare.

What then have I to do, but to enlarge virtue into piety? Not only honour and justice, and what I owe to man, is my interelt; but gratitude also, acquiescence, refignation, adoration, and all I owe to this great polity, and its greater governor, our common parent.

But if all these moral and divine habits be my interest, I need not surely seek for a better. I have an interest compatible with the spot on which I live-I have an interest which may exist, without altering the plan of Providence, without mending or marring the general order of events.--I can bear whatever happens with manlike magnanimity; can be contented, and fully happy in the good

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