The parable of the pilgrim written to a friend by Symon Patrick ...

CAP. XXXVII.

How after this the Pilgrim fell into a conceit that he did not profit in Vertue: and how his Guide rid him of it. That we must not make too much haste to perfection, but go leisurely in our way. How afterward he feared that he should never hold out to the end of his journey. Of the confident zeal which some men are possessed with∣all. A beginning of a new discourse about Faith.

AND now would you think after he had gone thus farr that he should be troubled with such an odd fancy as this, That he did not profit at all in Ver∣tue? Yet so it was, that one day he seriously told his Friend, He could not perceive that he had done any thing worthy of himself, or made any proficiency in the School of Piety wherein with so much care he had been bred.

No, said his companion? Nothing at all? That is very strange indeed and you must pardon me if I tell you that it is a melancholy conceit. For have you overcome so many temptations and yet done nothing? Do you love God and your neighbour so much as to have an infinite desire of doing good and yet not at all bettered? Have you suffered such a long Martyrdom and yet been lazy and idle? Have you had so many sights of Jerusalem and yet made no progress in your journy? Was not the last Prospect which you gained of that place, fairer then the former, and did it not seem nearer and closer to you? How should that come about, if you had stood still and not gone forward

towards it? Away with these black thoughts which the fumes of melancholy and nothing else do breathe into you. For my part I think you have profited so much; that I please my self to look upon you no less then a Gardiner doth to behold the Trees which he planted when they bring forth fruit; or a Father re∣joyces to see the children of his cares grown up to the stature of men and women. I desire only that you would cherish an honest emulation of your self: and cast a jealous eye on your own worth lest you should not be so good as your self. Do but labour not to come behind nor fall short of your own Vertue; Do but keep up close to your own example; and I shall think you such a proficient that I shall glory in the name of your Instructer. But for the present, come along with me, and let us refresh our selves a little in yonder fair Bowling-green; that we may excite those natural spirits which I see are heavily op∣pressed by that grim enemy, I just now named, of all pious Souls. And you shall soon see better thoughts in your Soul, when you have better blood in your Body.

With much ado he perswaded him to consent to this motion, and though thereby he received some re∣lief, yet the same dejected humor too much continued. For his mind being strongly impressed with those con∣ceits, they could not so soon be discharged and blotted out. Besides the continuance therefore of that exer∣cise and the use of some Physick; he thought good at seasonable times more particularly to remember all that the Gratious God had done for him. Bidding him to take great heed lest under the guise of this Hu∣mility (as it is esteemed) he proved unthankful for his

favours; and by studying to depress himself, he with∣all depressed the bounty of his goodness. He let him know also that the perfection which he aimed at (the want whereof might possibly be the root of this new trouble) was not to be attained by such violent, pas∣sionate and impetuous motions, but by leisurely, quiet and silent steps unto it. Did you mind, said he, the flowers as we passed along, how some were hidden in their green Cups; others were half-born; and the rest newly disclosed? Or have you never marked the Rose how it swells into small knobs or buttons; which when they are full grown, do rive by little and little until they have discovered all their treasures? Suppose you should unbutton it as soon as it swells, or go about suddenly to rip it up when it is opening it self, would you not endanger the spoiling of its beauties, and de∣prive your self of that wholly, which you desire too soon to enjoy? Your own case is nothing different; and if you will not be content to grow leisurely, you may miss of the happiness at which you would so spee∣dily arrive. You must not make so much haste as I have often told you. You must give your self leave to ripen; and allow a fair time for your proceeding to perfe∣ction. And in the mean season be not so unreasonable as to think you have nothing, because you have not all that is in your desires. It may seem strange perhaps at first sight, but it is certainly true; that the desire of much Vertue may prove inordinate. Though you may think that it can never be too passio∣nately pursued; yet assure your self, your desires are undue, when such an affliction of spirit attends upon them, as is wont to accompany the desire of other things. If the violence and fierceness of them rend your heart; there may be as much hazard in it, as

there is in tearing up a Rose when it is in labour to bring forth its leaves. That is, you will never be so good as other wayes you might; nor obtain so much by your own eagerness as would come of it self in a course of nature. I do not intend to quench your Zeal, nor is all this said to make you less fervent in your study to become more pious; or to move you to leave all to Gods Will without your own industry. But my meaning is, that just as you take order in your worldly affairs, so should you manage your self in those of your Soul. We must be diligent in the pursuit of such things as are needful for our Bodies; yet we ought not to afflict our selves with the anguish of cares and fears, and such like passions; but quietly put the issue of our labours into Gods hands, and patiently expect what he will bless them withall. Even so must you bestir your self with as much industry as you can for the good of your Soul; yet with this condition that if you cannot acquire all that you would, you do not suffer your heart to fall into a fit of impatience, vexa∣tion, and fretting at your present estate; which must needs be joyned with a great distrust of God. By this means while you would avoid one fault, you run into another. And you keep your self with such violent hands from compassing your desires, that you seek for Perfection by the means of the greatest Imperfection; and would redress your disorders by constantly living in them. You must thank God therefore for what he gives, and patiently wait upon him for more when he pleases to bestow it. And I am apt to think that Humility and Patience in the company of our imper∣fections when we do our best indeavour to out-grow them; is as acceptable to God as the nobler Improve∣ments of others that complain of no such imperfections.

For the one is the Gift of God as well as the other; and he that gives them to be without such defects, gives you Grace to bear them meekly when they can∣not be helpt.

I would have you, my Friend, not to cease to fol∣low the bravest Examples; and when you cannot be Master of all you desire, yet still to continue your de∣sire. But be not disgusted at your self, I beseech you, that you are in a state of desire, and not of per∣fect enjoyment. Let not this take away your peace, that you are not in the foremost ranks of those that are marching to Jerusalem. Be not cast down and sore∣ly afflicted within your self, that you do not advance so fast as you would. Do not follow your Saviour with a sowre heart, dejected looks, and faln wings, as ma∣ny are wont to do; who perpetually lament their faults, and cannot yet amend them. But render him most humble thanks that he hath given you the knowledge of them, and an earnest longing to be with∣out them, and a study to shake them off; together with good hopes that they may be cured; or that as some go to Heaven in the height of Vertue, so others may accompany them with as much as they could possibly attain. All have not the same Temper, the same Diversions, nor the same Businesses in the World; and therefore be content with that degree which your condition will permit you to rise unto, and resolve not to vex your self unreasonably about that which is not in your power to remedy. You have often heard, I believe, that there is no Peace to be had here but by Patience. And in my opinion he said true who told one of his Disciples; That it is no Patience when a man is content to bear with his neighbour, if withall he be

not content to bear with himself. Not to the end (as I told you) that he should indulge himself in idleness, and not strive to grow better; but that all the pains he takes to be so, should not end in sorer pains and greater torments because he is yet no better.

Many other things he added to the same effect; and at last prayed him, that if he was faln into such a dis∣like of himself as to be weary of long discourses as well as of his condition; yet at least he would observe these three things, not unworthy of his notice, though they were the advice of Heathens. Hecaton hath this saying. Askest thou wherein I have profited? I have begun to be a friend to my self. Such a man hath gotten very much. He will never be alone, but alwayes hath a good Companion with him. And he that is a friend to himself, will not fail to be a friend to every body else. I believe you cannot deny, that you might have made this Answer to the same Question. You have begun to take a great care of your Soul. Nay, you have a long time made it your business to do it good. And if you ask other men, they will tell you; that you are a friend to them, and have done them also a great deal of good. How came you to grow into this fami∣liarity with your Soul? What made you to let it have so much of your company? sure it is a sign of some proficiency that you are so well acquainted with it. And this brings to my mind another mark of your in∣crease in Vertue which is visible even in your com∣plaints. It is an argument (saith Seneca) of a mind that is changed for the better; when it is acquainted with those faults which it was ignorant of before. To which I may add a third. Do you not will and will alway the same things? Are not those things the matter of

your choice to day, which yesterday you desired? This is a testimony of your profiting, to be constant to your self. And therefore take heed I beseech you of this sowre loathing of your self; for in time it will breed a dis∣like of your duty too, and spoil your appetite to any thing that is good. While you are inordinately troubled that you cannot do as you would, you will not do what you can. And in a multitude of confused desires after a better condition; you will waste the time which ought to be spent in doing your best in your present estate.

With these good Counsels and other Remedies too long to be related, he recovered the poor man to a bet∣ter state of health; and brought him to conceive a better opinion of himself. And yet his health was not so confirm'd, but that afterward he fell into a little distemper, and languished under a new trouble; very near of kin to this, and which it brings to my mind. It was a great despondency arising from the observa∣tion of some weaknesses he felt in his Soul, which bred in him a diffidence and distust of his own constancy; and a fear that he should never hold out in his Jour∣ney, but at last sit down short of Jerusalem. This madet him exceeding pensive, and to go drooping a gread while; because he thought that every mile would prove his last; or at least that he should never be able to travel so long till he had finished his course. Which jealousie discovering it self by some means or other unto his friend (though he did what he could to con∣ceal it) He was moved with a great deal of pitty to∣wards him. And beseeched him earnestly not to let every suspition of himself which started up in his Soul, make such a deep impression there; before he

had advised whether there were cause to entertain it or no. For if you had asked me about this matter as soon as you moved the doubt, I could soon have made you give your self satisfaction; and laid such a scene of new thoughts in your mind, that you should have remembred the former no more. For, tell me, I pray you, who brought you thus far in this long Journey wherein you are engaged? Was it your self; or was it some body else? If it was your self, you know upon what reasons it was begun; and if they were worth any thing, they may make you to go on. And it should seem also that you have more strength than you ima∣gine, if you have travelled so many leagues, without any support; upon your own leggs. But I perceive you so ill opinionated of your self, that you are incli∣ned by that if there were no other reason; to ascribe your happy progress to some higher cause. Thither let us go then; and ask of God, if he uses to forsake the work of his own hands; and to lose all that he hath done already, for want of doing a little more. Will he now forsake you, after you have served him so many years? Will he disown one that hath been so long a Client to him, and still seeks for his wonted protection? Doth he love his Friends no better, than to shake them off when they grow old. If I would at all have suspected his Constancy, it should have been in the beginning of our acquaintance; and not now that he hath been tryed for half an Age. Was there any reason at first why he should bear a good will to you, or was there none? If there was none, then there needs none to move him now to continue his Love. If there was any, then there is a greater reason now; because he hath loved you so long, and you are also more wor∣thy his Love. Do him the honour then that you

would do a friend, to believe that he is not fickle and inconstant. Or do but justice to him, and think that he is not unfaithful, but true to his word. And then as long as your Lord lives, you shall live also. And he that hath begun a good work in you, will perfect it no doubt till he come to give you his rewards.

I know you will tell me that you do not question his faithfulness and stedfastness to his friends; but you have been unkind to him, and so have forfeited his good esteem and Love. And let it be so, since it is your pleasure; that you have not behaved your self so gratefully as you ought: But is he of such a disposi∣tion, that he can never be won to a Reconciliation? I pray have a care what you say, for fear you make good men better than God; who are wont to forgive their Brother when he repents, not only seven times, but seventy times seven. And, say I beseech you, hath he not pardoned you heretofore very lovingly when you humbly and obediently intreated him to pass by your offences? When you were one of the World, did he not then draw you to himself without your desire; and over-matched your sins by his infinite, omnipotent Goodness? What should hinder then his kindness and clemency towards you, now that you are become a man separate from the World? If the Mire and Dirt wherein we wallowed could not hinder, but he would needs take us in his arms, and place us in his bosome; will he shake us off and throw us out from thence, now that we are washed and made clean? Will he not rather wipe off a speck of Dirt that hath light upon us, than cast us down into the Mire again? Can you think that he who took in strangers to his house, and gave them kind entertainment; will turn

his Children out of doors? After we have done him so many services, and laboured for his Love; will he thrust us out in an heat of anger, and quite casheere us his family? O absurd suspition! A jealousie un∣worthy of such an excellent Father, and unbecoming Sons that have so nobly and tenderly been brought up by him. If you were to treat with a person like your self, you must first think him very bad; or else you would not be so injurious as to harbour such thoughts of him. You must judge him very froward, who will fall out with you upon every sleight occasion; and ne∣ver return with you into grace any more. Do not impute then a thing so unnatural unto God; nor so much wrong his infinite Goodness, as to take Him to be of so harsh a disposition; that we must never expect his favour more, if we chance but to offend him. No, if you can but believe that he loves himself, you need not fear that he should thus abandon you. You have cost him too much, that he should so easily part with you. He hath bought you at so excessive a rate; that you may be assured he will not willingly lose you. The breeding of you hath stood him in so much care; that he will not spare a little more to keep you.

And if you are thus secure of God's Love, I pray tell me what you think should separate you from him? Can you really think that you your self shall have a mind to leave him, and return back to the World from whence you came? You cannot I am confident remain two minutes in this perswasion, if you be not forsaken of your Reason, and left to the impostures of Fancy and wild Imagination. For what is that can dissolve that league of Friendship that is

so solemnly and religiously sworn betwixt you? Is there any thing in him that can disgust you, and make him seem less amiable in your eyes? Can you fear that his conversation may grow tedious, and prove a bur∣den to you in the conclusion? or what prejudice can you receive by loving of him; seeing you believe that All Good is in him, and that he calls us to his own Kingdom and Glory? I am verily perswaded you think that you cannot cease to love me, to whom you profess your self so much beholden. And yet what am I in compare with Him; or what obligations have you received from me that can be so strong to hold you, as those that he hath laid upon you? I may change and not be so good as I am; or not so full of love to you. Some damage may appear that you may be in danger to receive by loving me; which I can never be able to repair. But there is not so much as a shadow of turning in him. He is alwayes the same Fulness, and the same Love; infinitely desirous of our Happi∣ness. And as for any loss that we may possibly sustain for his sake; it cannot be so great, but he can make us a recompence for it incomparably greater. Do not hold your self then in such suspition, unless you can think that you have taken a wrong measure of him: especially since you are of opinion that you cannot but love me to the end; and also have so lately told me that you was satisfied the love of me would teach you to love God the better.

I should proceed to remember you also that the wayes of Vertue which you have to tread are so plea∣sant, that you will not be inclined to relinquish them and divert into any other path: and that you can never think sit so to disparage this noble life, as to

leave it after you have made a very long trial of it: and that you will not endure to retreat with so much shame as you will necessarily draw upon your self, by abandoning a course which you have so highly com∣mended: All this I say and much more I should call to your mind but that you seem to discharge me of that trouble by the chearfulness which I observe to return into your countenance. I see that you begin to believe that you shall persevere; and that you reco∣ver your antient comfort; That stronger is he who dwelleth in you, then he who dwelleth in the world. The Devil begins already to fly from you; and by the light of these truths we have chased away the cloud that hung over you. Carry them therefore I intreat you ever in your mind; and let me hear no more of these dejections of spirit, which are as unreasonable as they are uncomfortable both to your self and others. I'le say no more of this matter, after I have told you a story of an antient Pilgrim in the way to Jerusalem; to which therefore you had best attend. It is St. Peter I mean, who you know had a mind to walk with our Saviour upon the water; which was no easie thing to do: and yet by the power of his Master was indued with such a vertue as to tread safely upon that yield∣ing element. He went a pretty way while the face of the water was smooth and even; and it seemed no∣thing different from the solid earth. Untill the wind began to be loud, and the plain way upon the water was turned into Hills and Dales, we hear of no shrikes; but then he cryed out and his heart and his feet began to sink together. But was there any rea∣son to fear drowning after he had walked half a fur∣long? or to imagine it would not bear him up the next half as well as it had done the former? none at

all sure. The winds that blew, and the rough waves that began to lift up themselves; were no less sub∣ject to that power which upheld him, then the smooth and quiet surface of the Sea. It was as easie to walk upon a Billow, as upon the still water. The bluster∣ing wind had no more power there, then the silent Aire. Whence then proceeded this change, that the man who lately trampled upon the Sea and gloried over the deep; doth now feel himself slip into the bo∣some of it, and is in danger to be swallowed up by it. The firm ground which he thought was under him, is gone; and he is left to the mercy of the angry waves. Was not the change within before his feet felt any? Did not a violent fear lay hold upon him; and did he not let go his hold of the hand which before sustained him? Yes, this was the business. If his Faith had been as strong as once it was, his condition had been as safe in the midst of the storm, as before it was in the calm. When this Anchor broke, the waters began to suck him in. They challenged him then for their proper goods; because his Faith was in a manner already shipwrackt: But did his Gratious Master so part with him? Would he lose a servant because he was weak, and wanted confidence in him? Or did he delay to help him and only hold him up by the chin when all his body was in the deep? No; when he cryed for re∣lief and beseeched to be saved, he instantly put forth his hand, caught hold of him and rescued him from the jaws of death. He only chides him because he doubt∣ed; but neither lets him sink into the belly of the waters; nor stayes his succours till he was in greater need of them. He straightway lends him more po∣wer; and chuses rather to incourage a little Faith, then let him perish because he had no more.

Now this story methinks bears a great resemblance with that condition wherein you and many more be∣sides have been. We have a great mind to go to Je∣sus and for that end to walk here in the World as he walked. But it is very much that we who are so earthly and have such ponderous affections to things here be∣low, should be able to tread them under our feet; and keep our selves above the soft pleasures of the flesh in∣to which we are apt to sink. This seems no less a wonder, then it was for a body of earth to walk upon the face of the Sea, which uses to swallow down such heavy things that come into it. Whence is it I pray that we have this strength, and can lift up our selves above our natural propensions to lead the life of God? Is it from our own Vertue? or rather must we not ac∣knowledge that we receive it from that voice which saith to us as unto that Apostle of our Lord, Come? This sure is the cause to which it must be ascribed. And it cannot be of less efficacy afterward, then it was at the first; but when he still saith, Follow me, he gives a greater power and force unto us so to do. But how comes it about then that you and others begin some∣times to sink; or at least to imagine that you are falling into the World; and that the sensual life will at last draw you into its embraces again? Truly, there is the same cause of it, that there was in him; and that is Diffidence. You forget your self and distrust God; and that works a decay of the Vertue and ability that was in your heart. You regard more the winds and the waves, the difficulties and temptations that you are incompassed withall, then the power and the love of Jesus which attends upon you; and so you begin first to fear and then to fall. Yet behold what a loving and kind Master you serve. He doth not take this so

ill at your hands as to let you quite go; and fall still lower and lower into the water, untill you be drown'd: But if you look earnestly upon him and call to him, and intreat him to take pitty upon you and not to leave you; he gives you his hand presently and sets you in safety. Though now you have been very di∣strustful of his goodness; and have fainted in your mind as if he would not regard you; yet his tender∣ness is so great that he bids me assure you he will not forsake you; nor fail to support and help your feeble soul. Only in his name I must a little chide you; and give you a gentle reproof in his own words, saying, O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt? I say no more, because I see you are sorrowful and hope you will give me no more the like trouble.

Indeed replyed the Pilgrim I deserve a more severe reprehension, and you deal too favourably with me when you give me so mild a rebuke. But I suppose you use me thus tenderly that I may be sensible of the gratious nature of our Lord; who hath compassion on our weakness and is loath to discourage those by any sharpness of his, who are too apt to invent over many discouragements to themselves. And truly I am so apprehensive of his lenity and behold also so great a portion of it in your self; that were it not upon that account, I should again be apt to stand in fear of crea∣ting not only you but him a greater trouble then you are able to bear. I am you see very foolish, alwayes complaining and exercising your patience. I have so many scruples and little fears; am so unconstant and wavering in my thoughts; so frequently sick and out of order; so forgetful also of your counsels; that perhaps by this time you begin to reflect and consider

how great a burden you have drawn upon your self by undertaking the charge of me. And I pray tell me sincerely whether you are not a little weary of me, and do not wish your self rid of such an impediment; for I can scarce call my self your Friend any longer, but your Trouble or your Burden. Tell me I say, is not this a fitter name for me then any else? And can you find in your heart to own that sweet relation to him any more; who hath made himself so unpleasing on all occasions, and nothing but disquieted your hap∣py repose? I doubt if you could see my heart, and be∣hold what a seed of new troubles and doubts lodges there; you would tell me plainly that you shall never enjoy your self till you be divorced from me.

You surprise me strangely, said the Good old man, and did I not consider that you have suspected the kindness of God himself I should be so amazed at this alteration in you as to lose the use of words and not know what to say to you. Little did I think that I should ever have had an occasion to answer such a que∣stion as that you propose; for sure you never discerned that I had a mind to be separated from you. And truly I never discerned any such thing in my self; nor have you given me cause to be less your Friend then heretofore; unless it be by this unfriendly jealousie, which as I told you a little while ago I thought you would never have entertained. And since I see it pro∣ceeds rather from an ill opinion of your self, then any you have of me I recall that word; and pray you to believe that you are as dear unto me as ever; that is my friend. And what I pray you is the office of a friend, if not to relieve the wants of those he loves; and to bear those burdens with them which they are not able

to carry alone? If they themselves therefore by rea∣son of any heaviness of Spirit, prove the burden that he must sustain, He will not complain of it. It is their un∣happiness he knows both that they are so heavy, and are in danger they think to be a load to him; and He will not let them be more unhappy, by becoming heavy himself, and groaning under that easie weight which they lay upon him. Easie I call it, because it is a pleasure to do any kindness for our friends; and the pleasure encreases proportionably to the pains that we take in doing of it. You shall hear the Judgement of a Philospher in this case if you please; and of one that loved ease more then any of his fellows. Though a wise man he thought might be content with himself; yet notwithstanding he grant∣ed that his happiness would be greater with a friend. Of such a companion he cannot but be desirous, if it be for no other end, but to exercise his amity; and that so great a vertue may not remain without use. He doth not chuse a friend (saith Epicurus himself) to have some to assist him when he is sick, or to succour him if he be in prison, or such necessities. But contra∣ry wise, that he may have one whom he may help and com∣fort in the like distresses. For he hath an evil intenti∣on that only respects himself when he makes Friendship. And so shall he end his friendship as he begun the same. He that hath purchased himself a friend to the intent that he may be succoured by him in prison; will take his flight as soon as he feels that he is released of his bonds. Both the chains shall be knockt off together, those of his prison and those of his friendship. These are the friend∣ships which we vulgarly call Temporary, being made only to serve a turn. He that is made a friend for profit sake, shall please as long as he may be profitable; and so

they who are in felicity see themselves inviron'd with a multitude of these followers; But where the distressed dwell, there is nothing but solitude. For such manner of friends alwayes avoid those places where they may be proved. It is necessary that the beginning and the end have a correspondence. He that hath begun to be a friend because it is expedient; he that hath thought there is a gain in friendship beside it self; may well be suborn'd against the same by the appearance and offers of a greater gain. For what cause then do I entertain a friend? To the end I may have one for whom I may dye; whom I may accompany in banishment, and for whose life and preservation I may expose my self to any danger. For the other, which only regards profit and makes ac∣count of that which may turn to its own commodity; it is rather a Traffique then Friendship. Certain it is that Friendship hath in some sort a similitude and like∣ness to the affection of Lovers. Whose scope is neither gain, nor greatness, nor glory; but despising all other considerations, love it self inkindles in them a desire of the beloved form, under hopes of a mutual and reciprocal amity. Thus he.

Unless you will number me then among those Sum∣mer friends which he speaks of; or think that friend∣ship in me is feebler then it was in Pagans; you must not hold me any longer in suspition. And indeed if you did but know how great a favour you do me, in letting me know your griefs, and making me the Witness of your Conscience, and relying up∣on me for advice, and thereby giving me an oppor∣tunity to serve you the best I can; you would pre∣sently throw away all these Imaginations which the enemy of Souls, and of Friendship would instill into

you. For my part, I did not so lightly and in sport receive you into my conduct; as that any difficulty or a multitude of them should make my employment tedious to me. Nay, how can it be irksome; when you your self acknowledge that the labours of Love are all pleasure, and carry their own rewards in them. You may think perhaps that love grows old as well as all other things, and that time works its decay and renders it feeble and weak. Thus Attalus was wont to say that it is far more pleasant to make a friend, then to have one. As it is more agreeable to a Pain∣ters fancy, to draw his lines, then to have finished the picture. After he hath painted indeed he possesses the fruit of his Art, but he took pleasure in the Art it self when he painted. Just as the youth of our chil∣dren is more fruitful to us, but their infancy is more sweet. But assure your self I do not live by any of these Maxims. Friendship is like Wine; the older it is the better. It grows more pure by age; its spi∣rits are more disingaged; and it warms the heart more powerfully then when it was but new and green. Nay, your friendship is more pleasant too, whatsoever you may think; now that it is grown; then it was in its childhood. I enjoy the remembrance of those pleasures and have some new ones besides: just as a Painter thinks on his Art when he beholds the piece that he hath brought to perfection. I beseech you then if you have any love to me that you will not call in question mine to you. And if all this will not sa∣tisfie you; let me intreat you for the Love of our Lord, that you will ask him whether I do not love you. I know he is so much a friend to Truth and unto Love too (not to say to you and me) that he will do me the favour to perswade you that I do. And

therefore let not the Evil one who loves nothing less then our Friendship, sow this jealousie in your heart that I grow weary of you. But be confident that as our Lord loves you, so he imparts true love to me; and that if the armes of these two can do any thing, you shall be carried safe to Jeru∣salem.

And now since I have told you my very heart, let me know I pray what further doubt it is that trou∣bles yours. It cannot be so great sure that I should not find a remedy for it: and you need not fear that it will procure me too great a trouble; since it is be∣come as you see one of my chief pleasures to ease you of your troubles. It must be so indeed said the Pil∣grim if you have any pleasure at all: For I live as if I had nothing else to do but to find some new occa∣sion to perplex my self, that I may be disintangled by you. You think that I am advanced a great way toward Jerusalem, and truly I hope that I am gone fur∣ther then I lately thought my self. But alas I am no∣thing so strong, so steady, much less so wise as you seem sometimes to imagine. A little thing you see shakes me; and there are lesser matters that you have not yet been privy to that put my thoughts into confusion. The very puff of a confident mans breath doth indan∣ger to make me reel. And though I understand my self very well in those things wherein you have instructed me, yet the meer zeal and earnestness wherewith some persons assault me, when there is no reason in what they say; is apt to make me suspect and distrust my self, nay to fall into a trembling lest all should not be well with me. This you will say is a small matter and not worthy to be called a trouble; (and truly I am glad

and thank God for your sake that it is no more) yet when I give you an instance of it, you will think I had some cause to complain as I did; though not so much as my words in the late passion wherein I was, might import. Your discourse of Faith and Confidence in God (for which I am obliged unto you) revived at first the memory of my weakness instead of giving me strength; and made me think with my self, Alas! I have made it a Question whether I have any Faith or no. For to tell you the truth, I met lately with an acquaintance of mine (when you were absent about some business) who would needs perswade me that I was drawn away, and was no true Believer; because I described Faith unto him in that manner as you had taught me. I told him that I was heartily perswaded that Jesus was the Son of God; and that he had taught us all his Will; and that he having dyed for our sins, did by the same death confirm unto us great and precious promises; and that he lives and raigns in Heaven for ever; and that he will give eternal life to all that obey him; and that hereupon I was become obedient to his voice, and quitting all present enjoy∣ments, was willing to follow him to the death. And yet after all this he mis-called my Perswasion by a word which I think he did not understand; saying that I was indued only with an Historical Faith which would not save me. I explained that word as well as I could, and told him that a belief of the History of the Gospel (of all that is related there) when it produces obedience to the Laws of it, was Saving Faith. But he smiled at my ignorance; (as he esteemed it) and told me that the Faith which justifies, and so saves us, was only a recumbency on Christ; an application of his merits to my Soul; with a number of such like phrases:

the obscurity or lameness, or danger of which, though I represented to him, yet would he not yield a jot; nor cease to importune me that I would take heed of the danger of unbelief. And indeed I knowing him to be a good man himself; and he affirming that all godly men of a long time had been of his mind; and using such confidence and vehemence in his words; and sometimes thundring also so terribly in my ears the danger wherein my Soul was: I must confess such was my weakness, that I trembled a little though I knew no cause; and was afraid that I had been mis-lead out of the company of so many Believers as he told me of. This hath been a double trouble to me; sometimes to think that I should be afraid without reason; and sometimes suspecting that there may be reason in what he saith, and my eyes so blinded that I cannot see it. Now I have opened my heart to you very freely; and I pray be not angry that I should doubt either of your fidelity, or of your ability in the instructions you long since gave me.

There is no cause for this Petition, said the Good Father, I am willing you should hear what every bo∣dy saith, for then you will see the difference. It is bet∣ter a great deal that you should doubt; than that you should blindly resign up your self to all my dictates. I am none of those that love to be believed because I say it; nor that raise the sound of my voice, to gain an advantage of them, whose modesty will not let them be so loud. I will leave that priviledge to such men as are in need of it, having nothing else to serve them; to some of whom I doubt your acquaintance is made a Proselyte.* 1.1 For there are a company of men in the World (as hath been noted long since by a Wise man)

who love the salutation of Rabbi, or Master; and that not in Ceremony or Complement, but in an inward Au∣thority which they seek over mens minds; in drawing them to depend upon their Opinions; and to look for knowledge only at their lips. It is not the Lord Bishops (as he speaks) but these men, that are the Successors of Diotrephes; the great Lovers of preheminence. They will be Lords over mens Faith; and overawe them into a belief of all that they preach. None may dissent from their assertions; unless he be content to bear the brand of an Ʋnbeliever. It is all one to forsake the Gospel, and to forsake their Opinions. You leave Christ if you leave them; and the Faith which was once delivered to the Saints is solely in their keeping. That which makes them the more usurp upon others, is, that they have the hap to light up∣on such natures who readily receive that which is confi∣dently spoken; and stifly maintain that which once they have embraced. Such are men of younger years, and su∣perficial understandings; that are carried away with partial respect of persons, or with the enticing appearance of godly names and pretences. There being few (as he observes) who follow the things themselves, more than the names of the things, and most the names of the Masters. Nay, most do side themselves with these Masters before they know their right hand from their left. And they skip from meer Ignorance, to a violent Prejudice: from knowing nothing to an Opinion that they know all things: or at least to a confidence that they are not mista∣ken in what they know. This strong prejudice is rarely overcome: for the honourable names of Sincerity, single∣ness of heart, godliness, and the glory of free grace being put in the front, and marching before their Doctrines; they can never be touched by those that have a mind to assault them, but those Holy things will first be thought to suffer a

Violation. But as I intend to have nothing to do with these Lords and Masters; so I would have you to with∣draw your self from the thraldom of their subjects. I may well be allowed to bid you not to follow them; seeing I would not have you follow me without rea∣son. Exempt your self from the number of those that are sheepishly led whither confident men will have them; or that are hurried away with the blasts of a furious Zeal; or that are wont to tell voices, and not to weigh them. If there be any thing that I am to accuse you of in this particular, it is only that which you have confessed; that you dare not (as I also noted heretofore) trust your own reason; and adhere to the clear and well-poized resolutions of your own mind, if any body raise a clamour against them. There is a certain Modesty in your Soul which is very com∣mendable; if it do not betray you into the hands of those that are so impudent as to out-face you. It will do you service if it only restrain you from their pe∣remptoriness; (which you have as much right to use as themselves if it were fit and decent) but it ought not to make you yield to them, because they are so confident as to press for your consent with great ear∣nestness, and without any reason. Time I hope will both embolden your Modesty, and also settle your Notions better: making you to see that they excel the vain janglings, and the loud noises of the World, as much as light excelleth darkness. And to give you your due, you did well conceive and remember what I formerly said, which I do not now recant. Still I tell you that he is a Believer unto Salvation, who being perswaded of the truth of all that is said of our Saviour, and all that he hath said in the Gospel, abandons all other interests, and studies only to be obedient to him in all

things. Let them say what they will of Recumbency and Reliance upon him, I think this man relyes upon him, and trusts him more than any body else; who upon the meer credit of his word is willing to relin∣quish all that he possesses, for that which Christ hath promised; to leave all that he sees and feels, for that which is invisible. This let us maintain to be the most soveraign degree of Faith; which will lift us up as high as Heaven, when the idle and lazy reliance of bold pretenders will let them sink into the deepest place in Hell.

Notes

• * 1.1

  Lord Ba∣con.