Love is perhaps the strongest of all the passions; at least, when it becomes violent, it is less subject to the control either of the understanding or will, than any of the rest. Fear, anger, and several other passions, are necessary for the preservation of the individual, but love is necessary for the continuation of the species itself; it was therefore proper that this passion should be deeply rooted in the human breast. Though love be a strong passion, it is seldom so rapid in its progress as several of the others. Few persons fall desperately in love all at once. We would therefore advise every one, before he tampers with this passion, to consider well the probability of his being able to obtain the object of his love. When that is not likely, he should avoid every occasion of increasing it. He ought immediately to fly the company of the beloved object; to apply his mind attentively to business or study; to take every kind of amusement; and above all, to endeavour, if possible, to find another object which may engage his affections, and which it may be in his power to obtain. There is no passion with which people are so ready to tamper as love, although none is more dangerous. Some men make love for amusement, others from mere vanity, or on purpose to shew their consequence with the fair. This is perhaps the greatest piece of cruelty which any one can be guilty of. What we eagerly wish for we easily credit. Hence the too credulous fair are often betrayed into a situation which is truly deplorable, before they are able to discover that the pretended lover was only in jest. But there is no jesting with this passion. When love is got to a certain height, it admits of no other cure but the possession of its object, which in this case ought always if possible to be obtained[52]. _Of Religious Melancholy._ Many persons of a religious turn of mind behave as if they thought it a crime to be cheerful. They imagine the whole of religion consists in certain mortifications, or denying themselves the smallest indulgence, even of the most innocent amusements. A perpetual gloom hangs over their countenances, while the deepest melancholy preys upon their minds. At length the fairest prospects vanish, every thing puts on a dismal appearance, and those very objects which ought to give delight afford nothing but disgust. Life itself becomes a burden, and the unhappy wretch, persuaded that no evil can equal what he feels, often puts an end to his own miserable existence.