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ready to run out and enlarge itself into suitable determinations upon all emergent objects and oc

casions. Justice then was neither blind to discern nor lame to execute. It was not subject to be imposed upon by a deluded fancy, nor yet to be bribed by a glozing appetite, for an utile or jucundum to turn the balance to a false or dishonest sentence. In all its directions of the inferior faculties it conveyed its suggestions with clearness and enjoined them with power; it had the passions in perfect subjection; and though its command over them was but suasive and political, yet it had the force of coaction and despotical. It was not then, as it is now, where the conscience has only power to disapprove and to protest against the exorbitances of the passions, and rather to wish, than make them otherwise. The voice of conscience now is low and weak, chastising the passions, as old Eli did his lustful domineering sons: "Not so, my sons, not so;" but the voice of conscience then was not," This should, or this ought to be done:" but " this must, this shall be done." It spoke like a legislator the thing spoke was a law: and the manner of speaking it a new obligation.


THE will was then ductile and pliant to all the motions of right reason, it met the dictates of a clarified understanding half way. And the active information of the intellect filling the passive

reception of the will, like form closing with matter, grew actuate into a third and distinct perfection of practice: the understanding and will never disagreed, for the proposals of the one never thwarted the inclinations of the other. Yet neither did the will servilely attend upon the understanding, but as a favourite does upon his prince, where the service is privilege and preferment; or as Solomon's servants waited upon him, it admired its wisdom, and heard his prudent dictates and counsels, both the direction and the reward of its obedience. It is indeed the nature of this faculty to follow a superior guide, to be drawn by the intellect; but then it was drawn, as a triumphant chariot, which at the same time both follows and triumphs; while it obeyed this it commanded the other faculties. It was subordinate, not enslaved to the understanding: not as a servant to a master, but as a queen to her king; who both acknowledges a subjection, and yet retains a majesty.


THIS is the great instrument and engine of nature, the bond and cement of society, the spring and spirit of the universe. It is of that active, restless nature, that it must of necessity exert itself and like the fire, to which it is so often compared, it is not a free agent to choose whether it will heat or no, but it streams forth by natural results, and unavoidable emanations, so that it will, fasten upon an inferior, unsuitable object,

rather than none at all.*

The soul may sooner

leave off to subsist, than to love; and like the vine, it withers and dies, if it has nothing to embrace. Now this affection in the state of innocence was happily pitched upon its right object; it flamed up in direct fervors of devotion to God, and in collateral emissions of charity to its neighbour. It was a vestal and a virgin fire, and differed as much from that which usually passes by this name now-a-days, as the vital heat from the burning of a fever.


No rancour, no hatred of our brother: an innocent nature could hate nothing that was innocent. In a word, so great is the commutation, that the soul then hated only that, which now only it loves, i. e. sin.


ANGER then was, like the sword of Justice, keen, but innocent and righteous. It did not act like fury, and then call it self-zeal. It always espoused God's honour and never kindled upon anything

* Bacon in his Essay of Goodness of Nature, says, "The inclination to goodness is imprinted deeply in the nature of man, insomuch, that if it issue not towards men, it will take unto other living creatures; as it is seen in the Turks, a cruel people, who nevertheless are kind to beasts, and give alms to dogs and birds; insomuch, as Busbechius reporteth a Christian boy in Constantinople had like to have been stoned for gagging in a waggishness a long-billed fowl.

but in order to a sacrifice. It sparkled like the coal upon the altar, with the fervours of piety, the heats of devotion, the sallies and vibrations of a harmless activity.*


In the next place, for the lightsome passion of joy. It was not that which now often usurps this name; that trivial, vanishing, superficial thing, that only gilds the apprehension, and plays upon the surface of the soul. It was not the mere crackling of thorns, a sudden blaze of the spirits, the exultation of a tickled fancy or a pleased appetite. Joy was then a masculine and a severe thing: the recreation of the judgment, the jubilee of reason. It was the result of a real good suitably applied. It commenced upon the solidities. of truth and the substance of fruition. It did not run out in voice or undecent eruptions, but filled the soul, as God does the universe, silently and without noise.


Had any

AND, on the other side, for sorrow. loss or disaster, made but room for grief, it would have moved according to the severe allowances of prudence, and the proportions of the provocation. It would not have sallied out into complaint or loudness, nor spread itself upon the face, and writ

Ante, 43.

sad stories upon the forehead. No wringing of the hands; knocking the breast, or wishing one's self unborn; all which are but the ceremonies of sorrow, the pomp and ostentation of an effeminate grief: which speak not so much the greatness of the misery, as the smallness of the mind. Sorrow then would have been as silent as thought, as severe as philosophy. It would have rested in inward senses, tacit dislikes; and the whole scene of it been transacted in sad and silent reflections.*


It is now indeed an unhappiness, the disease of the soul; it flies from a shadow, and makes more dangers than it avoids: it weakens the judgment and betrays the succours of reason. It was then the instrument of caution, not of anxiety; a guard, and not a torment to the breast. It fixed upon him who is only to be feared-God: and yet with a filial fear, which at the same time both fears and loves. It was awe without amazement, dread without distraction. There was then a beauty even in its very paleness. It was the colour of devotion, giving a lustre to reverence and a gloss to humility.+


ADAM was no less glorious in his externals; he had a beautiful body, as well as an immortal soul.

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