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

CAP. XXVII.

How the Pilgrim fell into a great sadness; and how strangely it was cured by an unexpected meeting with his Guide. Who discourses of the nature of sensible joyes. And at last upon his desire contracts a particu∣lar Friendship with the Pilgrim.

IN such thoughts or rather dreams as these he spent a little portion of his time with great delight. And now having vanquished so many enemies and impedi∣ments in his way of divers sorts, he was willing to be∣lieve that he should be molested no more, but pass in perfect peace to the Vision of Peace. A great many dayes he remained in these pleasant expectations, and went a good way onwards to his resting place, without the least weariness of any part about him. He seldome departed from meditation but either with his mind illuminated with new light from heaven, or his will inflamed with a new ardor, or his whole heart steeped in new sweetness. And though sundry new enemies also attempted him, yet such a profound peace seemed to have taken possession of his heart, that they could not move the least disturbance there. The joyes that he felt made him despise all baits of pleasure which lay in his way. The Conquests which he had got, made him think himself above the scorn and laughter of the World. And though he was sometimes bitterly re∣proached, yet he comforted himself with this that they did but prepare him matter for new triumphs. But he could never be drawn to any other contests where∣in the Generality of men were then very zealously in∣gaged:

nor did he affect any Victories among the disputers of the World. He lived in love and peace∣ableness with all his fellow-travellers. He thought himself so rich also in these graces, that it was no trou∣ble to him to be poor. And he had such a sense from whence he received them, that they were no temptati∣on neither to be proud. But yet for all this it chanced that some exercises of Devotion to which he had bound himself being one day omitted, either through indis∣position, or by reason of some lawful if not necessary occasions which diverted him; he was cast into such a pensiveness of mind as proved at last a great afflicti∣on to him. For he indulged to himself those thoughts because they pleased him at first; but by too frequent reflections they grew to a melancholy mood, and from thence proceeded to a dull and listless temper of Spirit. In this condition you must needs think his joyes were again abated, which added very much to the trouble of his mind: and indeed they fell in time to so low an ebb, that he feared they would never rise again, but leave him at last quite dry and without one drop of comfort. And so truly in the issue of things it proved: for as they forsook him, so he was tempted again to for∣sake his way, which was now become but irksome to him without those refreshments. The pleasure and rellish that he was wont to feel in holy duties was quite gone. In stead of clearness there succeeded darkness; dryness of spirit took the place of affection; and in the room of joy and gladness he was loaded with nothing but groans and heaviness. He often pro∣fessed that he could feel nothing at all; but remained as a man that had lost the use of his soul. And there∣fore though he continued for a while to pray and per∣form his duty in other things as well as he could, yet

finding that he was but like a man that drinks very much, when the liquor hath no tast, and gives him no pleasure in the going down; he was tempted to throw it all away, and thought he had as good not do those things at all as do them with no delight. And accor∣dingly he gave up himself wholly to be tortured by his own thoughts, which imployed themselves in no∣thing else but making sad representations of the misery of this state: which you must needs think was so grie∣vous that it is not possible to draw a picture of it. For since the soul is of far greater force then the body; the pains and anguish which arises in it, must needs be far more pungent and afflictive then those which touch the outward man. He suffered a kind of Martyrdom every day: or rather he was continually crucified and had nothing but Gall and Vinegar given him to drink. He thought he had reason when he complained of greater pains then the Martyrs endured. For they be∣ing inwardly illuminated and touched from heaven, found the highest comforts in their torments, the greatest liberty in their imprisonments, and in the midst of flames the divinest ardors of Love in their hearts which like a greater fire put the other out. But he poor Soul, though alwayes denying his own desires, breaking of his will in pieces, lying upon a rack, and fast nailed to the Cross where the body of sin was bleeding to death; yet found his Spirit in horrid tor∣ments and deprived of those divine delights, which cheared the bright souls of the blessed Martyrs, and made them shine with a greater luster then did their fires. But since I cannot express the soreness of this Agony in which he a long time lay; I shall only add that it was so great, that one day being quite tired and spent; he fell into a kind of trance, and remained as

immoveable for some space, as if he had been dead. And a blessed occasion this was; though all his ac∣quaintance that were come to comfort him, imagined he would then have expired. For he thought he saw a man coming to him with a very smiling aspect (as though he knew him) who bad him get up, and go as fast as he could to a certain Oratory that was not far off, and in his way; where he should meet with some relief.

When he was come to himself; he thought this Vi∣sion (or what else you please to call it) was in stead of an Oracle, and had discovered to him one of the great∣est causes that he continued so long ill of these grie∣vous distempers. And that was; That while he afflicted and tormented himself with the remembrance of what was passed; he neglected to implore the help of God with such constant prayers as was nieet, for the redress of his present evils, and prevention of the like in time to come. This began to make a vehement commotion in his mind; for he saw there was nothing truer, then that We are apt to pray least, when we have greatest need of it; and are wont to spend that time in looking upon our sores, which should be imployed in looking up to Heaven, for its Balm to drop into them. And truly so lively were the colours wherein this was set before his eyes; that he was ready to burst into tears and pour out his Soul there, before he stir'd from the bed whereon he lay. But remem∣bring presently the voyce (to which he thought him∣self so much beholden) had bid him make what speed he could to a particular place, where he might address his prayers to his Saviour; he arose and dressed him∣self without any further delay. And though he knew that our Lord hears the suits of his humble Clients

every where, yet he would not be disobedient to the directions he had received; but made haste to go and see what good might wait for him in that Oratory or Chappel which had been built in the rode by some charitable person, for the use of devout passengers to Jerusalem.

And no sooner had he entred within the doors but he fell upon his knees; and there sent out his Soul in such strong and passionate desires, as left all words be∣hind; which were not able to accompany them. If the throng of his thoughts (which upon this occasion were assembled) had not been so great, you might have re∣ceived a better account of them. But truly such was the violence wherewith they pressed forth and so great were their numbers, that he found it very difficult either then to range them in any order, or afterward to recall them distinctly to his mind. Yet some of them carried this sense, as I have been certainly informed by him from whom he hides none of the secrets of his Soul.

O thou Almighty Goodness, the Father of the Fatherless, the Patron of the Poor, the Protector of Strangers; cast thy gracious eyes upon a miserable Pilgrim, who all torn and ragged implores thy mercy. When I look on my self I dare scarce be so bold as to lift up mine eyes unto thee. When I think in what condition I am and what I have done, it so confounds me; that I can hardly think of any thing else. It is the greatness of my misery alone that con∣strains me to this presumption of prostrating my self at thy feet. The weight of which oppresses me so much, that it hath left me little more power, then to expose my self before thee, as an object of thy wondrous Charity. O what

a Wilderness am I faln into where I can find no water! What Desarts are these, in which all comfort forsakes my Soul! Into what strange regions am I wandred, where there is nothing but darkness, and the vallies of the shad∣dow of death! O the terrors that surround me! how dreadful are they? O the affliction and torment which I indure! what tongue can express it? my Soul is parcht and dryed up. My spirits are consumed by the heat of thy displeasure. May I not now beg one drop of comfort from thee?— O my God, my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and barren land. I remember thy loving kindness in former times: I call to mind the dayes of old: And I cannot but wish at least, to see thy power and thy glory so as I have seen thee in the Sanctuary. There is none in Heaven that I desire but thee, nor on earth besides thee. My Soul followeth hard after thee: O when wilt thou come unto me? O hide not thy face from thy ser∣vant, for I am in trouble: hear me speedily. I am poor and needy, make haste unto me O God: thou art my helper and deliverer; O Lord, make no tarrying. I am come a great way from all my friends and kindred, and there is none to pitty me. O my God, be not thou far from me: draw nigh unto my soul and redeem it. I am poor and sorrowful: let thy Salvation set me up on high. For thou who searchest the hearts knowest, that I am travelling no∣whither but to thee. All the world have I left, that I may find my happiness only in thee. And at thy heavenly mo∣tion it was, that I undertook this long journey. I am be∣come a Pilgrim meerly in obedience to thy Will. Yea thus far I acknowledge thou hast most graciously conducted me. Hitherto I have been highly favoured and wonderfully helped by thee. And wilt thou now at last abandon me, who have ahandon'd all things else for the sake of thee? Hast thou called me from mine own Country and Fathers

house, that I may perish by famine here; and only for want of thee? O my Lord, give me leave to plead for a Soul which once I thought was dear unto thee. Pitty, O pitty an Heart, which thou hast made too great for all the World and cannot be satisfied with less than thee. Canst thou see it dye for lack of one smile from thee? yea, canst thou let it dye of love to thee? for that hath brought me thus far to seek thee. And wilt thou suffer it to dye at thy feet? Canst thou endure to behold it perish in thy arms, into which it now throws it self with all the force it hath? Shall it miscarry full of prayers and longing after thee? Shall it expire in cryes and tears which it pours out for thy mercy? O where are thy Bowels? what are become of thine antient loving-kindnesses? Are they all forfeited by one offence against thee? O my God I cannot think so hardly of thee. I begin to live me thinks, because thou permittest these adresses to thee. It inspires me with some hopes to find these holy breathings in me. It rejoyces me much that I feel thee drawing my very heart after thee. O take it, I beseech thee, take it quite away from me unto thy self. Shape it after thine own heart; and make it such as thou canst imbrace. Create in me a clean heart O God, and renew in me a right spirit. Cast me not away from thy presence and take not thy holy Spirit from me. Restore unto me the joy of thy Salvation; and uphold me with thy free Spirit.

He was proceeding in the words of that Penitential Psalm, being once got into it; but that a flood of tears stopt the passage of his words, and sighs and groans supplyed their place. In which having vented him∣self a while; it fell out that the tyde of his passion be∣ing a little faln and his sighs growing something silent; he should hear the voyce of another person that was drowned before in his lowder cryes; which invited

him first to listen and then to cast his eyes, as wet as they were, that way from whence it came to his ears. And so turning his head a little aside, who should he espy in this Oratory but the Good man from whom he had taken his first Directions; who being himself also a Traveller to Jerusalem called in at this place to re∣fresh himself, and to take such a repast as the bounty of Heaven was wont here to provide. He searce knew at the first whether he might believe his eyes or no; and when he had satis fied himself that it was no dream, he was still in some doubt whether he should rise from his knees, and go to salute him. Two passions he felt strugling in him at the same point of time; the one transported him to the Father, with whom he already fancied himself; and the other held him where he was that he might make an end of his prayers to God. But finding at last that his spirits began to fail him, and that he knew not well what to add at present to his former Devotions; withall hoping that God had sent his Di∣rector at this happy moment, to teach him to pray better; he went without any further deliberation, and threw himself into the arms of the Father, as soon as he saw that he was at leisure to receive him.

The good old man was as much surprized with the strangeness of this accident as the Pilgrim could be. But when all other passions had spent themselves which use to be moved on such unexpected occasions, they left Joy in the sole possession of his heart, which could not but stay there a great while, having so many causes to excite it. It was no small pleasure to see his son (as he could not but esteem him) after so long ab∣sence. Friends never part with so much sadness, but they meet again with as great a Joy. But then to meet

him when he thought not of it, and to meet him in so good a place, and to find him so far advanced in his way to Jerusalem, and also to hear him so fervently desire to be carried further; these things made his Joy exceed and boil up to a greater height. I will not re∣cite what he said unto him; and indeed it was not much; because the young Pilgrim, though wonderful∣ly enlivened by the fight of the Father, yet could not so disguise his soul, but that it left some deadness in his countenance. The Joyes and pleasing Raptures into which he was cast at this interview were not so bright, but that there remained some clouds upon his face which could not be dispelled by them. This made the Good man very abruptly to break off his speech as soon as he had entred into it; and it abated also a little of his satisfaction, when he saw by the paleness of his cheeks, and the dulness of his eyes, that all was not well with him.

Yet there was no need to ask what he ailed, for he had no sooner told the Father what Joy he conceived in his presence, but he was ready to unbosome the grief of his heart to him; thinking to find some ease, both by discharging his soul into that breast, and ••••••ecei∣ving it back again better informed in all its concern∣ments. Many things he related to him; but above the rest, I remember he insisted upon his present dul∣ness, and the loss of those Joyes that were wont to at∣tend him; which he had no means left to recover, un∣less he was now sent by God to restore them. And all the time of his speech on this argument he lookt so sorrowfully, that it would have moved an heart most void of compassion to behold him. His words like∣wise were all uttered with mournful accents, and not

without the addition of some tears, though he endea∣voured as much as he could to restrain them, lest they should hinder all his mind from coming forth. Which when he had sighed out with a great deal of passion; it was not possible so to repress them, but that all con∣cluded in a plentiful showre.

At the end of which he being very silent, the Fa∣ther thus addressed his speech to him. And is this all you have to say against your self? Then you may wipe your eyes, and look more chearfully, for you are not so ill as I see you imagine. You are more affraid than hurt; and unless you will be your own tormen∣tor, there is nothing appears that can disturb your re∣pose. Did you not write me word that you received much satisfaction in this very case, by a Letter that I happily sent unto you? Did not my Instructions be∣fore your setting out, bid you expect some cloudy wea∣ther in your Travels? I thought you would have un∣der stood by those discourses, that we must not expect alwayes the same joyes and consolations in such a varie∣ty of tempers as we now suffer; nor the same vigour and activity of spirit while we are so fast chained to this 〈◊〉〈◊〉 as our present state will have us. Did I not bid you also say perpetually, I am nought, I have nought, &c. and did you not find this a most effectual spell to drive away all these black and dismal thoughts? Why then did you think your self worthy at all times to enjoy these pleasures? Why did you not abase your self at the feet of your Saviour, and confess to him that these are too great favours to be indulged constantly to us, on this side of our resting-place? If there be any way to have them, it is this; not to expect them, and acknowledge that we do not deserve them. Nay,

in those submissions and devolutions of our selves be∣fore our Lord there is no small satisfaction; unless it be no pleasure to be united to his Will, which is inse∣parably united to the highest pleasures. You must give me leave to wonder a little that you should be so forgetful. And I must tell you, it was very mis be∣coming your condition, to take it ill that you were not treated ever since I left you, according to your own desires. Might it not have satisfied your mind to find your self in the direct way to abiding and never∣fading Joyes? Could you not have thought it Happi∣ness enough to look for perfect peace and repose at last in Jerusalem? Nay, might it not seem very reasonable for a sinner to submit to so small a punishment (if you will have it so termed) as to travel sometimes in a rainy day? What arrogance is this, that we who have so oft offended, should take offence if we be remembred of it? But that which seems more strange to me than any thing else, is; that after you had resigned your self to your Saviours Will in this particular, you should fall into the same trouble, if not fault again. You have tought me this by it, that I must expect to find my Pa∣tients sometimes afflicted with the same disease which I had cured, and persecuted with the same scruples which they themselves had satisfied. For else you that travelled thorow a sandy and barren desart once be∣fore, would not have been so dejected at the sight of a new one; and when you could find no water in it, you would have refreshed your thoughts as you were wont to do with the remembrance of Jerusalem.

But that I may never find you cast upon your Bed by a relapse into this sickness any more, let me give you a larger account of these Joyes, the want of which hath

been so grievous to you. I remember once that I met with a man that thought he wanted not above two or three steps of the Gate of Jerusalem (though afterward I much questioned whether he knew any thing of the place) yea that imagined himself now and then to be caught up into Paradise. He was Angelical in his dis∣course, and more than Angelical in his own conceit; for he spoke of nothing but Extasies and Raptures, and such like things, that are by some men much exalted above the trifles (as they esteem them) of Obedience. I endeavoured to learn of him what might be the ground of such an high confidence of his nearness to God, and all that he was able to tell me amounted to no more but this, that he was so full of Joy, that his soul was ready to burst its prison, and escape to Heaven. Now, though you are not of this Enthusiastical temper, yet perhaps you think there are no finer or more de∣sirable things than these Joyes for Heaven to bestow upon you; judging of their worth, and the divineness of them by the delight wherewith they entertain you. But I must teach you another Lesson, and instruct you to set a price upon them by another measure, and that is, The good they make you do. If these Joyes do not spur you to Obedience, and make you fruitful in eve∣ry good work, they are not of such value as you ima∣gine: and if in the absence of them you mind your du∣ty, and do the Will of God, it is as well, if not better; because you do the same that you did before, only you have less encouragement to do it.

Nay, more than this, I must let you know that these are things which God bestows upon the most imper∣fect souls, who are as yet not able to go, but only to creep in the way to Heaven. They are the sweet Milk

which he sends us out of his breasts when we are as yet but Babes, and in the infancy of Religion. He consults our weakness in these gifts: and considers that as a child, while it wants teeth and strength to feed it self, must be nourished with Milk; so the Soul, till it be able to understand the Gospel, and feed upon the solid Truths thereof, must be entertained a while with this thinner dyet, which is most agreeable to its affectionate part. And withall he provides hereby that the heart which hath left the pleasures of the world, may not be discouraged at the first entrance in∣to his wayes for want of some other pleasures: which it cannot well be without, because it hath been so long used to them; and which it cannot yet find in Reli∣gion it self, because that is a thing of which it hath but a very childish understanding.

And can you think now that God is not good to such a person as you, who have been so long a servant to him? You see he is so far from letting grown souls be without comfort, that it is a thing he doth not deny to the most puling creatures, and those who are but No∣vices in the Spiritual Life. Or, Do you think that he loves those best to whom he grants this kind of Con∣solation? I might as well imagine that the Gardner which I passed by the other day in my Travels, loved the young Plants best which brought him no profit, because I observed him to water and fence, and under∣prop those tender things; whilst he exercised no such care about the well-grown Trees which used to load themselves and him every year with their fruit. Alas! it is their weakness that requires this attendance upon them, and God powres these things upon imperfect souls, when others have none of them, not because he loves them more, but because they have more need. So

you remember your Mother used to deal with your little Infant Sister, to swaddle her, and dandle her, and kiss her, and sing to her, and find out a thousand little toyes to please her; when you were left to dress your self, and study better satisfactions, which yielded you the more pleasure, because you contributed some∣thing by your own labour to the finding of them. For the Love of God let us not accuse him in this fashion of unkindness, nor fancy that he frowns and scouls up∣on us, because we have not those smiles with which in our feeble age he was wont to look upon us and cherish us. You are past these things, and want nothing but this understanding, to make you a grown man in Christ Jesus.

But consider, I beseech you, do you not feel him do far better things for you, than all the Joyes that ever you had amount unto? He feeds you, perhaps, with harder meat than Milk, but it gives you more nourish∣ment, and greater strength; with more spirit and vi∣vacity also, if heartily imbraced. Do you not under∣stand more by a thousand parts than formerly you did? Are you not able with greater constancy to beat off all Temptations of the flesh and the world? Have you not your passions in a better command? And are not your Faith and Hope more rational things, so that you are able to render to any body an intelligent ac∣count of them? Be contented then; for what grea∣ter thing can God do for you, than to make you wise and holy as he himself is? No man would have reason to thank God more than you, if you would but under∣stand this among the rest of the Truths which (bles∣sed be his Name) you are well acquainted withall; That it is no sign God doth not love you, when you are not transported with sensible Joyes; and that your

passions, which are otherwise quiet, ought not to be disturbed for want of them. There is no cause, I as∣sure you, that they should; for it will not be demand∣ed at the last day, What comforts you have enjoyed; but rather what discomforts you have suffered without failing in your duty or slackning your Obedience.

You have heard, I believe, very often the Story of the Prodigal Son, who having wasted all his Patrimo∣ny in riotous courses, yet returning to his Father, was received with such joy, as was to the admiration of those who knew not the reason of it. He caused him to be cloathed with the best Sute of Apparel that was in his Wardrobe; he made him a present of a Ring, to assure him of his affection; there was a great Feast prepared; there was nothing but musick, and singing, and dancing to be heard; and we may very well think that He also gave him many imbraces now that he was at home, who had met him with so much passion when he was yet afar off. And yet at the same time he had another Son that was both elder and more dutiful; one that had never forsaken him, that had served him ma∣ny years, that had never offended him in word or deed; for whom there was no such chear provided. But, Would you have joyned with this elder Brother in his complaints (if you had been present at such a meeting) because he was not treated after this fashion? Would you haue judged it very unreason∣able that a person of greater desert should have no such Banquet made to entertain him? Or, would you have concluded that the Father had more love for this dissolute youth, than for so stayd and sober a man as he that alwayes obeyed him? It is possible you might have run into this mistake, till you had heard the Fa∣ther

say, My Son, thou art alwayes with me, and all that I have is thine; and then you would not have had a word to reply, unless it had been a great many thanks for the high esteem that he had of him. You may ea∣sily apply all this to your self, and considering that you are now grown up in the Love of God, and inriched with the knowledge of Christ, and possessed of so ma∣ny heavenly vertues; not expect to be caressed in the same manner as the younger children are, nor repine for the want of that comfort, of which you are able by the Grace of God to provide your self otherwayes. Your eyes are enlightened to know what is the hope of Christianity, and what the riches of the Glory of that Inheritance is to which you are called. You see the title also that you have to those great treasures. You know what that mighty Power is which wrought in Christ when God raised him from the dead, where∣by you are assured of the truth of all the Promises, and have a good foundation of your hope. You have re∣ceived the Witness of the Spirit, which was powred upon the Apostles and Prophets, and is the earnest of the Inheritance. You have had the grace also to be obedient to God, which qualifies you for those divine enjoyments. And therefore what cause is there for your discontents who are so fairly endowed? All things are yours: there is nothing that is good for you, but it is at your command (if I may speak after our manner) even those sensible comforts too, if by reason of any great distress you should stand again in need of them. But since they are most proper to Beginners; and the entertainment of those who enter upon the Spiritual Race; do not murmure that you are without them, since it is an argument of your proficiency in the Knowledge and Grace of our Lord, and you have

greater benefits granted you, which if they be regard∣ed, will yield far more solid contentment.

And that you may see what satisfaction lyes alrea∣dy in your own breast, I beseech you consider what greater pleasure can you be capable of, than to find your will submitted to God, to overcome enemies, to wade thorow discouragements; unless it be this, to know that God is well pleased with you? And that is a thing which he will soon satisfie you in, if you can but satisfie your self in the former: for the Lord loveth the righteous, and he taketh pleasure in them that fear him, in them that hope in his mercy. Nay, I cannot but perswade my self that you believe, God is more pleased to see us obey him in the weakest manner, than meerly to see us full of consolations, which the most sensual man in the world would be very glad to enjoy. And as for me, I take it also to be more acceptable to him, if against the desires of sensuality and self-will, and yet without these Joyes, we do what he commands; than if we did the same without any opposition, and when we have the Wind and Tyde of these pleasures to help us forward. Tell me therefore why we our selves should not be (at least) as well pleased with what we do in a state of sadness and dulness of soul, since we are sure such works are not infected with any self-in∣teress, but performed out of clear and pure obedience to God. It is pitty that pious and sincere-hearted men should be tormented in this sort that you now are: And therefore as I prayed you before for the Love of God, so I intreat you now for the love of your self, that at least you would rest contented (if you cannot be well pleased) with any state whereinto you shall fall, as long as therein you may do well, and cannot be hindred from obeying God as far as he requires.

And besides this; Ought it not to please us that God will take any course to cure us of our diseases? That which you think is a sickness, may be but a means to prevent some worse distemper, which he discerns, though you cannot, to be a growing. He sees that one man will grow vain, and boast himself of these Joyes, not having an heart able to bear the weight of Divine Favours. Another he sees will proceed to over-much confidence of his good estate by reason of these consolations, and lay a greater weight upon them than they can bear. And as for a third, he sees per∣haps some little Pride peeping up in his soul, and that he is ready from hence to set an higher esteem upon himself than other folks. Nay, there may be great danger lest many souls should totally putrifie if they were alwayes fed with these sweets, and therefore he thinks it best to give them some myrrhe, by the bitter∣ness of which to preserve them from corruption. They might be so greedy of these things, as to mind them more than their duty; and for that cause it is best to take them away, that they may be sensible there are other matters of greater moment and necessity. But if none of these dangers should be supposed, will we not give God leave to exercise our Faith and Love, and make a tryal of the sincerity and strength of those Gra∣ces in what way he pleases? He would know per∣chance whether we will build our confidence upon himself, and upon his Promises, rather than on sense; and whether we will follow after him upon the same account, though we have no present sensible at∣tractive. And who can take it ill that he makes such a proof of us, seeing we do it every day our selves to others; whose friendship we value not if they court us only when we are bestowing gifts and benefits upon them?

But if you think that this deprivation of Joy is a pu∣nishment for some fault which you have committed, and that it is a token he hath sent you a bill of divorce and separated you from him; you are much to blame in suffering your Soul to make such a rash conclusion. Perhaps you have deserved to be chid for some fault, but will you presently fancy that your Father intends to disinherit you? Is it his manner to forsake and run away from us when we chance to stumble; and not rather to come and lift us up, and bid us take more heed to our selves? I never thought he loved us so lit∣tle: and me thinks it ill comports with the notion of a Father, to represent him so severe. It is very necessa∣ry indeed that you should weigh your faults, and con∣fess them sorrowfully, and mend them speedily; but I can never think it is pleasing to him that you should be so dismaid at them and afflicted for them, as to ima∣gine he will cast you off and never look upon you more. No; I believe rather he esteems this a greater dis-service to him, then the very fault it self; because it keeps us from mending what is amiss, and makes us so feeble, that we are apt to offend in some kind or other again. To say nothing of the dishonour it is to his Goodness, and the great scandal it gives to others, who will be loath to enter into the service of that Master, whom they think it impossible to please. But then if under the pretence of humbling your self, you shall make a sin that is no bigger than a grain of Mustard∣seed, as great as an Elephant; I beseech you what ser∣vice do you therein do your Lord? And yet this stone many are apt to stumble at, and that so oft; that in time they fancy a great sin there, where indeed one can find none at all.

Do you think our Saviour will conne you any thanks for aggravating your offences to this heigth, or accu∣sing your self when there is no guilt? Is there nothing for him to pardon unless you make some faults, or bring him a great mountain to cover and hide with his love? Let me tell you, my dear Brother, that this is a part of your mistakes and a cause that you and Joy are no better acquainted. You imagine that you have done Nothing, and complain of such dulness as if you had stood still ever since I saw you; when as you have made a very fair progress, and in some things you see have overtaken my self. And then on the contrary, you groan under the sense of an heavy guilt; when as you did but neglect a Free-will offering, and was kept from a duty to which you had then no tye, but what you received from your own hands. You are apt I see to overwork your soul and to impose too great bur∣dens upon its back. Which when you are not so well able to bear, as sometimes you find your self; you are apt to think it a great fault if you take some ease: when as in truth it is your duty then to omit those tasks you have injoyn'd your self, that you may not neglect those duties which are required by our Saviour. Come, come, my friend, if these things be all that trouble you, my life for yours, you shall do well enough. Let but my advice be followed, though at first it should be with unwillingness; and take my word you shall fare the better for it in your after-course. And first I must not have you lay more loads upon your self then Christ hath done; nor oblige your self without the liberty of a dispensation to so many hours of Prayer and Reading every day. Let it suffice, to do what you can, all other things being duly considered that require your attendance.

Next, I must forbid you to make so much haste to perfection. A soft pace goes far. Do not tire your spirits by your speed, but go on so fairly and leisurely, that you may hold out. And then likewise let me not hear any more that you exhaust your natural strength and weary your very body with much Fasting, un∣seasonable abstinence, long prayers, or such like things, which had better be let alone, than procure so much mischief as I have seen them do. And remember I be∣seech you that Lesson, which I think was taught you before this journey, That you bind not your self al∣wayes to one way of Prayer or Meditation, nor con∣fine your soul to one exercise only at the hours of re∣tirement; but chuse that which shall like you best, and wherein you can proceed with the greatest free∣dom and delight. Besides, I perceive you have forgot another of my Lessons, which was to make use of some innocent Recreations and harmless pastimes as you went along. And therefore what I did but then advise, let me now enjoyn, that you give your self some∣times a little divertisement from more serious employ∣ments. And truly if you should say, as I know some do, that it is not for want of these Joyes that you com∣plain, but because you can neither understand nor tast the goodness of Divine truths; this last advice is one of the most useful that I can give you for the remedy∣ing of that melancholly dulness. All that I shall add is only this, that you would have patience and you shall see the good temper wherein you were, return of it self, as it went away without your consent.

Indeed said the Pilgrim (who all this time had been very silent) I am very sensible that I have lost a great many of your good counsels, or else I should not have

been so bad as here you find me. And I take it for a singular favour that Jesus hath done me in sending you again thither, to rub up my memory and to fasten those things in my mind which hung there too loose before. I must not forget likewise to acknowledge my new obligations to you, from whom I have now re∣ceived not only so large, but so plain and familiar an answer to my doubt. And truly you do very prudently and charitably to lay your commands upon me to be more observant of your words hereafter; for if I should not preserve them, I see I am lost my self, and that in their safety is my security.—

Here the good Father perceiving he had given him some satisfaction could not but interrupt his speech, and being filled with pitty, and love and joy and won∣derment altogether, burst out into these expressions of them.

Now blessed be Jesus who hath brought me to you so op∣portunely. O magnifie the Lord with me, and let us exalt his name together. We can never admire thee enough O sweet Jesus, who art wont so seasonably to inter∣pose thy power to save us, when we have lost our selves. Whither should we stray, didst not thou so gratiously seek us? What would become of us didst not thou so lovingly hold us in thy hand, and resolve that none shall pluck us from thee? We are astonisht at the vastness of thy wisdom. Thy Goodness is unfathomable, else we should have sunk long before this beyond the depth of it. When we wander, thou followest us and callest us back. When we fall, thou runnest to us and liftest us up. When we are discouraged, thou art the strength of our fainting spirits and speakest comfortably to our hearts. Tea by the rareness of thy hea∣venly

arts thou turnest our deepest sorrows, into the great∣est occasions of excessive joyes. And there where we thought to find nothing but trouble and heaviness, thou makest gladness and light to spring up unto us. O how unsearch∣able are thy wayes, who meetest us when we are out of the Way! O how unmeasurable is thy Mercy, which cureth us by that which we love, even when we are doing that which thou dost not love! We cannot but present thee with the best of our acknowledgements, who are so happily together here, not by our own, but thy Providence. We cannot do less then bind our selves together to thine Altar, and offer all we have as a sacrifice of Praise unto thee. And have us still, O Lord, in thy care. Let thy good Spirit alway go along with us as our Guide. And let thy good Angels never fail to be our Guardians. Uphold our goings in thy paths, and suffer not our feet any more to slide. Hold thou us up and we shall be safe: and we will have respect continually unto thy Statutes. So will we bless thy name at all times; thy praise shall be continually in our mouths. In the Courts of thine House will we praise thee; yea, in the midst of thee, O Jerusalem, will we sing eternal praises. Hallelujah.

I thank you most heartily, said the Pilgrim (when the other had ended this acknowledgment) for these good thoughts you have breathed into me. I feel my self as if a new Soul did informe me: and my Spirit doth not so much return, as another more divine seems to enter into me and invigorate all my faculties with an higher degree of strength and courage. Sure, if you would be alwayes with me, I should never miscarry, no nor grow dull and lumpish any more. May I not beg that favour of you to take me under your wings? Is it too great an happiness for me to ask, that you would

become so much my Friend, as to take a particular care of me, and let me travel in your company? I can never expect so much security and so much comfort both to∣gether as under your conduct; and therefore if I shall not be too great a burden, carry me along, I beseech you, with you, and let me never be left, as I was, alone without your society. You were pleased to compare me to another Hercules because of some resolution which you discerned in me. But let me tell you Sir, that together with the joy you have made to return, I have recovered also the memory of so much of the small learning of my younger dayes, as to know that while Hercules was cutting off the heads of Hydra, there was one Iolaus ready at hand to apply fire to them, to hinder their springing up again. It seems this great person was not strong enough without one to back him. He durst not travel through the World, unless he took a companion with him. I never heard of any Worthy that had not some Genius or other to assist him, and the society also of some friend to second his undertakings. Do not expect then from me that I should be more then a Miracle. Do not blame me that I cannot be so hardy, as to travel any further alone to∣ward Jerusalem. Though I should call for all the sup∣ports and aids that my courage can give me, yet I must be beholden to the help of some associate in my la∣bours. And O that it might be my lot to fall into your company, or custody rather; for I shall acknow∣ledge you for a kind of Tutelar Angel, a good familiar spirit; and receive you as the richest present that Heaven could have made me. I do not beg you see a friendship of you that shall serve only to pass away the time, and deceive the tediousness of being alone; but such an one as with the pleasure will bring me in an

inestimable gain. Do not deny me therefore ei∣ther that pleasure which I hope will not displease your self; or that profit, which will do you no hurt. Make me rich, since you will not thereby become the poorer. Impart an happiness to me, which will not abate any thing of your own repose. And truly Sir, I do not know whether Heaven have not designed you for that end; and given you a frame of nature so fit for conjunction with mine, that both together will make one perfect man. You see how earnest and vio∣lent I am; and I am very sensible of your great sobrie∣ty and discretion. Now I have somewhere read that a friendship between two persons thus disposed, is like the Marriage of Iron and Steel, where the one gives toughness, and the other edge. Let us joyn then our hands and our hearts together, if you do not think me unworthy of such an honour. Let this be our Wed∣ding-day: and from henceforth take me for your in∣separable Companion.

To this unexpected suit, the good Father made a reply to this effect. Though it be a great thing which you require, yet I would have you think that Love esteems it a very small matter to give. I have called you often, My Friend, already; and since you will have it more than a term of civility or common affe∣ction, I ought not to be less forward than your self to advance it unto a more noble signification. I have no cause at all to suspect you of the vanity of Courtship and Complement; and therefore I will be so presump∣tuous as to believe you have conceived for me an af∣fection so high as that you express, provided you will also acknowledge the great passion which I have for your service. It seems so strong an obligation upon me,

for a person of your desert to think of giving me his heart, that I cannot think it Justice to keep mine any longer, but only under the notion of another mans goods. There are many persons, I confess, to whom I am bound by other obligations to give my advice, and the welfare of whose souls I am to attend; which might make me unwilling to hearken to this desire of yours, and engage my self in so weighty a charge. But since I discern a more than ordinary Love in your breast to∣wards me, and since I am touched with a reciprocal af∣fection, and (which is more) do feel a certain incli∣nation towards you above all others; I cannot contain my self, but I must agree to your motion. It is true in∣deed, we are engaged to love all men, and our Chari∣ty ought to be as diffusive as the Sun-beams; but yet I am of the mind that some may challenge a more pecu∣liar portion of it than other of their neighbours. For I observe that the Sun it self is more fond of some plants than it is of the rest; so that we see one of his Favourites turns its face about according to his mo∣tion, that it may not miss of his salutes; and another, they say, which lifts up its head above water when he arises, is wont to sink down again at his setting; as if it would then hide it self, and secretly bewail his ab∣sence. I call to remembrance also that God himself had his Peculiar People; and that even among them, there were some chosen persons to whom he communi∣cated more of his secrets. When his own Son appea∣red to men with the greatest kindness toward them, yet then I see he had some select souls who were nearer to him than any other. And besides the Seventy Two Disciples who were particularly devoted to his ser∣vice; he made choice of Twelve Men to be intrusted more immediately with all the Mysteries of his King∣dom.

And me-thinks these Twelve did not equall•• stand in his favour, but there was some difference which he made in his esteem of them. For I observe that there were Three who were cull'd out to be wit∣nesses of his Glory, and before whom he was transfi∣gured on the Holy Mount, when all the rest were left with the multitude below. Nay, and of these Three there was One called the Beloved Disciple, and became his more bosome friend than either of the other two. And therefore since the Saviour of the World, that great Mirror of all Vertues, had his inclinations and parti∣cular friendships; I will not fear to follow so great a precedent. After an example of such high Authority, I doubt not to contract a nearer and stricter Amity with one than all the rest of my acquaintance. And since the same Saviour will have you to be my corre∣spondent in so dear a Love (as I guess both by his send∣ing now so seasonably for your relief, and also by the sudden change which your very language tells me my discourse hath wrought in your soul) I shall gladly receive you with the greatest passion into my imbra∣ces, and hereafter become your perpetual Companion, as well as your Director and Guide.