diseases of the mind as with the diseases of the body. They lurk for a time unperceived. The seeds of them may be working within, while the person affected imagines himself to be in perfect health; but at length a crisis comes, which brings the secret venom forth, and makes all its malignity be felt.

In this age of dissipation and luxury in which we live, how many avenues are constantly open that lead to the Temple of Folly? To how many temptations are all, but especially the young and the gay, exposed, to squander their whole time amidst the circles of levity, and haunts of pleasure? By idleness and extravagance, and the vain ambition of emulating others in the splendid show of life, multitudes run into expense beyond their fortune. The time which should be employed in training them for future significance in the world, they lose in frivolous amusements and pursuits; or in the midst of these, bury the fruits of any good education they had already received. Idle associates are ever at hand to aid them in inventing new plans of destroying the time. If that fatal engine of mischief, the gaming table, then attracts and ensnares them, their career of folly will soon be completed; the gulf of destruction opens, and ruin is at hand.

Supposing some incident to befal, as befal at some time it must, which shall awaken persons of this description from their dreams of vanity; which shall open their eyes to the time that they have mispent, and the follies that they have committed; then, alas! what mortifying and disquieting views of themselves will arise? How many galling remembrances will crowd upon their minds? They see their youth thrown away in dishonourable or trivial pursuits; those valuable

opportunities which they once enjoyed, of coming forward with distinction in the world, now irretrievably lost; their characters tarnished and sunk in the public eye; and the fortune, perhaps, which they had inherited from their ancestors, wasted among idle companions. They behold around them the countenances of their friends angry and displeased. To the grave and the respectable, they dare not look up. They with whom they once started in the race of life as their equals, have now got far before them; they are obliged to respect them as their superiors, and with shame to view themselves left behind disgraced and dishonoured.-Can any situation be more humbling and mortifying than this? Is not this to suffer in a high degree the misery of a wounded spirit, when a man sees that, by mere thoughtlessness and folly, he has exposed and degraded himself; beholds his character, his health, his interest sinking in the world; and is sensible that with his own hands, and by his own blind and ill-judged conduct, he has brought this ruin on himself? Conscience now begins to exert its authority, and lift its scourge. At every stroke it inflicts, the wounds of the heart open and bleed; and though it exercise not the same dread severity as when it upbraids us with notorious crimes, yet still it is the voice of God within, rebuking and punishing reasonable creatures for folly as well as for guilt; nor indeed are follies of such a kind as have been described, ever free from many stains of guilt.

II. IF by folly the spirit is thus liable to be wounded, it is exposed by Passion to wounds still more severe. Passions are those strong emotions of

the mind which impel it to desire, and to act, with
vehemence. When directed towards proper objects,
and kept within just bounds, they possess an useful
place in our frame; they add vigour and energy to
the mind, and enable it, on great occasions, to act
with uncommon force and success; but they always
require the government and restraint of reason. It
is in the mind, just as it is in the body. Every member
of the body is useful, and serves some good purpose.
But if any one swell to an enormous size, it presently
becomes a disease. Thus, when a man's passions go
on in a calm and moderate train, and no object has
taken an inordinate hold of any of them, his spirit
is in this part sound, and his life proceeds with
tranquillity. But if any of them have been so far
indulged and left without restraint, as to run into
excess, a dangerous blow will then be given to the
heart. Supposing, for instance, that some passion,
even of the nature of those which are reckoned
innocent, shall so far seize a man as to conquer and
overpower him, his tranquillity will be destroyed.
The balance of his soul is lost; he is no longer his
own master, nor is capable of attending properly to
the offices of life which are incumbent on him, or
of turning his thoughts into any other direction
than what passion points out. He
He may be sensible of
the wound. He feels the dart that is fixed in his
breast, but is unable to extract it.

But the case becomes infinitely worse, if the passion which has seized a man be of the vicious and malignant kind. Let him be placed in the most prosperous situation of life; give him external ease and affluence to the full; and let his character be high, and applauded by the world: yet, if into the

heart of this man there has stolen some dark jealous suspicion, some rankling envy, some pining discontent, that instant his temper is soured, and poison is scattered over all his joys. He dwells in secret upon his vexations and cares, and while the crowd admires his prosperity, he envies the more peaceful condition of the peasant and the hind. If his passions chance to be of the more fierce and outrageous nature, the painful feelings they produce will be still more intense and acute. By violent passions, the heart is not only wounded, but torn and rent. As long as a man is under the workings of raging ambition, disappointed pride, and keen thirst for revenge, he remains under immediate torment. Over his dark and scowling mind, gloomy ideas continually brood. His transient fits of merriment and joy, are like beams of light breaking, occasionally, from the black cloud that carries the thunder. What greatly aggravates the misery of such persons is, that they dare make no complaints. When the body is diseased or wounded, to our friends we naturally fly; and from their sympathy or assistance expect relief. But the wounds given to the heart by ill-governed passions, are of an opprobrious nature, and must be stifled in secret. The slave of passion can unbosom himself to no friend; and, instead of sympathy, dreads meeting with ridicule or contempt.-How intolerably wretched must the condition of Haman have been, when, before all his assembled friends, he was reduced to make this humbling confession of his state; that, in the height of royal favour, and in the midst of the utmost magnificence and grandeur," all "availed him nothing, so long as he saw his rival, "Mordecai the Jew, sitting at the King's gate."

III. THE Wounds which the heart receives from Guilt, are productive of still greater pain and misery, than any which have been already mentioned. If beyond being misled by folly, or overcome by passion, a man be conscious to himself of having deliberately committed deeds of injustice or cruelty; of having, perhaps, by wicked arts, seduced the innocent and unwary, to fall the miserable victims of his licentious pleasures; of having ruined, by his dishonesty, the unsuspicious trusting friend; of having amassed wealth to himself, by fraud and oppression, from the spoils of the industrious: in such and similar cases, deep and lasting is the sting which is sent into the heart.

I am aware of the arts which have been devised by criminal men to shelter themselves from the attacks of conscience; of the sceptical principles to which they have recourse; and of the self-deceiving opinions with which they flatter themselves concerning their own character, concerning the goodness of God, and the allowances which they hope will be made for human infirmity and strong temptations. But all those palliatives of guilt are no other to the soul, than the empiric medicines that are applied to the diseases of the body; which disguise the disease without removing it; which procure a little temporary ease, and conceal from the patient the danger of his state; but drive the distemper to the vitals, and make it break forth in the end with redoubled force. Thus may those dangerous opiates of conscience sooth a man for a while, in the days of his prosperity. Amidst the bustle of active life, and as long as the fluster of gay and youthful spirits lasts, he may go on in the commission of many crimes with

VOL. III.