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

CAP. XXXI.

How the Pilgrim was falling into the contrary Extreme, and was prevented by his Director. Of the Necessity of Discretion. And the assistance which one Vertue gives another. How he was troubled that he should have any passions. Of the use of them. That it is fit for us for us to love our friends passionately: and to take great delight in their company.

IN such ardent effusions as these they a long time un∣loadned themselves of the passions which they felt in their hearts. Which being all vented, there still re∣mained a very great one for this Good man, which they were not able to utter. Very sorry they were that it was not possible for them alwayes to accompany him, and when they took their leave, it was with so many fresh tears and vows of never forgotting his instructions, that he thought his stay with them promoted him more in his way to Jerusalem; than many other long dayes Journeyes. Nor was our young Pilgrim without his share in the benefit of this discourse, being hereby ex∣cited to bestir himself with more earnestness and grea∣ter Zeal in the Service of God. He never thought that he was vigilant enough; He lookt about him as if he had seen with an hundred Eyes; and he was as busie as if he had been Master of as many Hands. And

to be short, he was in danger to throw himself into the other extreme, by an unbridled and headlong kind of fervour; which carried him to attempt and un∣dertake more than he was able to perform. Which the Good man espying and considering that it would soon tire him, and so bring him into a new trouble; he told him that to make their way seem less tedious, he would entertain him a little with a story of one of the Pilgrims in former dayes. You have heard, said he, I believe of a famous person in Egypt called St. Anthony, who lead a life so holy that there were few places into which his name did not come, & from whence some or other did not go to behold so rare an example of per∣fect Vertue. Among others there were certain Monks on a time went to him to confer about divine matters; & they were so earnest in a dispute which arose among them that it lasted from the beginning of the night, to the next day morning. The thing under debate was this as John Cassian tells us. What Vertue or what observance is it, that may be thought of greatest efficacy to pre∣serve a Monk in perpetual safety from diabolical snares and deceits; and to lead him in the best way and with greatest freedom to the top of Perfection? For the resolution of which doubt, each one according to his capacity, produced what he thought to be most avail∣able. Some there were who placed all in Fastings and Watchings; alledging for proof hereof, that a man be∣ing extenuated hereby and made very pure in soul and body, may more easily come to be united with God. Others preferred entire Poverty before those, and said that a total contempt of all worldly things was the on∣ly security of man; in regard the mind being naked and quite stript of all those impediments, becomes more light and enlarged and may speedily mount to

the heavenly enjoyments. But there were a third sort who gave the Palm to the love of Solitude, and com∣mended the Desarts as the only places wherein to come to familiarity with God, and to hold a perpetual com∣munication with his infinite Goodness. Nor were they wanting who with a great deal of reason preferred the works of Mercy and Brotherly Charity before all other exercises whatsoever; affirming that nothing would give us so good a title to the Kingdom of Heaven nor more readily bring us thither. Thus every one having unfolded his mind and enlarged himself as much as he pleased in proof of his own opinion, the greater part of the night was consumed before it came to St. Antho∣ny's turn to speak; who delivered himself in manner following.

It cannot be denyed, my Reverend Brethren, but that the propositions by you now made, are of singular force to keep a mans heart with God and to bring him to a most excellent degree of Vertue. But yet to rely principally on their sufficiency, innumerable reasons and events also, occurring to divers persons, will not permit me. I have been a man of some observation, and many have I seen in my time that were given to wondrous abstinence from meat and sleep; that were retired from all humane Society; addicted in such sort to Poverty as not to reserve a penny for them∣selves, or a loaf of bread for the future; some alwayes at their devotion, others imployed in acts of Hospita∣lity and succouring of their Neighbours; who never∣theless fell at last into such errors & illusions, that their end proved nothing answerable to their magnanimous beginnings. So that I conceive the best way to know what will advance us in our design of enjoying God

more perfectly and put us in possession of that state we aspire unto, is to search into the occasion of the ruine and perdition of those unhappy ones. Most certain it is they had been gathering together a notable treasure of good and holy works, what was it then which made it wast away and come to nothing? Surely the only lack of Discretion. They had not sufficiently learned the rules and conditions of this Vertue which shunning either extremes, maintains us continually upon the high-way: neither letting us be carried away with the right hand of spiritual consolations, to superfluous and unmeasurable fervours; nor yet with the left of dryness and want of spiritual gust, under colour of care of the Body to fall into sloth and sensuality. This Discretion is that which our Lord calls the Eye and Lamp of the body, which being clear and simple, the whole body will be replenished with light; but being dimme, there will be nothing but darkness. To this faculty it belongs to weigh, ballance and discern all that is to be done by man and; therefore if this be faulty, and true judgment and knowledge be wanting, the Soul must needs be folded up in a night of inordi∣nate and blind passions.

To this, as there was reason, they all gave their ap∣plause, there being many other things added to con∣firm this assertion, which it is not pertinent to relate. It is lawful now for me to cast in my suffrage also, and to tell you that this Discretion is it alone which can make our fastings and Vigils profitable, by directing to the right measure, and the due season of them. It will teach us not to abstain when there is need we should eat; and not call it Religion to be miserably sick. It will learn us to regard the end; and not fast in Zeal,

but for nothing else. And when we do fast in obedi∣ence to them above us, it will let us understand that their Laws are not satisfied, but when the intention and purpose of them can be observed. This also is it which will make retirement useful, by drawing us out of it upon fit occasions. This will make us poor with∣out becoming Beggars: And fervent in devotion with∣out blazing away in the fierceness of our own flames. It will direct us so to give away our goods, that we may be alwayes giving. And to succour our neigh∣bours, so that we may not be wearing of well doing. To communicate common benefits with all, and pecu∣liar benefits with choice. And to take care (as wise men have said) that in making the Portraiture we do not spoil this Pattern, and in feeding the Streams we dry not up the Fountain. For God hath made the love of our selves the Pattern whereby we are to love our neighbours; and we shall not be good to them long, if we mind not first our own concerns. It is the Vertue which hinders us from spoiling a good design through rashness and hast. It keeps us from tripping up our own heels by running too fast. It keeps us from being tired, while it keeps us from taking too long, though continued Journeys. It keeps us al∣wayes at our work, by keeping us from over-working our selves. It makes Religion easie and pleasant by making it free and unconstrain'd. It brings Religion so much into our love, that it will never fall into our hatred. It preserves us from destroying the body while we are labouring to save the soul. It feeds the soul without any gluttony; and saves it from nauseating spiritual things by providing that it take no surfeit of them. It conducts our affairs with more temper, and less rumour; with more effects, and less show. It makes

us zealous without rashness; and excites us to do good to our selves, without prejudicing the good of others. It quenches the furious heat which affrights the wicked, and discourages the weak, and upbraids the soberness of those who are strong. It shews that it is possible at once to be Religious and yet Wise. It adorns the Gospel, and is a great grace and ornament to him that wears it. It commends Piety to the World, and doth not impair it in our selves. It gives a lustre to all the Vertues, and they borrow their beauty from it. And in one word, it is at least their Handmaid which must ever wait upon them, or else they will dishonour themselves.

Our young Pilgrim you discern by this time was a man of so much wit, that he could not but see the de∣sign of this story, and think that it had an aim at him∣self. And being very much cooled and refreshed by this charitable breath which the Father had spent up∣on him; he instantly apprehended that he had con∣trived to give him a divertisement, and an instruction both together. For sometime he could do nothing else but commend this Vertue, till at last he remembred there was some praise due to the Father who had gi∣ven him now such an instance of it. And having ren∣dred him his thanks both for the lesson and the season∣ableness of it, he assured him that he would never travel without this Discretion about him. No more you had need, said his Companion, for though I called her only the Handmaid of the Vertues, yet in truth she seems to be a Mistress among them, and to dispose them to their several duties. For one Vertue, you must know, is in need of its neighbour, and cannot live alone. They must help one another continually, or else they will

be very lame and defective. They must lend to each other a mutual support, or else they will be in danger of falling to the ground. Meekness must lend its hand to Zeal, and Zeal must do as much for it again; or else the one will be but Fire, and the other will be but Phlegme. Seriousness must be beholden to Chear∣fulness; and chearfulness must call to be repayed by it, or else we shall be either all earth, or nothing but Air. Humility wants a little confidence; an holy Faith must be joyned with some Fear; an high Generosity and great courage is very imperfect without Modesty; and a severe Justice must be acquainted with sweetness and complacence: Or if the one should refuse the other this assistance, it will feel such a want it self, that it will be forced to beg that which it doth deny. But what is it I beseech you, that pairs and links them thus together, and makes them do this mutual service; un∣less it be the Discretion and Judgment which the Holy man recommended to you? This superintends over all, and issues forth her directions and orders to them: which if they be not obeyed, they do most hurt where we intended the greatest good; and they run to the borders of Vice, when we designed the highest de∣gree of Vertue. This makes a sweet mixture of Faith in God with fear of our selves; of Godly Sorrow with Spiritual Joy; of innocence with prudence; of low∣liness with greatness of mind; of heavenly-minded∣ness with diligence in our Callings; of delight in God, with a pleasure in our friends, and those who are good. It teaches us to discourse, and not be talka∣tive; to be silent, but not melancholy; to be con∣tent with what we have, but not be idle; to labour, but not be impatient; to bear a dear affection to our friends, but not to their faults; to reprove others,

and not incur a reproof our selves by undue severity towards them.

Enough, said the Pilgrim; I see such need of this Vertue, that you may be confident I shall never be willing to be without its company. But truly I think it must be your Discretion more than mine own that will be my security; for I have been, you see, afflicted with such contrary passions, that I am ready to wish that I had none at all. There is not one of those that I have about me, but it is sometimes such a trouble to me, that I should think my self more happy if I were wholly deprived of them. They are so strong and violent, so boisterous and turbulent, that if they do not overtop my reason, yet I cannot overcome them without suffering a great tumult and disorder. What should we do with things which it is so hard to rule? Were it not better to discharge them all, since there needs more discretion than I am Master of to keep them?

The Good man was a little troubled to hear him speak after this sort, and askt him with a greater quick∣ness than he was wont to use. Would you then be well pleased if I should bring a Sythe and mow off your leggs? Had you rather be carried than go upon your feet? The poor man was amazed at this que∣stion, and askt him what he meant. My meaning, said the Father, is plain enough. Your passions are no∣thing else but those motions of your soul whereby you go to that Good, or run away from that Evil, which your understanding presents to your heart. You would be so far from being happy by being deprived of them, that I maintain you could not be happy at all without

them. A Tree would be as happy as you, if you had no desire, nor love, nor hope, nor none of the rest of their company. And therefore you may as well de∣sire to have no feet, or to have a Dead-Palsie smite your loyns, and disable you to move; as wish to have no passions, or to have them so benummed and stupi∣fied, that you shall not feel them. We must not pluck out our eyes for fear they be abused with unworthy spectacles, nor stand stock still for fear of falling, nor alwayes stay at home because the weather may prove rainy. Nay, When did you see any excellent Ver∣tue which was not accompanied with a plentiful por∣tion of these? Or, When was there any love or cou∣rage or any such like thing in a noble degree, but you might discern it edged with no small passionate∣ness of spirit? And do not think that our passions are of little use; for it is plain they are good for more purposes than one. There is at least a double end for which they serve. They first incite and dispose the Soul to seek those things which are good and necessary for us: and then secondly, they fortifie and conserve us in this disposition, and make us to persist in our inclina∣tions to those things which are profitable for us; the thoughts of which else might easily be blotted out. They stir you up, and bring you to that good which objects it self to your mind; and then they impress it there, and cause it to stay with your Soul. For you cannot but observe that those things which move you with any passion when you see or think of them, do stick longest in your mind: and those with which you are not affected, are but little remem∣bred.

All your business then is (and in that you must be∣stow

some pains) to get better eyes to guide you in your goings, and not to endeavour that you may not stir at all. You must study I mean to understand the true difference between good and evil, to be able to judge what is fit for you, and what not; what good can certainly be attained, and what evil avoided; and what is quite without the limits of our power: and then how is it blameable if you be carried with a great passion to the one and from the other? Do not think all things to be evil which the World calls by that name: nor admire the goodness of any thing above its price; nor follow that zealously which you are in doubt whether or no it can be attained; and then your passions will be so far from being your Masters, that in fear of that you will not refrain to use their Ser∣vice. And if you should chance to be surprised with a fancy of some evil or good before you can have li∣berty to discourse the true nature of it; and your pas∣sions hereby become very strong, and are raised to a greater height than you would have them: there is no reason to be troubled; for none can prevent these sudden assaults, nor can they be quell'd without some scuffle within. If you can conquer, you have well ac∣quitted your self. And that will be attended with those triumphs, which will more than recompence the trouble of those furious and rebellious commotions. You will not think those things bad, without which there could not be such a brave and noble thing as Victory is.

Be content then I beseech you to be of the race of Adam, and do not affect some higher Original. Go not about to destroy one half of your self, by labour∣ing to be free from all passion. For they that under∣take

this (as hath been well said by those before us) instead of making a good Man, do only raise a Statue. In order to make a man wise and live in peace, they turn him into a dead and insensible Image. These kind of Images (say they) are more suitable for the ornaments of the Porch, then for the uses of life. And if we be not blind, we may discern between hardness and softness, a middle temperament, which is called solidity and firmness.

The Pilgrim was so much pleased with these words, that he could scarce forbear to hugg him when they were ended. And his passions having found such a defendor to take their part were ready to serve them∣selves but too much of this friendly discourse in their behalf. I love you infinitely, said he clasping about his neck, or to speak more moderately I love you above all earthly things. There is no Musick can be so charming to me as your words. They can both appease my raging humours, and excite me out of my dull and phlegmatick inclinations. You are my In∣telligence, my Tutelar Angel, the good Genius of my soul, without whom I think I should either have no Passions, or Nothing else. Go on I beseech you to oblige me, and to make me if it be possible more in love with you. Be not weary of the charge you have undertaken; and do not despair neither but in your company I may learn more discretion to govern those passions, which I see must not be root∣ed out.

When he had vented this passion of love as much as he pleased, and was capable to attend to some new discourse; the Father thought it not unseasonable to

ask him if he did not begin already to repent of all those embraces which he had bestowed upon him. Nay, do not wonder, pursued he at this demand; for I do not intend to question the greatness of your love, but by what I have observed I believe you may be afraid that it ought not to be so great. I have long taken notice that you are so scrupulous as not to dare to trust your own soul, nor rely upon the credit of your severest reason. Though you think it is impos∣sible, but that there should be such motions as you feel, and know your self to be of such a complexion that if you will love at all it must be with a passio∣nateness and fervency of affection; yet upon the next ebullition (as I may call it) in your soul you are ready to condemn your self and to quit those Maxims of reason which you took to be infallible. I know, my friend, that there is in this a pardonable, or ra∣ther commendable niceness of soul, a delicacy and tenderness of conscience which would not in the least offend God; but it must be confessed that there is something of weakness and unsetledness of mind in it also, which dare not adhere to its own Conclu∣sions. We are not to let a sudden fancy shake that which is so well and rationally established: Or rather we are to ponder those things so long, and to settle our selves so strongly in our reasons, which are the ballast of our souls, that we shall never desert them upon the pretence of any pious fears, lest we should displease God. To suffer our selves to love any per∣son that is amiable very much, or put any such like case; is it justifiable or is it not? If not; away with all these Passions, and dig them up. But if you will have them remain, be not angry that they grow and blossome and bring forth fruit, and produce it in abundance.

And a little the more to confirm your mind, let me fay something to you of that tenderness of affection which I observe in you towards a vertuous friend; that inclination which you have to be with him, and especially of that pleasantness and mirth you are apt to yield unto in the company of those you love. You think perhaps that this is too much, and that you take too great a liberty of pleasing your self. But I beseech you, did you ever observe any great vertue in those cold creatures; or rather in those morose and austere natures who judge it a crime to love their friends with any passion; to feel a joy in their approach; to talk pleasantly in their company, and to use with them a freedom of discourse? Are they more innocent then others, because they say Nothing? must we let them wear the title of vertue above their neighbours, meerly because they are more grave and solemn? Do they live in a greater sense of God be∣cause they look more sowrely? Must we think there is no piety but what is pale-faced? no mortification of our selves, but when our thorns prick other folks? Truly I must needs profess that I have seen both men and women of this rigid humor, whose very looks condemn all that is named pleasure, and will not af∣ford you so much as a smile, who I am confident are not half so harmless and innocent as those who profess a more open and chearful conversation with their friends. Some of these I have observed are so parsimonious and niggardly, that they are sordid ra∣ther then saving. Others are so curst and peevish that they will snarl on the least occasion that crosses their humor. And you will find few of them who have not these two qualities: That they love good chear dearly, and are glad to meet with a Feast. Let

a man eat excessively, so he do it gravely, it is no offence. And secondly, that they love to censure others, and to pass harsh judgement upon very inno∣cent actions. Nay, which is most villanous, there are some of them who will condemn you for that good chear which you bestowed upon them, and which they themselves commended in the eating. They will say afterward, that you love ostentation, and that half of it might have been spared. They will reprehend this and that as superfluous, and say they doubt you are too much affected to the Vanities of the World. Besides they love to pry into every bodies secrets. They would know what is done in all their neighbours houses: and if it were possible they would look into their very Closets. And what∣soever they pretend, they take a strange pleasure to tattle of these things in their own conventicles; and some of them would be dumb if they were not provided with such discourse when they meet to∣gether.

But to speak as favourably as may be, I am much inclinable to this opinion, that it is not their wisdom but their weakness which makes them reserved. They are not serious, but only sowre; not mortified, but morose. It is the salvageness of their Natures which makes them hate all the pleasantness and mirth which others use in society. They have not made themselves of a better habit then their neighbours, but were born with a worse disposition. They are so leaven'd with a sour humour, that they have no room to entertain any of the sweet and delightsome passions. You think they hate all pleasures out of Vertue, but it is rather from their temper. It is not their power, but their

inability. They distaste them not because they have a perfection of Judgement, but because they want a pa∣late. And therefore they ought not to think better of themselves, nor be thought so by others, meerly because they taste no joy in that which pleases you; for it may proceed from the lumpishness of their bo∣dy, and not from the weight of their reasons; they may owe it to their parents, and not to their own choice. Or grant that they do deny themselves in these things, yet it is very well if it be not to take a license in those which are Worse. For many debarr themselves of innocent mirth, and grant an indul∣gence to their froward and peevish humours. Pro∣vided they be grave, they think they may be discour∣teous. And as long as they do not laugh, they will take the liberty to bite.

I am not you see by my complexion inclined much to mirth, and therefore not likely out of any natural humour to be their enemy. But for my part I must tell you plainly that I both dislike and suspect these sullen gravities. The people of a chearful dispositi∣on are more innocent in thought, more free from design, more simple and plain hearted, more kind and affectionate, more free from superstition, and far re∣moved from hypocrisie: Nay if I had added that they are more modest too, I had not been mistaken; for their Modesty is in the heart, and the others often∣times but in the brow and exteriour part. But I think, it is time to dismiss these lowring Counte∣nances whom I intend not to reproach, but only to bereave of the opinion and reputation of being own∣ers of more goodness then other men. They are to be pittied me thinks who use their reason to make them∣selves

unreasonable. Who with no small passion seem to me to speak against all our passions: and who think well of themselves for that which is their fault or their imperfection. But whatsoever kindness any may have for them, I must acknowledge my self to have a Spirit more tender. I am not ashamed to be thought a man of sense, and that have some feeling both of pain and of pleasure. Let them call if they list all our passions infirmities, yet (as a wise man once said) I rather choose to enjoy this weakness then their stoutness and strength, and to be sick of this disease, then to have their kind of health.