ore fatal to happiness or virtue, than that confidence which
flatters us with an opinion of our own strength, and, by assuring us of
the power of retreat, precipitates us into hazard. Some may safely
venture farther than others into the regions of delight, lay themselves
more open to the golden shafts of pleasure, and advance nearer to the
residence of the Syrens; but he that is best armed with constancy and
reason is yet vulnerable in one part or other, and to every man there is
a point fixed, beyond which, if he passes, he will not easily return. It
is certainly most wise, as it is most safe, to stop before he touches
the utmost limit, since every step of advance will more and more entice
him to go forward, till he shall at last enter into the recesses of
voluptuousness, and sloth and despondency close the passage behind him.

To deny early and inflexibly, is the only art of checking the
importunity of desire, and of preserving quiet and innocence. Innocent
gratifications must be sometimes withheld; he that complies with all
lawful desires will certainly lose his empire over himself, and, in
time, either submit his reason to his wishes, and think all his desires
lawful, or dismiss his reason as troublesome and intrusive, and resolve
to snatch what he may happen to wish, without inquiring about right and
wrong.

No man, whose appetites are his masters, can perform the duties of his
nature with strictness and regularity; he that would be superior to
external influences must first become superior to his own passions.

When the Roman general, sitting at supper with a plate of turnips before
him, was solicited by large presents to betray his trust, he asked the
messengers whether he that could sup on turnips was a man likely to sell
his own country. Upon him who has reduced his senses to obedience,
temptation has lost its power; he is able to attend impartially to
virtue, and execute her commands without hesitation.

To set the mind above the appetites is the end of abstinence, which one
of the Fathers observes to be not a virtue, but the ground-work of
virtue. By forbearing to do what may innocently be done, we may add
hourly new vigour to resolution, and secure the power of resistance when
pleasure or interest shall lend their charms to guilt.

[1] See Rambler 110 and Note. Read also the splendid passage on monastic
seclusion in Adventurer 127. The recluses of the Certosa and
Chartreuse forsook the world for