of success; but vain is the endeavour to remedy irregularities in practice by absurdities in principle.

One of the best methods proposed by philosophy for subduing the passions, is to set them at variance among themselves, so as to make one of them a spy and check upon the other. Thus, fear may be opposed to anger, desire to sloth, and jealousy to love. Aristotle, speaking of this expedient, says, 'The affections, if one knows how to manage them with address, may be employed as weapons against each other.' But Seneca says, 'This might be true, if we could take them up and lay them down at our pleasure, as we do warlike instruments; but these arms will neither obey directions, nor wait for the word of command; but make war of themselves, being as bad servants, as they are masters. That readiness and activity, says he, is to be approved, which goes where it is desired, and no farther; which may be turned from its course, and trained to directions. We know our nerves are distempered, when they move in spite of our wills. He is either an old man, or of an infirm constitution, who runs when he intends to walk. In like manner we esteem those the strongest and soundest motions of the mind, which proceed in obedience to our will, and are not carried on as it were by a will of their own.'

It was impossible for mere philosophers to shew a better talent for invention than the first, or at reasoning, than the latter hath done on this occasion. Thus it is however, that philosophy, groping in the dark, runs counter, and refutes herself. This expedient must indeed be rather prejudicial than useful to mere philosophy, which hath not, in herself, sufficient strength to employ the passions in her service; for she cannot govern them. She must therefore labour totally to stifle and suppress them. But Christianity, more agreeable to our nature, hath, to admirable purpose, built its morality on a scheme not unlike that of Aristotle. Our religion hath placed before desire, fear, and hope, the strongest of our passions, such objects as we can never be too much affected with. These passions, thus exalted by faith above all worldly and seducing objects, in respect to which nothing but change and excess are to be looked for, become infinitely helpful in bridling and subduing all our other affections and appetites. He who hath God to love, heaven to hope for,

hell to fear, can hardly think any thing in this world worth pursuing, that may divert him from objects so infinitely great and excellent.

Nothing more need be said to shew, that there is in man, left to his own nature, a kind of moral war between his reason and passions, to which the compound nature of his being, though it is not the cause, hath given the occasion. The body of man, like the greater world, is made up of ingredients, or elements, directly contrary in their qualities one to another. In the original frame of his nature, these contrarieties were so tempered, and bound together by such a tie, as produced at once an wholesome harmony and necessary variety; but this tie hath since received such a shock from sin, as suffers the several ingredients to return to their natural opposition, and at last dissolve the body.

Between the soul and body of a man there is also, by their very nature, a wide diversity, if not a like opposition. At first the body, with its appetites and passions, was made absolutely subject to the soul, from whence resulted wisdom and virtue. But this subjection hath, by the corruption of human nature, been unhappily changed into rebellion; so that now the spiritual and carnal part of man, draw different ways, according to their different natures, this pulling to vice, that to virtue. Hence it comes that in man' (that is, in his flesh)'dwelleth no good thing; for to will is present with him, but how to perform that which is good, he findeth not.' He delights in the law of God after the inward man, but sees, at the same time, a law in his members, warring against the law of his mind, and bringing them into captivity to the law of sin.'

This contest between reason and his passions is, in the best man, who lives according to mere nature, exceedingly sharp; and, for want of better aids than he can furnish himself with, his reason is soon forced to quit the field, and submit to some prevailing scheme of vice, prescribed to him by the flesh, or the world; after which, it only serves to conceal and cater for his vices.

But in the Christian, reason being supported with strong hopes and fears, as to futurity, with lively apprehensions of God's continual presence and inspection, and with the divine Spirit, is enabled to carry on the war against his passions

with better hope of success. Hence the contest becomes more equal, and consequently more fierce and lasting. His flesh contends for present, worldly, and sensible enjoyments; the spirit for good things, unseen, and future. His flesh recommends its choice by the natural sweetness and certainty of the gratification it proposes; the spirit urges the purity and eternity of that happiness, on which it labours to fix his attention. The Spirit searcheth even the hidden things of God;' nor is he less perfectly acquainted with those of man, for he is 'the Spirit of wisdom, understanding, and counsel,' and therefore is able to guide us into all truth.' Now his compassion and tenderness for us are as great as his wisdom, and it is therefore he is called our Comforter.' Under the direction of such a guide, we can never go astray.

But our ungoverned affections are irregular and blind, and therefore surely, of all things, the most unqualified either to direct or support us. While we are under their influence, we are exactly in the state of one who is drunk, and knows not how to stand or walk. Any violent passion disturbs the brain in the same manner as strong liquor: There is,' says St. Chrysostom, 'a drunkenness without wine, otherwise the prophet had never said, Woe be to those who are drunk, but not with wine; nor St. Paul, Be not drunk with wine, wherein is excess; intimating, that there are other things which intoxicate. There is a drunkenness in anger, in concupiscence, in covetousness, in vain glory, and in other affections; for drunkenness is nothing else, but a departure from right reason, and a deprivation of understanding. As he who hath drank much, is lavish of rude words, and sees one thing for another; so a person under the violence of any passion speaks, like a fool, unintelligibly, rudely, and with a strange mixture of silly laughter. His eyes mistake their most accustomed objects, and are often blind to things the most visible. He, particularly, who is angry, is unquestionably drunk; for his voice is hoarse, his eyes are bloodshot and distorted, his understanding is benighted, his tongue faulters, his ears misrepresent what he hears.'

That which puts a man in such a condition, is surely not fit to be trusted with the direction or government of his

actions; for in this state of madness, there is no folly nor crime, which he is not ready to run headlong into.

While our corrupt passions thus bias and pervert our understandings, they, at the same time, as unhappily deprave our will, disposing it to the foulest intentions, and the vilest actions. All the black and horrible crimes, which we come to the knowledge of, by our own experience, or history, spring entirely from lawless and licentious passions. Our desires being fitted by nature to an infinite object, are rendered, in respect to all other objects, boundless and insatiable. Hence it is, that being turned aside from that only object, that could satisfy them, they, in vain, seek for contentment from earthly things. Luxurious tables, de-licious wines, stately houses, soft beds, music, lewd women, riches, honour, and power, are pursued with an eagerness and fury, that overturn every thing in their way; treading under foot the laws of God and man, burning cities, wasting kingdoms, and filling the world with fraud and false politics; with rapes, robberies, murders, massacres, and ruinous wars. When one object of this sort proves unsatisfactory, another is sought for, cost what it will to conscience; and that proving as empty and defective, the whole circle of sensuality is rummaged, but to no purpose; all things under the sun are not able to satisfy the immortal soul. From whence come wars and fightings among you?' says St. James, 'Come they not hence, even of your lusts, that war in your mem bers? Ye lust, and have not; ye kill and desire to have, and cannot obtain: ye fight and war; ye ask, and receive not, because ye ask amiss, to consume it upon your lusts. Ye adulterers, and adultresses, know ye not, that the friendship of the world is enmity with God?'

The law was delivered from Mount Sinai, not with the sound of cymbals, psalteries, and other the like instruments of peaceful music, used in religious services, but with the sound of a trumpet, to signify the fierce and perpetual war between the commandments of God, and the lusts of man. kind. He who professes himself the servant of God, en gages in this warfare against the enemies of God and his own soul. Now this is a war of the greatest consequence; for in this we fight not for riches, nor honours, or worldly

power; but for our very souls, while all the glories of heaven, and all the horrible torments of hell, are at stake; a war truly terrible! A war of a most dangerous and singular nature! In other battles, he who attacks is a different person from him who defends; but in this, I am engaged against myself; I, the inward man, against me, the outward. How, therefore, shall I guard against myself, and deliver myself from myself? It is extremely difficult for the soul to obtain the victory in this case, because it fights against an enemy it loves. No man ever hateth his own flesh, but nourisheth and cherisheth it.' If therefore, it be difficult to conquer an enemy we hate; what must it be to subdue that enemy, whom we find a pleasure in submitting to, and who can, with the greatest ease, prevail on us to betray ourselves? In every other warfare the combatants sometimes separate, lay by their weapons, and take breath; but in this there is not a moment's respite, the battle is fierce and continual, and the enemies can never be parted but by death. Other enemies pitch their tents apart, and are divided by walls and ramparts; these encamp on the same spot, and therefore can never agree upon a minutes truce.

As, in the present frame of our nature, the soul and body are closely bound together and united into one person; and as our effections and passions proceed entirely from the body; so it always happens, that they rise in vehemence, as that does in vigour, and abate in proportion as the blood grows cool and languid. This is found by experience to be true of them all, excepting fear and modesty, which follow in this respect a rule exactly opposite to the rest. But as these two affections are most easily engaged on the side of religion and virtue, no method can be thought of so helpful to that best of causes, as that which shall strengthen these, and at the same time humble and reduce the others; I mean temperance and mortification.

To this end, in well-disposed natures, a strict and regular temperance will be sufficient.

'He,' says Epictetus, who at a feast behaves himself according to the rules of moderation and modesty, is a guest for the gods.' He did not mean, that this only virtue could qualify a person, otherwise vicious, for the company of celestial beings; but that the virtue of temperance, being pro